Chapter 20: Her Birthday, My War

Birthdays are supposed to feel like beginnings.

Hers felt like a countdown.

I didn’t ask how old she was turning. Didn’t want to put a number on something I knew was running out.

The rooftop wasn’t much — cracked tiles, rusted railing, the kind of place pigeons hold conferences about trash. But tonight, it looked different.

I stole lanterns from a night market. Flowers from a street vendor. Music from a speaker Jin “borrowed” from somewhere that probably has cameras.

When I was done, the whole thing glowed like a secret.

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Yume stepped out, blind eyes catching the wind like they were trying to read it.

“It smells… different,” she said.

“Better or worse?”

“Better. Like… not the city.”

Her hand brushed mine as I led her forward. When she felt the lantern light against her skin, she smiled — small, careful, like she didn’t trust it to stay.

“What is this?”

“Your birthday,” I said.

“You remembered?”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Debatable,” she teased, but her voice cracked in the middle like glass under pressure.

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We sat on a blanket, eating food that tasted like cardboard but looked expensive. She didn’t eat much — barely anything at all.

“I’m just not hungry,” she said when I frowned.

Yeah. Sure. And I’m the Easter Bunny.

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Then came the gift.

I slid my phone across the blanket, screen glowing faintly in the dark.

“Play it,” I said.

She pressed the button.

And the hall came alive again.

Her melody filled the night — soft, trembling, blooming like something that refused to die quietly.

Her hands froze. Her lips parted. For a moment, I thought she’d cry. She didn’t. She just smiled — that small, unfair smile that made my chest ache.

“You recorded it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“So I can keep hearing it,” I said, staring at the city lights because looking at her was too dangerous.

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She didn’t say anything for a while. Just listened to herself play, head tilted like she was memorizing a memory.

Then, quietly:

“Kazuki?”

“Yeah?”

“If I die tonight… I’d still feel like the luckiest girl alive.”

Something inside me snapped so loud I almost heard it.

I wanted to scream. Tell her to stop talking like that. Tell her I’d fight the sky itself if it tried to take her.

But all I said was:

“You’re not dying tonight.”

“Promise?”

Her voice was so soft, I almost wished I didn’t hear it.

“Promise,” I said, lying through my teeth like I’ve never lied before.

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Later, when she fell asleep against my shoulder under the lantern glow, I stared at the horizon.

And I swore — to the night, to the stars, to the blood still crusted on my knuckles —

I’d tear the world apart for her.

Even if it tears me apart first.

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