An Epilogue for Two Changed Souls

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the light. I blinked, disoriented, waiting for stone walls or echoing voices, but they didn’t come. It was just my room, like always. I must’ve had a strange dream or something. My desk was cluttered with books, my alarm clock buzzing faintly, the hum of a world I had once thought was dull.

Then I saw it.

Beside my bed, in a simple glass vase, stood a single flower given to me by someone I knew long ago. Its translucent petals glowed faintly, shimmering with a light no morning sun could create. It should have wilted years back, but it hadn’t. It was as alive as the day she plucked it from starlit soil.

For a long moment, I just stared. A tear started rolling down my cheek, as I wiped it clean, I was confused as to why I cried. I feel like I had forgotten something but as I ran through my life in my mind everything was still intact.

The flower wasn’t loud, it never was, but its presence made the room feel less like a place I occupied and more like a place I belonged to. I found myself tracing the rim of the vase with my thumb, as if touching it could slow the bloom’s light from seeping back into memory. Small things returned in fragments: the hollow clink of a spoon against a stone bowl, the ridiculous way the prison’s bread had once smelled to me like a promise, and the warmth of a hand pressed against a wall. Each memory was a thin, stubborn thread that could be tugged into a rope if I let it.

I enjoyed breakfast with my family before heading out. They thought I was weird for thinking the bread should’ve smelled like citrus, honestly, I don’t even know where that came from. The kitchen smelled of real things, eggs and onions and the coffee my mother swore she’d stop brewing so strongly. My father made a joke about seasoning being the secret to happiness and my sister groaned, but when she laughed it climbed all the way to her eyes.

At the table we traded small, ordinary updates, a friend from class who’d done a ridiculous thing, the neighbor’s dog that ate a shoe. None of it was dramatic. That was the point. I listened, really listened, and the steady, ordinary chatter anchored me more securely than any ceremony the prison had ever staged. My sister rolled her eyes that were still glued to her phone but, she gave a small smile before that didn’t go unnoticed by me. After everyone finished eating we headed out together.

School passed differently now. Back in middle school I was always quiet and never bothered to get engaged in anything but now that changed when I started high school. The club room smelled of oil and spice and the faint must of recipe cards. We had a rhythm, one of us chopping, one stirring, one testing the sauces. When I made a mistake, a pan scorched a touch or a dumpling split up, someone beside me laughed, and then we fixed it together. Nobody made a show of it. There was no audience. The work itself felt like an answer, small, repetitive, genuine.

I found myself looking forward to the next practice, not out of obligation but because the next orbit of mixing and tasting made me feel present. It was a gentle scaffolding for something I hadn’t known I needed. In the culinary club, I laughed with the others, tossed flour across the counter, argued over seasoning like it mattered. And it did matter. Every little detail, every shared joke, every plate placed down on the table felt alive.

At the end of the day, my friends clapped me on the back, saying they were glad I’d joined, joking about who I used to be and how he would’ve never given them the chance to get close, they spoke to me like I’d always belonged here with them. I left with my chest feeling lighter than it had been in years.

Walking home that evening, the city’s ordinary noises, a bus huffing past, a couple arguing softly on the corner, the clang of a cyclist’s bell, felt like applause in a different key. It was an enjoyable walk all the way home, I almost got hit by a car as my mind was so pre-occupied wondering about pans and pots, and how I can keep getting those two mixed up.

When I came home, my parents met me at the door. They looked… younger than I remembered, but their eyes were warm, bright with a pride that I knew I hadn’t earned before.

“You’ve really grown since middle school,” my father said, shaking his head in quiet amazement. “Back then, you didn’t want to do anything. Now look at you. Coming home late,” He gives me a loving nudge “Because of that club you’re in right, and not a secret girlfriend.” Leave it to a dad to say such things.

My mom joined in scolding him playfully before returning her gaze at me, “Since you’re always cooking over at school, why not try to make us a meal for dinner tomorrow? Knowing you it’s going to be amazing.”

I swallowed hard, trying not to let the lump in my throat show, I don’t know why but this feels like an honor I’d spent a lifetime failing to earn. Behind them, my sister leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Akito. You’re still the annoying brother who hogs the bathroom in the mornings.”

But her eyes softened when she said it. For once, I didn’t feel like a burden. I felt like her brother. And that was more than enough.

***

Her classroom was quieter than most, the faint scratching of pencils the only sound. Everett sat across from her, his head bowed over his sketchbook. His hair still fell in his eyes, his shoulders still curled inward, but there was something new in the way his pencil moved. There was purpose, and even joy.

