Vol.1 Nail Clippers, and a Little More Time

"What should we do with this?" "Just leave it there for now."

The sound of rain tapped against the window. At the end of July, during an unusually prolonged rainy season that year, I was organizing the storage closet in my parents' home. Outside the window stretched a leaden sky. Raindrops fell incessantly, streaming down the glass like silent tears.

I still couldn't find the courage to touch that small, unused tool. Time seemed to gather silently around me, layering itself softly in the air. With each raindrop's whisper, distant memories gradually began to surface from the depths of my heart.

Her name was "Yuki." A pure white Maltese, true to her name which means "snow," she had a coat as white and soft as winter's first flurries. A small black nose and eyes that sparkled like polished obsidian. A tiny body that somehow contained an enormous presence.

When my father suddenly brought her home in the spring of my fourth year of elementary school, I was struck by how impossibly small she was. A life of just two kilograms, so delicate she nearly vanished when cradled in both hands. The way she gazed at us—fearful yet brimming with curiosity—made my heart tighten like a fist.

"She's a girl," my father announced. "Let's call her Yuki. Because her fur is snow white." I couldn't help but smile when I witnessed my father's usually stern expression melt like frost in morning sun.

When carefully placed on the floor, Yuki trembled slightly but surveyed the house with eyes full of wonder. Then suddenly, she dashed off on her short legs and retreated under the living room sofa. Her small body dissolved into the shadows.

"Come out, little one."

When I pressed my cheek to the floor to peek underneath, I met her sparkling black eyes. After we gazed at each other for a suspended moment, she slowly emerged, her tiny body swaying with each step. She moved her small nose, approaching as if to decipher my essence through scent.

Then, for some reason known only to her, she suddenly leaped onto my lap.

"Oh!" The sound escaped me involuntarily.

It was the first moment I felt the warmth of her small body directly against mine. Her heartbeat pulsed against my palm, a tiny drum of life. A strange, wonderful emotion bloomed in my chest at the rhythm of this tiny existence.

"Welcome home, Yuki."

I gently stroked her head. The cloud-soft texture and the gleam in her obsidian eyes. From that moment on, she became the center of our family's universe. It was as though her small warmth had the power to envelop our entire home in invisible light.

On Yuki's first night at our home, I placed a small bed for her in my room. The cushion was plush and inviting, and I had prepared a light pink blanket that seemed made for royalty. Everything carried the scent of newness, and Yuki seemed unsettled by the unfamiliar surroundings.

"This is where you'll sleep, little princess."

I coaxed, guiding her to the bed, but when I slipped into my own, she immediately bounded onto the foot of it. Even when I attempted to return her to her designated place, she resisted with eyes that glistened with silent pleas. It seemed as though she was expressing her deepest wishes through the smallest movements of her tiny form.

"Oh, very well then."

And so, from that night forward, she became my sleeping companion. Her small body curled up at my feet like a living, breathing talisman, sleeping as if she had found her sanctuary, gave me a peace I hadn't known I was missing. Listening to her quiet breathing, like the softest ocean waves, I eventually drifted into dreams deeper than any I'd known before.

The next morning, I awakened to Yuki licking my face, her tiny tongue tickling my cheek. The sensation of her moist touch and her sweet breath became my new alarm clock.

"Is it morning already, little one?"

Rubbing my still-dreamy eyes, I stroked her silken coat. Illuminated by the morning sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, her white fur transformed into spun gold. In that sacred morning light, her coat shimmered with a translucent whiteness, rendering her almost ethereal—an earthbound cloud, a fragment of heaven itself.

"Good morning, Yuki."

When I whispered her name, she replied with a happy little sound—not quite a bark, more like a celebration. The joy of greeting a new day with her radiated throughout my entire being, as if I'd captured sunlight in my hands.

"Welcome home!"

Every time the front door swung open, Yuki was invariably the first to herald my return. She would bounce on her little legs over and over, sometimes expressing her unbridled joy with a unique dance that resembled spinning tops on Christmas morning. Her tail became a blur of motion, and her whole body trembled as though happiness itself was too great to contain in such a small vessel.

"I'm home, Yuki."

When I returned from school, the accumulated weight of the day would dissolve like morning mist at the mere sight of her. Homework, tests, quarrels with friends—everything seemed to shrink to insignificance in her luminous presence. Any troubles appeared trivial when reflected in the mirror of her loving gaze.

