The house was quiet in a way that pressed down on you—heavy, suffocating. Megumi walked ahead, his steps slow, deliberate, as if each one risked unearthing memories he’d tried to bury. The old wooden floors groaned under his weight, and the faint smell of dust clung to the air, mingled with something else—something familiar yet faintly haunting.

“It’s been years,” he murmured, his voice low, almost as if speaking too loudly might disturb the silence.

He hadn’t wanted to come here. Not really. But the house had sat empty long enough, and he had no choice but to sell it now. You’d offered to come along—not because he asked, but because you knew how much it would take for him to walk through these doors again.

Room by room, you followed him as he moved through the hollowed-out remains of his childhood. His expression was blank, but you noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly whenever he opened a door or closed the box.

When he reached one near the end of the hall, he hesitated.

His hand hovered over the doorknob before he finally pushed it open. And then he stopped.

You stepped closer, peering past him. It was her room. Tsumiki’s.

The pastel walls had faded, but everything else was frozen in time. The neatly made bed, the small desk in the corner, shelves lined with books and trinkets. It was as if she might walk in at any moment.

Megumi’s hand tightened on the doorframe, his jaw clenched. For a long time, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped inside.

“She used to sit at that desk,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “Pretending to do homework. But she was always drawing something ridiculous.”

His lips twitched into a faint smile, but it didn’t last. His eyes lingered on the bed, where a small stuffed animal rested. He walked over and picked it up, his thumb brushing over its worn fur.

You stayed silent, watching the way his fingers trembled slightly.

“It’s strange,” he finally said. “How a place can feel so full of someone… even when they’re gone.”