On Aeris’s desk lay a cloth, one she had carried with her through the eternal halls. It was covered in sketches, faces, flowers, fragments of memories. Everett’s gaze lingered on it, and his lips quirked into the faintest smirk.

Aeris unfolded the cloth and, without a lecture, pointed to a faded corner where a dozen tiny, careful figures were rendered in charcoal, each one different, each one a single attempt to catch a face that once mattered. “They used to be afraid,” she said, and the line was quiet, not shameful but honest. “So, I kept them. Sometimes people disappear. It’s sad, but it happens. Even though they’re gone, I’ll always remember.” Everett ran a finger across the stitches as if following footprints. “You kept it for their sake?” he asked. She nodded. “I kept them so someone would always remember. How could I call myself a teacher if I ever let a student disappear and not care?” Somehow that admission made the classroom softer, the whole space more human.

Everett’s eyes began searching around the cloth, understanding the weight each drawing carried, until his eyes stopped at one in particular. One more detailed than the rest, “Ooo who’s that? Is that your boyfriend?” he asked half joking pretending to be okay, pointing at a boy with unkempt hair, eyes sharp but weary. Akito.

Aeris laughed, not denying, not confirming. Just laughing softly, like a bell in still air. “Perhaps. But right now, I’d rather know what you’re working on drawing.”

Everett hesitated, then pushed the sketchbook toward her. A small bird, wings spread wide, caught mid-flight. There were other birds besides it, distant but there. The art wasn’t perfect, but it was alive.

“That’s beautiful,” Aeris said, and she meant it.

From that day forward, their lessons shifted. Less like formal tutoring or a counselor who gets paid minimum wage doing the bare minimum, more like a club of two. They experimented with different prompts like, drawing a sound, or to sketch a map of your neighborhood from memory. They made a game of naming colors for emotions and then tried to paint those colors into tiny watercolors. Everett starting bringing some snacks for the club, and they turned them into still-life studies that never lasted long because they ate everything afterward and laughed at how terrible the composition looked. It was gentle, and there was no curtain to hide behind. The act of making, of performing small, imperfect creations, made space for one thing Aeris hadn’t allowed herself before, the possibility of being present without being perfect.

An art club, where Everett began to smile, really smile, as though some weight was finally lifting. Aeris didn’t simply watch anymore. She walked beside him, guiding, sharing, healing, not because she wanted to pretend that she could, but because she was finally knew she couldn’t, and that was okay, there is always room for even a teacher to grow. Together, they created something brighter than either could alone.

***

I stood again in a cap and gown. The air filled with the hum of graduation. When my name was called, I walked the stage not as a shadow, not as someone drifting, but as Akito Nozaki, someone who had fought against the current and finally earned the right to carry his name.

The president of the school announced my name so that all could hear, I had earned magna cum laude with my masters. The applause blurred around me. I stepped down, diploma in hand, heart full, knowing I had truly lived this time.

When I returned home, the flower was still there, untouched by time. But beside it now stood something new: a mirror that my parents had left a note on: “A friend of ours was giving this away. We thought you might like it for your room. Happy Graduation, we’re so proud and we love you always.”

The mirror wasn’t ornate, it was a simple oval with a thin wooden frame, but when I set it on my shelf it felt oddly ceremonial. I propped it at an angle to catch the morning light. For weeks it showed only the corner of my room, the stack of cookbooks, the dent in my dresser, the poster I’d never put away. Sometimes, late at night, I would stare at it, not to find answers but to see whether the lines around my eyes had softened.

One night, when I’d returned from hanging out with friends, by the faint blue glow of my phone, I thought I saw movement behind my reflection, an extra breath, a shift in the shoulders. I turned and there was nobody there, just the hush of the apartment and the soft snoring from my sister’s room down the hall. The mirror did its quiet work, keeping a place open for something that might arrive later.

I approached slowly, the mirror catching the light. For a heartbeat, I swore I saw her. Aeris, standing just behind me, her expression soft, proud, exactly as I remembered. The time we shared together didn’t feel like it was rushing back because they were never forgotten, just temporarily sealed.

I turned quickly. The room was empty. I spoke under my breath a small thank you to my parents for this wonderous gift.

As I turned to face the mirror again, the flower glowed faintly, and the glass reflected more than just my face. The woman beside me gave a bright smile as if seeing a lifelong friend after so many years.

I smiled all the same, tears running down both our faces. I reached out my hand and she reached out hers,

“I guess that wasn’t goodbye after all.”