Chapter 30 : When silence became our only voice

The rooftop was silent except for the low hum of the city far below, a constant reminder that the world moved on, uncaring. Here, in this little slice of forgotten air, time felt stuck, sticky with words unsaid and memories too sharp to touch.

Nene sat cross-legged near the fence, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she could squeeze the sadness out. Her hair whipped around her face, strands catching in her mouth, but she didn’t move.

Hana stood at the edge, gripping the rusted railing so hard her knuckles had gone white. Yuka leaned back against a crumbling wall, arms folded loosely across her chest, her eyes distant but alert. Emiko paced in tight, angry circles, the clack of her boots grating against the cracked cement.

No one wanted to be the first to speak. No one wanted to say what they were all thinking.

Finally, it was Nene who broke.

"I should’ve run after her," she whispered, her voice carried away by the wind. "I should’ve done something."

Emiko’s boots skidded to a halt. She turned sharply, her eyes flashing. "And then what? You think she'd suddenly throw herself into your arms and everything would be fine?"

"Emi, don’t," Yuka said quietly.

"No!" Emiko shouted, the rooftop amplifying her voice. "I’m sick of pretending. She left us! She chose to disappear!"

Hana turned then, her face drawn and tired. "You think we don’t know that?"

"Then why are we just sitting here?" Emiko’s voice cracked on the last word. She scrubbed angrily at her eyes. "Why are we acting like it’s not over?"

"Because it’s not," Nene said fiercely, surprising them all. Her face was wet with tears she hadn’t realized she was crying. "It’s not over unless we give up on her."

Hana let out a shaky breath, loosening her death grip on the railing. "Nene’s right. Mi’s hurting. I saw it. She’s... different, but she’s still our friend."

"She didn’t even say she missed us," Emiko muttered, softer now, the fight draining out of her.

Yuka pushed off the wall and walked over, dropping to sit beside Nene. "Maybe she’s scared. Maybe she thinks we wouldn’t want her anymore."

"She’s wrong," Nene said immediately, voice thick.

"Then we have to show her," Hana said. Her eyes shone with determination, fierce and fragile all at once. "No matter how far she runs. No matter how cold she acts. We’ll be here."

They sat there for a long time, letting the quiet settle over them again — but this time, it wasn’t sharp and brittle. It was a fragile kind of hope, thin and trembling, but real.

Above them, the first stars flickered into life, distant and small, but stubbornly burning.

Just like them.

[ Scene shift: The Hideout ]

The hideout door creaked open, letting in a sliver of dying light.

Mikuya stepped inside without a sound. The familiar scent of dust and old wood wrapped around her like an old, tattered blanket — comforting and suffocating all at once.

Across the room, Sora stood near the window, arms folded, his silhouette framed by the bleeding colors of the sunset. He didn’t move. But when he heard the door, he turned slightly, just enough to see her.

Mikuya didn’t speak. Neither did he.

She dropped her bag by the wall, the soft thud echoing too loud in the otherwise still space. Then, slowly, she lowered herself onto the mat in the center of the room, sitting cross-legged, her hands limp in her lap.

A long silence stretched between them — but it wasn’t cold. It was the kind of silence that Sora always offered: steady, patient, waiting for her to find her own way through it.

After a while, his voice came, low and even.

"You were out longer than usual."

Mikuya’s fingers curled slightly, nails digging into her palms. She kept her gaze on the floor.

"I saw them," she said. Her voice was flat, brittle at the edges.

Sora’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly — a small tilt of his head, a softening of the tension in his shoulders. He said nothing, inviting her to continue.

Mikuya swallowed hard.

"They..." She hesitated, the words fighting her. "They saw me too."

A beat. The air felt heavier.

"They... wanted to talk to me," she said, her voice cracking. "I didn't let them."

Sora moved away from the window, his boots silent against the cracked floor. He stopped a few paces from her, not close enough to crowd her, but close enough that she could feel him there — a steady presence.

"Why?" he asked gently.

