What Frames the Sun

The faint smell of disinfectant hangs in a dimly lit room where its sole occupant lies unmoving in deep slumber, isolated from the rest of the world. Aside from the gradual rise and fall of her chest and the rhythmic beeping of vital-signs monitors, there was little to suggest she’s truly alive.
     No change again, as usual…
     I pull a chair beside her and sit, watching as the machines trace out her life in sterile green lines that blink and dip in perpetual repetition.
     These visits of mine have become a ritual—an anchor of purpose.
     I smooth the creases from her blanket, my fingers lingering on the fabric, hoping—perhaps foolishly—that something of me might still reach her.
     Her oxygen mask fogs at regular intervals, each breath a fragile affirmation of her presence.
     “Good evening,” I offer a soft greeting without expectation. “It’s raining again tonight. You’d probably hate it too.”
     She doesn’t stir.
     I can’t remember the last time her eyes had seen light.
     How many times have I come here, hoping for something different?
     A hollow ache settles in my chest, reminding me that my heart, too, has its own silence to bear.
     I reach for her hand in the dim light, only to be met by that familiar deathly chill of her bony fingers. Ignoring the discomfort, I wrap my hand around those precious fingers that I found so hard to let go, feeling the weight of my world suspended by a delicate thread.
     A half-finished scarf rests quietly on the nightstand, untouched since the day her hands stopped moving.
     Back home, mother kept a basket of yarn in every shade she adored—of plums, rose, and soft grey. She had meant to finish that scarf the winter before she couldn’t.
     One day, unable to bear the sight of it gathering dust, I picked it up from where she left off.
     I wasn’t any good at first.
     The needles felt stiff and strange in my hands. The yarn, too, had grown coarse with time.
     But I kept going, one row at a time, getting by with little progress and results to show for.
     I never came close to matching mother’s skill, but learning how to do what she once loved became my quiet defiance against her absence—threading meaning into days emptied of her.
     My mother had meant the world to me. And no matter how often I visited, it never felt like enough.
     My obligations had demanded more from me than I liked, and each departure felt like an unjust betrayal of the time I meant to spend with her.
     Even so, part of me still believes that if I try hard enough, and gave enough of myself to this illogical world—maybe it will give something back.
     I rise slowly, adjusting the blanket over her shoulders.
     “I’ll be back soon,” I whisper—a promise more for myself than her.
     I wonder if she would notice—if some part of her willed for me to stay just a little longer.
     As I turn toward the door, I glance back—once at the scarf, then at my mother and slide the door closed, sealing the moment behind me as duty calls.
     I can’t falter now. No more room for hesitation.
     This was the path I chose, and there’s no turning back.
     Steeling myself for the long night ahead, I walk the silent hallway alone, clinging to the belief that someday, it will all be worth the cost.

The echoes of departing trains fade into the night, leaving behind an unnatural stillness clinging to the consciously empty platform where I now stand upon. Another figure occupies a vacant bench nearby—a girl in a school uniform resembling my own. She looks about my age, staring absently at the tracks in the distance, as if she’s been waiting much longer than the clock suggests.
     I draw my school jacket tighter and approach cautiously, keeping my strides as light as I could. Smoothening my skirt with one hand while holding on to a paper envelope in the other, I sit down beside her, mindful to maintain a careful distance between us. Even then, she still doesn’t turn.
     Her voice reaches me before her gaze does.
     “Have you been following me?”
     A pang stirs in my chest.
     “When did you notice?”
     “For a while now,” she replies, sounding more weary than annoyed. Then she looks at me directly. “So, what are you here for?”
     “…The same reason you’re here.”
     Her eyes widen momentarily. She lets out a breathless laugh, perhaps amused by the absurdity of my words.
     I observe her without uttering a word, unbothered by her sudden outburst.
     When it passes, she exhales deeper, like she’s releasing something long pent up.
     “You know, I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” she begins, in a clearly better mood this time.
     “I’m sorry,” I answer automatically. I don’t know why I say it. It just feels like the right thing to do.
     She looks back toward the tracks and mutters, “Well, it’s not like it matters. As long as you’re not here to stop me,” while swinging her feet idly.
     “I’m not going to.”
     “Really? You’re not even going to ask me anything?” she asks, her voice laced with cynicism.
     “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
     “No. But I’ll listen if you want to talk.”
     “How convenient. Why are you doing this anyway?”
     “No particular reason.”
     She studies me, and a slight frown forms across her face.
     “There’s nothing in it for you, right?”
     There isn’t.
     Pleasantries and favours aren’t part of my duties. Still…
     “Even if it’s just for a little while… it’s comforting, isn’t it? Knowing there’s company when you least expect it.”
     She blinks twice, and her guard dips.
     “…I suppose. It’s still hard to believe, though.”
     “Why?”
     “Because no sane person would do this for someone they just met. Especially not for such flimsy reasons.”
     Her words land heavier than she intends, catching something raw beneath the surface.
     “…Maybe I’m just not human enough,” I murmur, the words barely making it past my lips.
     She laughs—kinder this time. “You’re such a weirdo… but I’m glad.”
     I wait for more, but she says nothing else.
     The silence that follows stretches peacefully between us. I close my eyes and let it settle briefly.
     My transient reprieve ends abruptly when the announcement signaling the arrival of the train reverberates across the platform.
     She stiffens, then rises swiftly, her movements purposeful—as if she’d been waiting for this exact moment all along.
     I rise as well, falling into step behind her until she reaches the platform’s edge.
     She doesn’t look back when she speaks.
     “Are you sure you want to come along?”
     “Only as far as I’m allowed,” I answer with a solemn nod.
     “…I see.”
     Her voice is calm. But her trembling fingers betrayed the fear she was trying to hide.
     I extend my hand.
     She takes it—hesitant at first, then with a grip that slowly steadies.
     She draws in a sharp breath.
     “Can you promise me something?”
     “I’ll hear you out, at least.”
     She gives a small shake of her head, disappointment flickering in her eyes.
     “That’s good enough,” she says with a wistful smile. “Even if it’s just you… will you remember me?”
     “That, I can promise,” I answer with certainty and her expression softens.
     Something in her has made peace.
     “Kikko Koyanagi—that’s my name,” she says, with the polite finality of a farewell. “It was brief, but I’m glad to have made your acquaintance.”
     “Likewise,” I reply, matching her tone.
     The envelope crinkles in my other hand.
     I already knew her name. That too, was part of my task.
     A low thunder builds as the train draws near, rising second by second.
     I close my eyes and let it wash over me.
     How many times has it been? I can no longer count the names or the farewells.
     It’s as if I’m always the one being left behind. Stuck on this platform while everyone moves on.

By the time silence returned to the platform, only one figure remained.
     A lone girl in her school uniform.
     The hush of the air stretched out without purpose. She thought it would bring her comfort
     —It didn’t.

Was it enough? That brief exchange… that fleeting companionship? Did it make any difference? 
     I stare at the empty spot where Kikko had stood as her parting words danced in the corner of my mind.
     Will I be able to remember her?
     I press my lips together, unsure of the answer.
     Dawn would arrive soon, and it would be time to leave. 
     Just like the world which stops for no one, I too, must move forward.
     The train would come eventually.

     *            *            *