Chapter XXXIII - The Weight of Promises We Make (II)

Fukou Hospital loomed before us like an architectural compromise. It was a half-modern glass monolith, yet also a half-aging concrete relic from a previous era. It seemed fitting somehow; this space between sickness and health, between absence and return, should look as though it existed in two worlds simultaneously.

We processed through the automatic doors in a cluster of black blazers and subdued excitement, Fujimiya-sensei at the lead with her visitor passes and carefully rehearsed explanations to the front desk staff. The hospital smell hit me immediately—that peculiar blend of antiseptic, floor cleaner, and something more organic that lurked beneath, the scent of bodies fighting against their own mortality.

Just like all the when I visited Mot—

Minazuki-san wrinkled her nose beside me.

"I hate hospitals," she muttered, falling into step with me as we followed the group toward the elevators.

"Same here."

"Bad experiences?"

"You could say that."

She looked away.

"Just... the smell. The feeling. It's like time moves differently here."

I nodded, understanding precisely what she meant. In my view, hospitals existed outside normal chronology, with their lit hallways that looked identical at noon or midnight, their continuous cycle of shift changes that made clocks almost irrelevant, their strange suspension between urgency and waiting.

It was all so offsetting.

Eventually, the elevator doors slid open along a cheerful chime that felt obscenely incongruous with our surroundings. We packed inside, an awkward arrangement of adolescent bodies trying not to touch in a space too small for such niceties.

Minazuki-san shifted beside me, her shoulder brushing mine lightly.

"Sorry," I whispered, trying to shift away.

"It's fine," she replied, her voice surprisingly soft. "Just don't get any ideas, Kagami."

"This is the third time you've blatantly implied me doing... indecent things to you..."

Her smirk was all the answer I received.

The elevator continued its slow ascent, stopping at various floors to let out visitors and staff members before finally arriving at the ward where Sairenji resided. The fourth floor housed the pediatric wing, which was a fact that struck me as both appropriate and odd. At 16, going on 17 in about a few months, Sairenji Satsuki existed in a strange twilight between childhood and adulthood, just as we all did—legally minors but expected to make decisions about our futures as if we possessed the wisdom of decades.

A nurse with a clipboard met us in the hallway, exchanging quiet words with Fujimiya-sensei before gesturing for us to follow her. While she led us, she proceeded to give the Class 2-A cohort a set of instructions.

"Sairenji-san is waiting for you all in the family lounge. Just a few reminders before you go in—try to keep noise levels moderate, avoid crowding too closely as she's still recovering her strength, and if she seems tired, please understand that we may need to cut the visit short."

Seemed understandable enough considering that Sairenji has been hospitalized for over six weeks.

The family lounge was a surprisingly pleasant space, institutional bones softened by attempts at hominess—potted plants, comfortable seating arranged in conversational groupings, walls painted a gentle blue rather than stark white. Windows along one wall looked out over the hospital's inner courtyard, where a Japanese maple had begun its autumn transformation.

And there, seated on a couch beneath those windows, was Sairenji Satsuki.

My first thought was that she looked both exactly the same and completely different.

Her hair was still long and black, but now it fell loose around her shoulders instead of being confined in her ponytail that she started to style frequently back when she was at school. Her skin retained its porcelain quality, but there was a translucence to it now, as if light might pass straight through if it struck at the right angle. She also wore a pale pink cardigan over her hospital gown.

But her smile—that was unchanged. It bloomed across her face as we entered, painting her features with joy. Her eyes, dark and perceptive as ever, moved from face to face, taking in all of us delightfully.

"Oh my god! I can't believe all of you came!"

The room erupted into a cacophony of greetings and exclamations as students surged forward, momentarily forgetting the nurse's admonition about crowding. Gifts were presented, the card unveiled with ceremonial importance, stories began to tumble forth in overlapping waves.

I hung back, oddly hesitant. From the corner of my eye, I saw Minazuki-san take up a position against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest in what I was beginning to recognize as her defensive posture. She caught my glance and raised an eyebrow slightly, as if to say:

'See? I told you I don't belong here.'

I couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy for her. She had come, despite her reservations, and now stood on the periphery of this reunion like an exile observing the festivities of a foreign tribe.

Yet before I could verbally console her, something unexpected happened.

Sairenji stood.

And did a freaking pirouette.

The movement was so contradictory to our collective image of the sick girl we'd come to comfort that the room fell silent.

"Sairenji-san! You know you're not supposed to—"

"Just one spin," Sairenji laughed at the bolting nurse. "I've been cooped up for so long, I needed to make sure I still remember how."

"But your heart—"

"Is perfectly fine. See? No dizziness, no shortness of breath. I told you guys, the surgery was a complete success. My condition is manageable now."

She beamed at us, to which we merely stared at her.

"Wait, you had surgery?!"

"Heart surgery, no less!"

"Woooaahhhh!"

The nurse relented at the scene with a sigh.

"Five minutes of standing, then back to the couch," she compromised.

"Ten," Sairenji bargained, still smiling.

"Seven, and not a second more."

"Deal."

She then turned to us, arms spread wide in a gesture that encompassed the entire class. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me everything I've missed?"

The dam broke.

Students crowded around her (though maintaining a slightly more respectful distance than before), eager to update her on six weeks of school life. The room filled with the comforting babble of teenage gossip, carefully curated to exclude anything that might distress her.

"The literature club got a new faculty advisor—"

"—Tanaka-sensei got engaged—"

"—Midou's team made it to prefecturals—"

"—you wouldn't believe who got caught smoking behind the gym—"

"—and then Yoshida-san said the printer was only for official documents—"

Sairenji absorbed it all, asking questions, and laughing at the right moments. She had always been good at making people feel heard, but here, paradoxically freed from her responsibilities as class representative, she seemed even more attentive and present.

Then, unexpectedly, her gaze found mine across the crowded room.

Our eyes locked, and I saw the precise moment her attention shifted from the general enthusiasm to the specific. She studied me with that penetrating gaze I remembered so well from our days working together—the look that had always made me feel as though she could see past every one of my carefully constructed facades.

She said something to Inoue, who nodded and moved aside, creating a small opening in the circle around her. With a subtle gesture that I recognized from countless class meetings, she beckoned me forward.

I approached hesitantly, suddenly conscious of the gauze on my face and of how different I must have appeared to her after these weeks apart.

"Kagami-kun, I was beginning to think you were avoiding me," she giggled.

"Never," I replied, summoning a smile. "Just giving everyone else their chance first."

"Hmm..."

Those dark eyes studied me for a second, and that was all it took.

"You're different."

Not a question. An observation.

"Am I?"

"Mmm." She nodded. "You're standing straighter. Your shoulders aren't curved inward like they're carrying something heavy, and your eyes are clearer. You look... more like yourself, somehow."

I blinked. Was it that obvious? Had I changed so fundamentally in just a few days that even Sairenji, who hadn't seen me in six weeks, could detect the difference immediately?

"I... don't know what to say to that."

"Well... it's not an accusation, Kagami-kun. It's an observation." She grinned. "An observation... and a compliment."

She reached out, her fingers briefly touching my sleeve in a gesture that felt surprisingly intimate.

"It suits you."

My chest twisted.

"I hope so, whatever it may have been." I brusquely sighed. "Anyways, you seem well."

"I'm getting better. Slowly. This is a good day."

The implication hung between us—that there were bad days, that recovery wasn't a straight line.

I wanted to ask what had happened, what had taken her from us for so long, but the question felt too intrusive for this public reunion.

"Hasn't it been awful? Being here all this time?"

She considered the question more seriously than I'd expected.

"Not terrible... but different. Hospitals change your perspective. Everything becomes a hell of a lot more urgent and less important." Her gaze drifted toward the window, to the maple tree with its scarlet leaves. "I've had a lot of time to think."

"About what?"

"About what matters, and what I want at the end of the day. About who I am when I'm not being who everyone expects me to be."

I must have looked as startled as I felt, because her smile deepened, taking on a knowing quality.

"You've been thinking about that too, haven't you?"