Volume 3 – Chapter 13: The Weight of Silence

August 15 – 42 Days Left

The morning sky was a faded blue, as if from a never-ending sun. The rays filtering through the mottled window did little to warm the chill that had built up during the night. Kaito stood at the sink, watching condensation pull down his glass. The hush rang deeper today—thicker, almost suffocating.

Rika had been sitting at the table, half her toast getting cold. She had long stopped talking. The radio, had long since turned off, that was days ago—it made for too much noise; too many voices were now dying, pretending to cling onto the illusion of order.

"I had a dream last night."

Kaito did not turn. "What kind?"

"The end of the world. But not fire, or bombs, or screams. It was just... stopped. Like someone pressed pause. No noise, no movement. Only this unbearable stillness."

He slowly drank the lukewarm water and set the glass down. "God, I hope that would be kinder."

Rika didn't snicker. Neither of them did anymore.

Walls, furniture, and even air—they were all starting to feel too familiar, burdened with conversations that never would take place, plans that would never come to fruition. The wedding photo shoot had still not happened. Not because they didn't bother, but because capturing a smile felt unthinkable with the world coming to an end.

"Ever wonder if we died already?" she asked quietly.

Kaito turned to her, with an unreadable expression. "Like?"

"Not bodily. But spiritually. Emotionally. This," she waved vaguely around, "is merely an afterimage of a place where people used to be alive."

It was not hysteria, nor despair, nor madness-it was the clarity of bitter and cold pathos that radiated just after denial crumbled, and all that was left was the pure, naked truth, unfeeling and ruthless.

Kaito pulled up the chair across from her and sat down. "I used to think we were on a fight for survival. Now, I think we are merely giving our dying some meaning."

A long silence ensued.

"Is that bad?" Rika asked softly.

"I don't think there's a right or wrong anymore," Kaito replied. "There is only what we do before the end comes."

In the other room, the ceiling light buzzed faintly to life and flickered weakly, producing many shadows on the walls. Outside, people were still shambling about the street-in a slower, quieter manner. There was no pretending left. The streets felt like an elegy for the death; each footfall a funeral march.

That afternoon, Kaito wandered through town. Alone. Every face he passed wore that same vacant, tortured look. Not fear. Not grief. Something more desensitizing-like they had all tacitly accepted something that had never been said, a shared treaty of resignation.

He halted in front of an ancient bookstore. The door had not been locked. Inside, there was nothing to breathe but dust and ink. The shelves stood there like gravestones, each spine an idea long since forgotten by an author who cared. He picked a book seemingly at random. Its cover was cracked. Its pages reeked of the old days.

“Life is suffering, but to survive is to find meaning in that suffering,” it began.

Probably Nietzsche, or one who got close enough to the margin not to know it wasn't a road.

He closed the book.

On his way home, he passed by a park. No children were playing there anymore. An old man sat on a bench, feeding the pigeons and grumbling to himself. Kaito did not stop to hear the man.

When he returned, Rika was sitting on the floor with a photo album sprawled across her lap. She was crying—not that loud, not desperately. Just quietly, like a body that had finally found a pressure valve.

“I found a picture of my little brother,” she said. “Back when the sky hadn’t cracked.”

Kaito settled himself next to her. He said nothing: there was no need to.

“Do people deserve second chances?” she inquired. “Like... even after we destroyed so much?”

“I think if we didn't, then not much else would be left worthwhile to save.”

She closed the album. “I'm scared.”

“Me too.”

“But not of dying,” she said looking at him. "I'm afraid I'll die without truly having lived."

He gazed into her eyes again, as if something inside him had changed. The weight—that notion of fear, grief, the insufferable knowledge of how many days are left—remained firmly in place. It just found equilibrium.

“You have lived,” he said. “You are living. Every breath we take right now is defiance.”

That night they put candles in the hallway. Not for romance. Not even for comfort. For one reason only—to remind themselves there is still light.

They didn't speak much after that. The space between them was not empty; it was a sacred hush.

Before bed, Kaito looked out of the window. The moon hung low and heavy like an indifferent god staring back. Out there, somewhere, the clock ticked away. Forty-seven days. Maybe even less.

But tomorrow would come.

And for now, that was enough.