When I gathered her into my arms, her small nose would explore my cheeks with delicate sniffs. It was as if she was asking, "Where have your adventures taken you today?" The way she investigated my scent, seemingly hungry for the story of my hours away, was endlessly endearing.

This ritual of hers remained unwavering from elementary school through middle school and into the tumultuous landscape of high school. Despite the endless cycle of studies, club activities, and the first stirrings of romance—despite all the typical storms of adolescence—knowing she was waiting at home was my lighthouse in every tempest. No matter how the world outside had bruised my spirit, her unconditional love wrapped around me like a healing bandage.

Sometimes the hour of my return stretched late into the evening. During three days of cultural festival preparations in my first year of high school, I remained at school long after the final bell, not crossing the threshold of home until well past nine. I could hear the sound of only her feet—a pattering symphony of welcome—rushing to greet me when I opened the door to the darkness of night.

But even at such hours, Yuki would always be my faithful sentinel at the entrance. In the dim hallway, her white figure seemed to float like a small spirit guardian.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

When I spoke those words, her face would register a momentary disappointment before immediately granting forgiveness. The way her tail painted invisible circles in the air as she danced around my feet erased any fatigue that clung to me.

My mother once shared, "That child sits in front of the door when your usual time approaches, as if she's consulting some internal clock only she can read." My heart would warm to ember-glow whenever I pictured that small, patient figure. I could envision her perched by the window, her gaze fixed on the outside world, sentinel to my return. How many countless hours had she dedicated to waiting just for me?

Even when entrance exams drove me to study deep into the night, Yuki would form a quiet comma at my feet, occasionally lifting her head with eyes that seemed to say, "Shouldn't you rest now, dear one?" Her concerned gaze peering through the forest of textbooks and notebooks spread before me.

I couldn't help but smile at her gentle supervision, stroking her head and promising aloud, "Just a little longer, then we'll rest together." That warmth was always my silent cheerleader. Her presence became the foundation upon which I built my courage.

Nighttime invariably found her seeking the warmth of someone's futon. Initially, she chose my father's, but gradually, my room became her preferred sanctuary. She would create a perfect circle at my feet, occasionally shifting position with each of my movements throughout the night. Morning would find me gently awakened by her facial caresses, a ticklish sensation bringing me slowly back to consciousness. Each day would begin with morning light filtering through curtains, painting stripes of gold across our shared space.

"Alright, sunshine, I'm up, I'm truly up."

Murmuring these words while running my fingers through her cloud-soft fur, any remnants of fatigue would dissolve like morning mist. No matter how frantic life became, having Yuki nearby kindled a warm glow in the center of my being. Her presence was the constant in every changing season of my life. How remarkable that such a tiny life—merely two kilograms of fur and devotion—could expand to fill every corner of our hearts.

When Yuki crossed the threshold of twelve years, subtle changes began painting themselves across her days. Her movements acquired a thoughtful deliberateness, and stairs transformed from pathways to obstacles she preferred to avoid. Her morning greetings arrived with a slight delay, and her joyful leaps diminished in both frequency and height.

Our walks together shortened in distance, and following her monthly grooming sessions, entire days disappeared into slumber more frequently than before. Silver threads gradually appeared among the white tapestry of her coat, like stars emerging at twilight.

"It's the poetry of age," my mother observed softly.

That summer, I was navigating my fourth year of university, caught in the dual currents of job hunting and crafting my graduation thesis. Though I lived at home, the university's distance often kept me away except for weekend returns. Seeing Yuki only once every seven days made the quiet changes in her more pronounced, like watching time-lapse photography of a beloved landscape.

One ordinary afternoon, my phone illuminated with my mother's call.

"Yuki isn't showing interest in her food anymore."

When I returned that weekend, indeed, her form had grown more delicate. Still, when she caught sight of me, her small body quivered with joy—though she no longer attempted the jubilant jumps of yesteryear. Her frame, with bones now pressing against the geography of her skin, carried a poignancy that ached to witness.

After dinner, I opened the gallery on my smartphone and journeyed backward through snapshots of Yuki's life. There lay our history—from her puppyhood until my university entrance, a visual chronicle of our shared path. Comparing the vibrant creature in those digital memories with the Yuki who now rested before me, time's relentless passage became impossible to ignore. In the photographs, her eyes contained galaxies, her coat shimmered with health, and every pixel radiated vitality.

"I should have learned to care for her myself much sooner," I whispered to no one.