Mikuya gave a hollow laugh, but there was no real humor in it. "Because if I stopped... If I even looked at them properly... I'd break," she whispered. "I’m barely holding it together as it is."

Sora crouched down slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing himself closer to her level.

"You don’t have to hold everything alone," he said, his voice calm.

She shook her head, her hair falling into her face.

"I chose this," she said bitterly. "I left. I walked away."

"Choosing pain doesn’t mean you deserve it," Sora replied simply.

Mikuya stared at her hands, at the little scars across her knuckles, at the tremble she couldn’t stop.

"I thought if I stayed away long enough, they'd forget me. That it would be easier. For them. For me."

"And was it?" Sora asked.

Mikuya closed her eyes. "No," she admitted, voice breaking. "It wasn’t."

"They didn’t forget you," Sora said. "They didn’t even try."

Mikuya laughed, a broken, bitter sound.

"They looked at me like... like I still mattered," she whispered, almost angrily. "And I hated it. I hated how much I wanted to run to them. How much I wanted it all back."

She lifted her head then, locking eyes with him for the first time.

"But I don’t deserve it."

Sora didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.

"Maybe," he said quietly, "it’s not about deserving."

Mikuya's chest hurt, like something inside was splintering. She hugged her knees to her chest, trying to make herself smaller.

"I don't know how to fix it," she said. "I don't know how to fix me."

Sora stood then, slow and deliberate.

"You don't fix yourself by pretending you're not broken," he said. "You heal by choosing to live anyway."

He walked over to the weapons rack against the far wall — a mismatched collection of old practice swords, staffs, and blunted knives. He picked up a training sword and tossed it lightly onto the mat in front of her.

Mikuya blinked at it, startled.

"You want me to fight?" she asked, voice thin and uncertain.

Sora didn’t smile. But his eyes softened, just a little.

"Not fight," he said. "Remember."

She stared at the sword like it might bite her.

"Remember what?"

"Who you are," Sora said simply.

Mikuya hesitated. For a second, she thought about refusing. About folding into herself and disappearing. It would be so easy.

But Sora just stood there, silent and waiting. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just believing she could.

And somehow, that was harder to ignore.

With a shaky breath, she reached out and curled her fingers around the hilt.

The weight of it was familiar and foreign at the same time, like a song she used to know but had forgotten the words to.

She rose slowly to her feet, the sword hanging loosely at her side.

Sora stepped back a few paces, his own training sword in hand. He didn’t raise it yet — just watched her, steady and sure.

Mikuya tightened her grip. Her first swing was clumsy, wide and unbalanced. Sora deflected it easily, barely moving his wrist.

"No force," he said quietly. "Just move."

She tried again, her shoulders stiff, every movement jerky with frustration. Sora caught her blade again, this time pushing it gently aside and stepping past her.

"Don’t think," he said over his shoulder. "Feel."

"I don’t feel anything!" Mikuya snapped, spinning around too fast, her sword slipping from her grasp and clattering onto the mat.

The sound echoed in the room, loud and ugly.

Mikuya stood there, breathing hard, her hands trembling.

Sora bent down and picked up her sword. He didn’t hand it back immediately.

Instead, he studied her — really looked at her — and when he spoke, his voice was softer than she’d ever heard it.

"Then let’s find it," he said.

He offered her the sword again, holding it out with both hands — a silent offering, a silent trust.

Mikuya hesitated, staring at it.

Then, slowly, she took it from him.

Their fingers brushed briefly, and she felt the quiet strength in his touch — not grabbing, not forcing, just... there. Steady. Real.

They squared off again. This time, Mikuya moved slower, more deliberate. She let her body remember, let the rhythm carry her.

Clack. The wooden swords met and slid apart. Clack. Again, and again, a steady back-and-forth, like breathing.

Sora didn’t correct her when she faltered. He didn’t scold when she stumbled.

He just moved with her — patient, unyielding, like the tide wearing down a stone.

After a while, Mikuya realized she wasn’t thinking about her friends. Or about running. Or about all the ways she’d failed.

She was just here. Moving. Breathing.

Alive.