Two months.
Since the lighter.
Since the floor.
Since Mrs. Takahashi carried her out.
Akira was alive.
Not well.
But alive.
Therapy. Twice a week.
Pills. Every morning.
"To make the window quieter", the doctor said.
Mrs. Takahashi sold the house.
The one with no door.
They moved.
New apartment.
New school.
New start.
"Tonight, and the next one", Mrs. Takahashi said.
Every night.
Shin was alive.
Barely.
Coma.
Stable.
Rem texted updates.
"No change."
"Still no change."
Akira didn’t visit.
Couldn’t.
"I killed Mei. What if I kill him too?"
She volunteered instead.
Children’s hospital.
Art room.
Mrs. Takahashi’s idea.
"You don’t have to be okay to be kind", she said.
So Akira went.
Handed out paper. Crayons.
Didn’t draw.
Couldn’t.
Not since the ash.
Not since "Tomorrow" burned.
Thursday. 3:00 PM.
The art room was quiet.
Most kids were napping.
Except one.
In the corner.
Little. Maybe 8.
Bald. From chemo.
Hat too big for her head.
But her eyes—
Too old. Too tired. Too "knowing".
Like Mei’s.
Like Akira’s.
She was drawing.
Not flowers. Not suns.
A window.
Three stories up.
A stick figure on the ledge.
Akira’s heart stopped.
The girl looked up.
Saw her staring.
And smiled.
Small. Crooked. "Empty".
“You know it too, huh?” the girl said.
Her voice was a whisper.
Like a secret.
Like a confession.
Akira couldn’t move.
“What?” she asked.
The word was paper.
“The window,” the girl said. Pointed at the drawing. “It’s quiet there. Isn’t it?”
'Quiet.'
The word was a knife.
Akira sat down.
Hard.
Across from her.
“What’s your name?” Akira whispered.
“Sora,” the girl said.
Not Kana’s Sora.
A different one.
A smaller one.
“Sora,” Akira said. Testing it. “I’m Akira.”
“I know,” Sora said. “The nurses talk. 'The girl who fell. The girl who lived. The girl who lost her friend.' That’s you, right?”
"The girl who lost her friend."
"The girl who killed her friend."
Akira flinched.
Sora saw.
Didn’t apologize.
Just kept drawing.
Another stick figure.
This one on the ground.
Red crayon.
Everywhere.
“I have leukemia,” Sora said. Casual. Like she was saying 'I like apples'. “AML. Bad one. Doctors say six months. Maybe less.”
Akira’s breath caught.
“My parents don’t know,” Sora said. “I heard the doctor. Last week. When they thought I was asleep. He said 'we’re out of options'. But I didn’t tell Mom and Dad. Because Mom cries in the bathroom. Every night. And Dad… Dad stopped sleeping. He just sits. By my bed. Holds my hand. Like if he lets go, I’ll disappear.”
Her crayon snapped.
She didn’t stop.
Used the broken piece.
“So I smile,” Sora said. “I eat the Jell-O. I say 'I feel better today!' Even when I don’t. Even when it hurts to breathe. Because if they know… if they know I’m dying… they’ll die too. Before me. And that’s not fair.”
"Akira."
"Don’t leave."
"I’m not leaving you anywhere."
"Too stubborn."
"I killed her."
Akira’s hands were shaking.
“You’re…” Akira swallowed. “You’re hiding it. From them.”
Sora looked up.
Eyes too old.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just like you hide your arms.”
Akira froze.
Her sleeves.
Long.
Always.
Even in summer.
Even now.
To hide the burn.
From the lighter.
From the night Mrs. Takahashi found her.
And the others.
The small ones.
From before.
From when "Do I know you" was louder than "tonight".
“How—”
“I see things,” Sora said. Simple. “Kids like us… we see each other. We’re ghosts. We haunt our own lives.”
"Ghosts."
"We’re ghosts."
Mei’s words.
From the first day.
Akira started crying.
Quiet.
She couldn’t help it.
“Hey,” Sora said. Frowned. “Don’t. If you cry, I’ll cry. And if I cry, the nurses will come. And if the nurses come, they’ll tell my parents. And if my parents know… then I have to watch them die before I do. And I don’t want that. I don’t want that, Akira.”
'I don’t want that.'
A little girl.
8 years old.
Dying.
And her biggest fear wasn’t the "gone".
It was her parents’ grief.
Akira wiped her eyes.
Hard.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I won’t.”
Sora nodded.
Satisfied.
She pushed the drawing across the table.
The window. The stick figures. The red.
“Here,” she said. “You can have it. You get it.”
Akira took it.
Hands shaking.
The paper was warm.
From Sora’s hands.
From the secret.
“Why did you draw it?” Akira asked.
Sora shrugged.
Thin shoulders.
Too thin.
“Because I think about it,” she said. “Not because I want to die. Because I’m 'already' dying. And I’m tired. And I don’t want Mom to find me. In the bed. Cold. I want it to be quick. I want it to be 'mine'. Not the cancer’s. Mine.”
'Mine.'
The word was a bullet.
Akira couldn’t breathe.
“Does it hurt?” Sora asked.
“What?”
“The window,” Sora said. “When you think about it. Does it hurt? Or is it… peaceful?”
Akira looked at her.
At the bald head. At the too-big hat. At the 8-year-old who should be drawing suns.
And she told the truth.
“It hurts,” Akira said. The words were glass. “It hurts so much. And it’s not peaceful. It’s 'loud'. It’s 'I killed her' and 'Do I know you' and 'disappointment' and 'too much' all screaming. And the only reason you think it’s quiet… it's because you think the screaming will stop. But it doesn’t. It just… it just moves. To the people you leave.”
'To Mei. To Mrs. Takahashi. To Shin.'
'To your mom. Who cries in the bathroom.'
Sora was quiet.
For a long time.
Then she reached across the table.
Took Akira’s hand.
Her hand was small.
Cold.
Bony.
But real.
“Then I don’t want it,” Sora whispered. “If it just moves… I don’t want Mom to have it. I don’t want Dad to have it. I’ll keep it. Here.”
She pointed to her chest.
To her heart.
To the leukemia.
“I’ll keep the screaming,” she said. “So they don’t have to.”
Akira broke.
Right there.
In the art room.
In front of an 8-year-old who was dying and still trying to protect her parents.
She pulled Sora into her arms.
Careful.
Like she was glass.
Like she was "Mei".
And she held her.
While Sora cried.
Quiet.
Brave.
Into Akira’s shoulder.
For the first time.
Because someone "saw".
Because someone "stayed".
And Akira whispered, into her hat, into the "gone" that was coming:
“You’re not too much, Sora. You’re not a burden. You’re not a secret. You’re an 8-year-old girl. And you deserve to be held. Even when you’re dying. Especially when you’re dying.”
Sora clutched her.
Tight.
“Will you…” she choked. “Will you tell them? When I’m gone? Will you tell them I wasn’t scared? That I was… that I was brave?”
'When I’m gone.'
Not 'if'.
'When.'
Akira closed her eyes.
And lied.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll tell them you were the bravest girl I ever met.”
Sora smiled.
Into her shoulder.
“Good,” she whispered. “Then I can be a ghost. A good one. Like your Mei.”
Akira didn’t correct her.
Didn’t say "Mei isn’t a ghost, she’s a grave".
She just held her.
And let the "I killed her" scream.
And let the "tonight" hold.
For both of them.