When I brought her to the groomer, the proprietor gently suggested, "These sessions might be becoming too demanding for her now." Too short a cut would leave her vulnerable to temperature changes, yet leaving her coat long would embrace too much summer heat. Most significantly, the duration of grooming now seemed to drain her precious reserves of energy.

"From this point forward, perhaps the family could manage the essentials at home," the owner advised with compassion in his voice.

Stroking Yuki's diminished form, he added with reverence, "This little one has carried her years with grace."

Following his counsel, that very evening, I ordered dog nail clippers and a trimmer through Amazon. The screen revealed the estimated delivery date: three days hence.

That night, with Yuki nestled on my lap in bed, I examined her nails. They had lengthened considerably, seemingly making each step a small negotiation.

"We'll have you comfortable again as soon as they arrive," I promised.

The nail clippers were "something that could only serve the living"—an object whose purpose existed only while she did. They were also harbingers that forced consciousness of our inevitable parting. While completing the order, I could not hide from this truth. Studying the product image illuminated on my phone, I felt acutely how the sands in our hourglass had dwindled to precious few.

"I'll take on this responsibility from now on," I vowed.

The words fell softly into her ear. She closed her eyes and breathed peacefully within the cradle of my hands. The warmth of her small body traveled through my palms and directly into the chambers of my heart.

The following day carried me to Tokyo for a new employee training session, necessitating my departure from home. The three-day program coincided with a holiday period, and worry nibbled at me—this marked Yuki's first separation from family. Standing on the station platform, my gaze returned homeward repeatedly, as if I could somehow maintain connection through sheer will.

"I wonder if her appetite will hold in my absence."

These words escaped me that departure morning as I stroked Yuki's head one final time. She returned my gaze with eyes that seemed to carry a shadow of melancholy. Her expression seemed to plead, "Must you go?" In days past, she would have sent me off with animated farewell, but today a quiet sadness colored her goodbye.

"The days will pass quickly, and I'll return to you before you know it."

With this assurance hanging in the air between us, I entrusted her to my mother's care.

As evening draped itself over the first day of training, a moment's break allowed me to check my phone—three missed calls from home illuminated the screen. Foreboding wrapped cold fingers around my heart as I immediately returned the call.

My mother's voice trembled across the distance between us.

"Yuki's condition has suddenly turned."

According to my mother, normalcy had reigned until approximately noon. The morning had proceeded according to ritual—Yuki had roused my mother at the usual hour and even consumed a modest breakfast. But as afternoon light filled the house, she began exhibiting concerning behaviors, her energy evaporating, replaced by concerning tremors. The distress in my mother's voice painted the scene more vividly than detailed description ever could.

"I'm coming home immediately."

After ending the call, I wasted no time explaining the situation to the training supervisor. His response came without hesitation: "Family emergencies transcend workplace obligations. We'll manage the adjustments here—go to where you're needed most." His words kindled gratitude as I abandoned the three-day program on its first day, securing passage on the final bullet train of the evening. My reflection in the train window appeared ghostly pale, and each glance at my phone's arrival estimate tightened the vise around my chest.

Please, let me arrive in time.

This prayer circled endlessly in my mind as I closed my eyes against the rushing landscape outside. Memory's carousel spun rapidly—her puppy days when the world overwhelmed her with its newness, the electric joy of her first exploration beyond our gate, family vacations immortalized in photographs... Each recollection surfaced with almost painful clarity—precious moments with Yuki that I had taken for granted.

Just a little longer. Hold on just a while more.

The scenery beyond the window gradually transformed into familiar territory. Ten minutes remained before arrival. I launched myself into a waiting taxi with an urgency that needed no explanation, telling the driver simply, "Please hurry—it's family."

The front door yielded to my key, and immediately something felt wrong in the house's atmosphere. Yuki, who would unfailingly race to greet arrivals, was absent from her post. In her place stood my mother, shoulders heavy with unspoken words. The clock on the wall marked my journey: three hours had passed since our call.

"She's waiting in the living room."

Guided by my mother's gentle direction, I entered the space to find Yuki lying on a cushion before the sofa. Her body shivered almost imperceptibly, and her gaze wandered the room without focus or recognition. This creature seemed a stranger wearing my beloved companion's form.

"She maintained her usual self until just recently," my mother explained, voice barely steady. "Remarkably, her appetite surged today—she showed more energy than we've seen in weeks."

These words ignited something molten beneath my breastbone.

Why had fate chosen this particular day for my absence? Why this precise moment for distance to separate us? Had I remained nearby, perhaps additional precious hours with her vital self might have been granted. Self-recrimination tangled with helplessness in my chest.

