Loyalty

Mayu woke to the soft warmth of Luma nestled against her neck. The familiar weight of her fur and the faint jingle of her bell created a gentle morning ritual.

Stretching her arms overhead, Mayu leapt from bed, invigorated by the thought of meeting her new client, Mr. Ishida, and his owl familiar, Kuro. Though she didn’t know much beyond the referral, something about the case stirred a deeper sense of purpose within her.

She poured herself a cup of green tea and sat at her desk, opening her laptop to review the referral letter. Her eyes scanned the pertinent background details. 

Dear Ms. Mayu Takamura,

We are referring Mr. Renji Ishida, age 67, for therapeutic bond restoration and emotional counseling. Mr. Ishida has struggled profoundly with the loss of his wife, Misaki, who passed five years ago. While his familiar, Kuro, has remained by his side, shortly after Misaki’s death, their connection became distant and fragmented.

Mr. Ishida views deepening his bond with Kuro as an act of disloyalty to his wife’s memory. He believes that allowing Kuro to bring him comfort would dishonor her and diminish the sanctity of their love. As a result, Mr. Ishida’s grief has manifested as prolonged emotional pain, and he presents with depressive symptoms. This withdrawal from his familiar has only deepened his isolation and intensified his mourning.

Our aim is to guide Mr. Ishida toward understanding that the bond with Kuro does not replace his connection with Misaki but serves as a supportive bridge to healing.

Your expertise in fostering meaningful bonds is critical in this case.

Sincerely,

Dr. Celestine Yamada

Heart Harmony Counseling Director

Mayu’s heart tightened as she closed her laptop. She couldn’t help but feel a deep empathy for Mr. Ishida. Grief, in its many forms, was something she’d witnessed often, yet each story carried its own unique weight. This one felt especially poignant.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to her grandmother. Had she ever experienced such a loss? Mayu had never seen her grandmother with a partner, never heard stories of a great love. It had always been the two of them, navigating life together. But was there a hidden sorrow her grandmother had quietly borne all these years? The thought planted a seed of concern in Mayu’s heart, mingled with gratitude for the steadfast love her grandmother had shown her.

Mayu shook her head, pulling herself from the spiral of thought. She made a mental note to ask her grandmother more about her past, but today her focus had to be on Mr. Ishida and Kuro.

With her bag packed and Luma settled comfortably by the window, Mayu locked her apartment and headed to the train station.

The morning air carried a crispness that hinted at the arrival of winter. Mayu boarded the train, settling into a window seat.

Could she help him find peace without making him feel he was betraying his wife? Would Kuro’s quiet presence be enough to guide Mr. Ishida through his pain? Mayu leaned against the cool glass, watching the city blur into a haze of towering buildings and quiet residential streets.

Her mind wandered again to her grandmother. There had always been a quiet strength in her, a self-contained grace that Mayu admired but never fully understood. If her grandmother had suffered heartbreak, she had never let it dim her light. That realization bolstered Mayu’s resolve.

Helping Mr. Ishida wouldn’t mean erasing his grief—it would mean helping him carry it with a little more ease, showing him that he didn’t have to bear it alone.

Mayu was once again reminded about how her own familiar had become her anchor in times of doubt. Kuro could be the same for Mr. Ishida, but it would take time, patience, and the gentle unveiling of trust.

The train slowed to a stop, and Mayu gathered her things. As she stepped onto the platform, a wave of determination washed over her. Today, she would take the first step in helping Mr. Ishida bridge the gap between his grief and the life still waiting for him.

Mayu’s heart swelled with a mix of anticipation and empathy as she raised her hand to knock on the door. She hesitated for a brief moment, then knocked lightly three times.

After a short pause, the door creaked open, revealing Mr. Ishida. His eyes held a muted, distant light, and his slumped shoulders spoke volumes of the heavy sorrow he carried. Behind him, Kuro, his owl familiar, peeked out cautiously. The owl’s glossy feathers gleamed in the faint light, but its posture mirrored Mr. Ishida’s—reserved, almost retreating, as if hesitant to step into focus.

Mayu offered a gentle smile. “Good morning, Mr. Ishida. Thank you for allowing me to visit.”

Mr. Ishida nodded slightly, stepping aside to let her in. “Good morning, Ms. Takamura,” he murmured, his voice low and weary. Kuro fluttered to a nearby perch, observing silently, his amber eyes filled with a quiet vigilance.

Mayu stepped inside, immediately sensing the heaviness that permeated the air. It wasn’t just the muted colors of the room or the way shadows clung to the corners—it was the palpable sorrow that seemed to emanate from both man and familiar, binding them in a shared but fractured grief.

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” Mayu said, her voice soft yet reassuring. She glanced toward Kuro, who tilted his head but remained silent. Turning back to Mr. Ishida, she added, “I’m here to help, at your own pace.”

Mr. Ishida gestured toward the sitting area. “Please, have a seat,” he said, his tone polite but guarded.

Mayu settled into the chair, her posture open and inviting. “Kuro is beautiful,” she remarked, her eyes briefly meeting the owl’s. “He has a very gentle presence.”

Mr. Ishida’s gaze turned toward his familiar, his lips pressing into a thin line. “He’s been… patient,” he admitted, his voice tinged with guilt. “More patient than I deserve.”

Mayu’s heart ached at his words, but she kept her tone steady. “It’s clear he cares deeply for you, Mr. Ishida. And patience is often a sign of trust, even if that trust feels distant right now.”

Mr. Ishida’s shoulders tensed, and he looked away. “I’ve kept him at arm’s length,” he confessed. “I didn’t want to… replace her. Misaki was everything to me, and I feel like leaning on Kuro would dishonor her memory.”

At these words, Kuro looked saddened, his eyes turning away from the group. Luma noticed this and slowly drifted to be closer to Kuro’s perch. Her outgoing, yet friendly presence bringing Kuro’s attention back to the conversation, as though she had faith her human would soon make things better. 

Mayu leaned forward slightly, her hands resting gently in her lap. “Grief is a powerful force, Mr. Ishida, and it often comes with complex feelings. But Kuro isn’t here to replace your connection with Misaki. He’s here to support you, to help carry some of that weight, so you don’t have to bear it alone.”

Kuro let out a soft rustle of feathers, his eyes fixed intently on Mr. Ishida. It was as if he understood the conversation, his quiet presence urging his partner to take the first step toward healing.

Mr. Ishida’s expression softened, though his pain remained evident. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

Mayu’s smile was gentle, her tone unwavering. “Healing takes time, and readiness doesn’t always come all at once. But even small steps can make a world of difference. For today, let’s just start with understanding where you and Kuro stand and how we can begin to bridge that gap.”

Mr. Ishida nodded slowly, his hand brushing the edge of Kuro’s perch. The owl inched closer, his amber eyes never leaving his partner. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was a sense of something fragile but hopeful in the room—a tentative step toward rebuilding a bond that had been left in the shadows for too long.