The night after Jun's death was not silent.
Ren had always thought grief was a quiet thing—an empty room, a forgotten echo. But this grief? This was thunder in the chest. This was glass under skin. This was a scream he couldn't find the voice to release.
He sat alone on the rooftop of the hospital, eyes fixed on the dark sky, where stars blinked like forgotten memories.
Kaito had gone. After doing what Jun asked, he couldn't even look Ren in the eye. Couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
And maybe Ren couldn't either.
His phone buzzed once.
A message. Unknown number. No name.
> "Check the drawer beside her bed. She left something for you."A message. Unknown number. No name.
> "Check the drawer beside her bed. She left something for you."
Ren didn't think. He moved like a ghost.
Down the stairs. Past empty hallways. Into the now-abandoned room where Jun had spent her final moments. He hesitated only a second before pulling the drawer open.
A leather notebook.
Worn. Soft at the edges. And on the first page, written in faded ink, a name he hadn't seen in years.
Aiko.
His breath caught in his throat.
He flipped the pages with shaking fingers. At first, it was Aiko's handwriting. Memories of her childhood, small poems, pressed flowers. Then, halfway through—Jun's writing. A different pen, darker strokes. Her voice bleeding into Aiko's like rivers crossing paths.
"The star is alive. I thought I was sick. I'm not. I'm being called."
> "I saw her in my dream last night. Aiko. She smiled at me from the sky and said, 'You're almost home.'"
> "I asked her if it hurts, dying like this. She said, 'Only for a moment. Then it's peace.'"
Ren closed the book. His hands wouldn't stop trembling.
He suddenly remembered something Jun had whispered to him once—weeks before she got worse."You ever wonder why we're the ones who love too deeply… and lose everything?"
He didn't understand then. He thought it was just pain. Just grief.
But now…
Now he wasn't so sure.
---
The next morning, Kaito returned.
He looked like he hadn't slept. His eyes were red. His hands clenched in fists that didn't know how to stay still.
"I did it," he said.
Ren didn't move. Didn't answer.
"I didn't ask why," Kaito went on, voice hollow. "She just said… she didn't trust me to hold on if she changed. That she trusted you to carry the memory. And me to finish it."
Silence.Then Ren looked at him.
"She told me something else," Kaito said. "That she and Aiko… they weren't sick. That they saw something. Heard something."
He nodded toward the notebook.
"She said you'd understand. That you'd hear it too."
And Ren did.
Not in words. But in the way the stars flickered that night.
Like they were whispering.
Calling.