I reached for the phone to contact our veterinarian, only to learn they offered no after-hours service. The choice loomed: wait until morning or attempt transport to an emergency facility. Observing her fragile state, even gentle movement seemed potentially harmful. I concluded that subjecting her trembling form to vehicular transport would only compound her distress.

"We'll create sanctuary for her here," I decided. Gathering Yuki's diminished form into my arms, I carried her to the familiar territory of my bedroom.

That night, I welcomed her into my futon. Her small body, radiating unusual heat, trembled against the blanket while labored breathing occasionally punctuated the silence. I stroked her continuously, my voice a quiet stream of comfort. Her form remained small yet still carried definite warmth—the unmistakable signature of ongoing life.

"You needn't struggle anymore, sweet one."

An ear twitched slightly at my words. Whether comprehension occurred remained unknown, but transmission of feeling seemed essential. After our years together, I believed I could interpret the language of her smallest responses.

"These twelve years have been a gift beyond measure."

Only my breathing disturbed the room's perfect stillness. Beyond the window, insects offered their end-of-summer serenade in delicate chorus. Moonlight spilled through the glass, bathing Yuki's white coat in silvery-blue luminescence.

Eventually, my mother's gentle knock preceded her entrance. She caressed Yuki's diminished form and whispered through gathering tears:

"Thank you, Yuki, for painting our family's days with joy."

My mother's voice wavered, tears threatening to spill. This open display from someone who typically guarded her emotions spoke volumes about Yuki's impact on our lives.

We maintained our vigil in silence. After my mother withdrew, I studied Yuki's face in the gentle darkness and began recounting our shared history. Our first meeting, days spent in play, her faithful presence during my illness... Then my attention caught on her overgrown nails.

"The clippers would have arrived tomorrow," I realized with sudden hollowness.

This thought lingered as consciousness began slipping away. Apparently, exhaustion and emotional strain had conspired to lower my defenses. Awareness had faded without permission.

Deep in night's territory, a sound—"Kyain"—a soft, brief utterance broke through darkness. Consciousness returned in a rush as I fumbled for the bedside lamp. That gentle cry had fractured the night's silence like glass.

Yuki lay motionless now. Though her eyes remained open, the spark that had animated them had departed. She who had faithfully shadowed my steps and greeted each return with unbridled joy existed no longer in this form.

I gathered her close, pressing her still-warm body against my cheek. I could feel the warmth from her small form gradually surrendering to the room's coolness.

"Rest now, brave heart."

Tears followed their inevitable course. The room stood witness in silence, only the clock's hands continuing their measured journey. 3:27 AM. This moment would remain etched in memory's stone. Outside, the insect chorus seemed to pause in recognition.

Morning brought me to the phone, connecting with a pet funeral service. The woman who answered spoke with a voice that seemed crafted for moments precisely like this. Her words—"I understand this profound loss"—offered small but genuine comfort.

Daybreak also brought my father home, having hastened his return from a business trip upon hearing the news. My typically reserved father entered with uncharacteristic urgency, his footsteps quick and purposeful.

Upon seeing Yuki's still form, even my father—a man who rarely displayed emotion—visibly struggled to maintain composure. Something fundamental seemed to crumble beneath his carefully maintained exterior.

"She was the very best of companions."

This simple declaration, accompanied by a gentle stroke of her head, conveyed the depth of feeling my father had carried for her throughout the years.

Representatives from the funeral service arrived, reverently wrapping Yuki's body in white cloth before placing her in a small coffin. Enshrouded in white, she appeared merely asleep, perhaps dreaming of chasing butterflies across summer lawns.

"Would the family like to accompany her for the final journey?"

We responded with wordless affirmation. My mother had thoughtfully gathered a small bouquet—garden flowers that had often captured Yuki's attention during her explorations.

At the crematorium, they granted us a private moment for final farewells. I arranged the white blossoms around her resting form with trembling fingers.

"Yuki, until we meet in some distant tomorrow."

I stroked her head one final time. Her white fur retained its cloud-soft texture beneath my touch. This last tactile goodbye released emotions too complex for language.

Following cremation, they presented us with an unexpectedly small urn. Its dimensions seemed disproportionate to the expansive presence she had occupied in our lives. Delicate cherry blossoms adorned the white porcelain, somehow echoing her gentle nature.

"Would you like to preserve a small portion of her fur as remembrance?" the attendant suggested.

