The Sound of Silence (Chapter 2)

Chapter 2
The Sound of Silence

Kotae reached for Kika’s hand, gripping it with quiet urgency. His steps were already moving before his voice caught up.

“We're going home,” he said flatly, but with a fire in his eyes she hadn’t seen before.

Kika hesitated only for a second. “What about classes?”

“They’re not in the conversation anymore,” he replied. “We’ve got bigger problems now.”

That was all she needed. She nodded once, then followed without question.

The person that had just appeard on TV, Shinju Ibuyasa, had not earned the title of Seer by chance, nor by whispers alone. For decades, her dreams had drawn maps of the future—specific places, precise times, exact dates—and always paired with disaster. Fires, floods, revolutions, crashes. She named them all before they came. Not once had she faltered. Not once had she been even slightly off. Her visions were frightening in their accuracy, every detail etched as if copied from some cosmic ledger.

Because of this, no one questioned her anymore. Her voice carried the weight of certainty, not speculation. When she spoke, the world listened. Governments paused. Crowds hushed. Doubt, in her presence, felt foolish.

So when she said the end was near, there was no debate—only a silent, growing dread. What end she meant remained unclear. But if Shinju Ibuyasa had said it, then it was only a matter of time.

The world around them had changed in the span of a news broadcast. Streets that had been filled with idle chatter and routine rhythms now held a tension so thick it could be felt pressing against the skin. No one screamed. No one ran. But the silence was louder than any chaos. People stood in huddles, whispering. Phones were glued to ears. Eyes scanned the skies, the roads, the horizon—as if searching for answers in the shapes of clouds or the crackle of a radio signal.

Kotae's and Kika's phones, forgotten on silent mode, buzzed faintly in their pockets, vibrating like tiny warning bells they hadn’t noticed during the avalanche of noise and disbelief.

When they finally stepped into their apartment complex, the air felt a little warmer, but not any lighter.

They climbed the stairs together in silence, each step heavier than the last. Kotae unlocked the door, and as it opened, the quiet murmur of the television greeted them in the living room.

“Kotae!” his mother rushed out from the kitchen, her chestnut hair tied loosely back, strands falling around a face aged by time but still beautiful, her black eyes wide with relief. She had the calm, inviting presence of someone who had spent her life nurturing — and worrying. She wrapped her arms around him in one breathless motion. “We called! The news... Did you see—? Are you okay?”

“I saw it,” he said, resting a hand on her back. “I’m okay. I’m… digesting it.”

From the hallway, his father stepped forward. Black hair, black eyes — the mirror of his son — and a quiet, grounded strength in the way he stood. His arms were crossed, gaze steady and distant, like he was already five steps ahead, working through plans and consequences. Serious, but not cold — just a man shaped by responsibility. A father you could rely on.

His mother finally let Kotae go, brushing a tear away with the back of her hand. Only then did she notice Kika standing just behind Kotae.

“Kika…” she breathed, her voice thick with emotion. “Oh, thank goodness. Come here, sweetheart.”

Without hesitation, she pulled Kika into a hug, just as tight and heartfelt as the one she'd given her son. It wasn’t the greeting of strangers — it was the relief of a mother seeing someone she cared about safe, someone who had shared dinners at their table and laughter in their home.

Kika hugged her back, eyes glistening. “I’m okay,” she whispered.

Kotae’s mother nodded, holding her just a moment longer. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

There was no answer from the man of the house—only silence, his expression speaking of the same uncertainty that now hung across the world like a curtain drawn tight.

Kotae slipped off his shoes and turned toward the hallway.

“We'll be in my room,” he said quietly.

As they stepped into the room, the weight of reality began to settle over Kika. The quietness of the space, the absence of noise and distraction, made everything feel unbearably real. It was then that she started breaking down, the tears coming suddenly, as if they’d been waiting for a moment of stillness to break free.

She buried her face into his shoulder, her breath uneven. “Y-You know…” Her voice wavered, cracking under the weight of her words. “I don’t think I reacted much earlier… b-but now, being here, with everything so quiet… it’s real. It hit me all at once. I’m scared, Kotae. I’m really scared.”

He closed the door behind her and held her tighter, gently resting his hand on the back of her head, fingers brushing through her hair. She clung to him like he was the last stable thing on a ship in a storm.

