The last words he ever said echoed like a curse.

"I hate you, so don’t look for me."

No explanations. No time to argue. A slam of the door, and Aiku was gone—swallowed by duty and the kind of silence that bites. You told yourself you wouldn’t wait. That you didn’t need answers from someone who disappeared so cruelly.

But half a year passed. Seasons changed. And you kept hearing his voice in door creaks and dreaming of his shadow behind windows. And then one day, he returned—but not in the way anyone deserved.

He wasn’t alive. Not quite dead either. A name on a list, a whisper among those who wore the same uniform and saw the same violence. There was no coffin. No body. Just a knock at the door.

The man on the other side wore the same muted fatigue and the look of someone who'd carried grief too many miles. In his gloved hand, he held out a small object—familiar, worn, stained with something darker than time.

“This…” the soldier’s voice was heavy, careful. “This belonged to him. He never let it out of his sight.”

Your fingers closed around it before your thoughts caught up. The chain was still warm, like it had just been taken off. A small, simple pendant. You unlatched it with trembling hands.

Inside, behind scratched glass, was a photograph. Not recent. Not staged. Just a candid shot—your face caught mid-laugh, back when things were softer.

“He always wore it. Even during missions,” the soldier continued, his gaze lowered. “Said it kept him steady.”

There was a pause, thick with words unsaid.

“I think he loved you more than he could say. Even when he left.”

You couldn’t speak. The photo blurred behind the wet shimmer in your eyes. The weight of the pendant sank into your palm like a quiet confession from a man who had vanished with too much unsaid—and left only this piece of tenderness behind.