We accepted this offering, and I decided to encapsulate a few strands within a glass pendant. Her white fur now rested within transparent walls—visible yet untouchable.

The urn found its place upon our family altar, while the pendant became my daily companion. I needed some tangible connection, some physical tether to her continued presence in my life.

That evening, returning home cast everything in stark relief. Her bed sat vacant in the living room—a throne without its queen. Water bowl, half-consumed food, toys scattered like abandoned sentinels. Every element highlighted her absence. Her lingering presence in the home's corners compressed my chest with each breath.

My mother approached, a cardboard box extended in her hands. Inside waited an Amazon delivery package.

"This arrived just moments ago."

The nail clippers and trimmer. Their arrival a day too late formed a cruel symmetry. The cosmic timing seemed deliberate in its harshness, a lesson in life's unpredictability.

Lifting the package revealed the silver gleam of new clippers. I hesitated before opening them, ultimately returning them to their cardboard sanctuary.

"These will stay with us."

Unfulfilled intentions seemed to shimmer within that sealed box. For reasons beyond logical explanation, this now-purposeless tool could not be discarded.

That night, sleep eluded me. The absence of her warm weight at the foot of my bed created a dissonance too great to overcome. The vacancy in that specific territory—where a small, living warmth should exist—grew more pronounced in darkness.

I clutched the pendant resting beside my pillow as tears charted their course. The white fur encased in glass caught moonlight, transforming into something almost luminous.

Morning arrived with silence—no wet nose or gentle tongue to coax me from dreams. Only the mechanical insistence of the alarm announced day's beginning.

The entrance hall similarly echoed with absence when I descended the stairs. No scampering feet marked my arrival. The entire house seemed to narrate her departure in a thousand small ways. Walking the familiar hallways, I found myself turning back reflexively, unconsciously seeking the familiar padding of following paws.

University attendance became temporarily impossible. My professor received my explanation with immediate compassion. "The departure of a beloved companion represents genuine family loss," he assured me. His acknowledgment lightened the invisible weight I carried.

Life's machinery continued operation. Yet the home's atmosphere had fundamentally altered. Laughter became less frequent, conversations more abbreviated. At meals, the empty space where she once stationed herself—hopeful for fallen morsels—stood as painful testimony. I noticed my mother pausing momentarily when encountering dropped food, momentarily forgetting there was no eager assistant to clean such accidents.

Homecoming proved especially difficult. Each door opening highlighted the absence of enthusiastic greeting. The words "I'm home" seemed to evaporate into emptiness, finding no eager ears. Entering through the doorway, my gaze automatically lowered to floor level—but of course, emptiness answered.

Occasionally, peripheral vision would catch phantom movements—a white shadow glimpsed in room corners or hallway bends. Turning revealed only vacancy. Nevertheless, some part of me continued sensing her presence in unexpected moments.

The pendant rarely left my person. Often, while riding trains or waiting in queues, I'd discover my fingers unconsciously caressing its smooth surface. This tactile connection somehow bridged worlds. The white fur beyond glass became the sole physical connection between Yuki and myself—a tangible fragment of our shared story.

After a month's passage, Yuki's name gradually returned to family conversations. Initially awkward, with topics faltering and reforming, but progressively our ability to share memories without overwhelming emotion strengthened.

"Yuki would have claimed this sunny spot as her domain," my mother observed one afternoon. She indicated the sunlight pooling by the living room window, her smile tinged with sweet melancholy.

"This cushion was her favorite throne," my father added unexpectedly. My typically reticent father became increasingly verbal when Yuki entered conversation.

This shared remembrance gradually transformed into collective healing. Memories that initially caused pain slowly metamorphosed into warm nostalgia under time's gentle influence.

As my mother's birthday approached, gift considerations occupied my thoughts. While contemplating possibilities, a florist's advertisement captured my attention. The flyer announced a new establishment near my transit station.

The words "Animal Flower" crowned an image of a Maltese crafted entirely from blossoms. These were preserved flowers rather than fresh blooms, designed for permanence. The small white flower-Maltese bore an uncanny resemblance to Yuki—a botanical echo of her form.

"This is perfect," I realized. The creation that would retain its form without fading mirrored how we wished to preserve Yuki's memory. These dried blooms, maintaining eternal beauty, paralleled how Yuki lived on unchanged in our hearts.