“We’re going to be fine,” he said quietly, firmly.

She pulled back just slightly to look him in the eyes, still sniffling. “You promise?”

His lips parted, but no sound came right away. He hesitated, then spoke—soft, honest, unflinching.

“You know I can’t promise that.”

Her face wavered, and she looked down.

“But,” he continued, lifting her chin gently with two fingers, “we’ll figure it out. We’ll see what’s to be done. One day at a time.”

For a few seconds more, she just stood there, looking at him, letting her breathing steady.

The snow outside cast a faint white glow through the curtains, the world beyond the window caught in a soft, slow collapse. The weight of it hadn’t fully landed yet—but it was in the air. Thick. Unspoken.

Kika sat at the edge of his bed, hands clasped between her knees. Kotae followed, lowering himself beside her, then lying back to stare at the ceiling—motionless, expression unreadable. They didn’t speak for a full minute. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much. A flood behind a dam.

Then, as if a switch flipped, Kotae sat up.

“Alright,” he said, voice calm but carrying a quiet fire. “Before we start spiraling into the dread of possibly having one year left to live, we need to think about how we're getting there.”

Kika turned to him, puzzled.

“After these news,” he continued, “everything will change. The world’s gears are already grinding to a halt. What happens next is hard to predict, but we can guess. And we have to guess. If we’re ahead of the curve… we survive it.”

She watched him for a moment, amazed.

“You know,” she said softly, “I know you're feeling everything the rest of us are. But you’re able to set it aside. You're… thinking through it, logically, clearly. Not many can do that, Kotae. Actually—most can’t. And I really like that about you.”

Kotae blinked. The words landed quietly, gently. He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened, just for a moment.

“Mhm,” he murmured, brushing it off—but only on the surface. “Anyway. Back to the point. Let's play a game.”

“A game?” Kika frowned. “Now?”

“More like a questionnaire,” he said, standing and beginning to pace the room. “With the world ending in mind—question one: Do you intend to attend school?”

She tilted her head, catching on. “Mmm… probably not. I mean, Shinju’s never been wrong, right? The odds of her being wrong now are… pretty much zero. I still have a little hope, but worst case, I’m just a year behind. That was a long answer but—no. I don’t think I will.”

“Correct,” Kotae said with a sharp nod. “Me neither. And neither will most of our classmates. Or their friends. Or their families.”

Kika folded her arms, brows drawn. “You’re talking about a total shutdown.”

“I’m talking about a chain reaction,” he said. “No school. That’s one domino. But what about work? Do you think people will punch clocks and sit behind desks knowing they only have a year left with their families?”

She shook her head. “No. Only the hardcore workaholics, maybe. But most? They’ll walk away.”

“Exactly. And when people stop working… things fall apart. Food production, delivery, electricity, clean water—it’s all linked to people doing their jobs. If those stop, so does everything else.”

Kika looked down. Her fingers began to twist around each other. “So what you’re saying is…”

Kotae stopped pacing and turned to her.

“We need to realize something before the rest of the world does. This isn’t just about the end. It’s about surviving to the end. And the minute society starts to break down, survival becomes something you have to fight for.”

A heavy silence followed. She looked up at him, eyes filled with both fear and a flicker of something else—resolve.

“So what do we do?”

“First,” he said, “we stockpile. Canned food. The kind that lasts years. Doesn’t matter if it’s disgusting—we’re not building a gourmet bunker, we’re trying to live. Then water. More important than food. Gallons of it. Bottled, filtered, whatever we can get our hands on. Everything else comes later.”

“And after that?”

“After that,” he said with a shrug, “we can freak out. But not before.”

Kika gave a small laugh through her nose, shaky but genuine.

“You make the apocalypse sound like a group project.”

Kotae raised an eyebrow. “It is. One with a very strict deadline.”

That drew a real laugh from her. Brief, fleeting, but real.

He looked toward the window. Snow still fell, gently blanketing the city like nothing had changed. But everything had.

“We’ll get through this,” Kotae said quietly.

Kika stood up and walked to his side. “Together?”

He nodded once. “Together.”

And for a few minutes more, they stood in silence, watching the snow fall over a world that had already started ending.