When I presented my mother with the white Maltese-shaped flower arrangement on her birthday, tears accompanied her phone call. "It's captured Yuki's essence," she managed through emotion. "It deserves pride of place in our living room," she declared, warming my heart with her reception. Upon my next visit home, I discovered the floral tribute positioned beside Yuki's photograph.

This represented Yuki's presence transformed—not replaced, but continued in new form. Each white petal whispered memories of her, keeping something of her spirit alive in our daily landscape.

Post-university, my employment fortunately allowed continued residence at home. Each evening upon return, the flower sculpture greeted me from its living room perch. The white silhouette positioned beside Yuki's urn offered a peculiar comfort—absence and presence simultaneously embodied.

"I've returned," I would announce softly.

Following this greeting, I'd gently touch the flower's crafted head. Though the dried petals bore no resemblance to Yuki's silken fur, the ritual of contact itself provided unexpected solace.

When my mother's subsequent birthday arrived, I gifted another Maltese flower sculpture. The design varied slightly, though it maintained the essential white Maltese form. This iteration captured a sitting posture, creating the impression of watchful presence.

"Is this to become annual tradition?" my mother inquired with gentle amusement. Her eyes creased pleasantly as she admired the new addition to our growing collection.

"That's precisely my intention."

She acknowledged my response with understanding that required no elaboration. Her expression conveyed complete comprehension of this evolving ritual.

Each subsequent birthday has seen this tradition continue. Though designs vary subtly, the white Maltese form remains constant. Each piece seems to capture a different aspect of Yuki's personality and physical expression. Resting poses, standing positions, playful moments—each sculpture preserves a facet of her being.

"This year's sculpture seems to capture her playfulness." "This one perfectly renders how she looked while dreaming."

Through this evolving practice, we continued weaving Yuki's memory into new patterns. These blooms, resistant to time's erosion, became living symbols of her enduring presence.

Five years transformed our living room shelf into a gallery of white Maltese flower sculptures. Five small canine forms arranged with deliberate care, a timeline of remembrance.

"We're running short on display space," my mother would observe, yet somehow, each year found room for the newest arrival. Shelf expansion, careful rearrangement—always finding accommodation for the next "Yuki" to join the collection.

One evening, my father made an unexpected observation: "They've become Yuki's multiple selves."

This came during television viewing, his gaze lifting to the shelf above. Such poetic observation from my typically pragmatic father caught me by surprise.

His words prompted a reflective smile. Indeed, perhaps unconsciously, we had been creating physical manifestations of Yuki's continued presence. One life concludes, yet memory persists in transformed expression. These petal-formed fragments of recollection had seamlessly integrated into the fabric of our daily existence.

Occasionally, finding myself alone in the family living room, I would address the flower collection directly. Afternoon sunlight illuminating the sculptures through the window would prompt quiet conversation.

"The cherry trees are blooming downtown." "Work presented challenges today." "Are you watching over us still?"

As though she might somehow hear these ordinary updates. No response came, of course, yet something in the act of speaking aloud provided unexpected peace.

Autumn of my sixth professional year found me organizing my living space when a forgotten cardboard box emerged from storage depths. Dust had settled on this container, pushed to the closet's remotest corner.

Opening it revealed the untouched dog nail clippers and trimmer. They remained precisely as they had six years earlier, Amazon's delivery tape undisturbed.

"Ah, these forgotten sentinels."

Though nothing had prevented their opening, they had remained sealed as if by unspoken agreement. Why? Perhaps they represented intentions forever suspended in time. Or possibly, accepting their uselessness would have finalized a farewell I wasn't prepared to complete. Breaking their seal might have symbolized definitive conclusion—a step I hadn't been ready to take.

At that precise moment, the room's atmosphere seemed to shift subtly. Something seemed to brush against my shoulder—a presence without physical form. Though turning revealed empty space, an inexplicable smile formed unbidden. The setting sun briefly intensified, filling the room with golden light for one perfect moment.

"Hello again, old friend."

Taking the clippers in hand, I moved toward the living room. The flower collection stood in silent formation. I gently touched the eldest sculpture's head. That very first creation, Yuki's perfect double in dried blooms. Though color had faded somewhat, its form remained intact.

I offered no spoken greeting. Some communications transcend verbal expression.

The nail clippers that arrived too late.

Now, finally, I could hold them without pain. Surely, across whatever distance separates us, my feelings have reached her.

With this certainty, I continue our conversations.

"The world outside is bathed in sunshine today."

At these simple words, the flowers seemed to sway imperceptibly. A gentle breeze through the window caressed the dried petals, animating them with momentary life.