Chapter 35: What Remains

Rurika woke to the sound of a machine breathing for her.

At first, she thought she was still dreaming. The ceiling above her was too white, too clean, like a place that didn’t belong to anyone. It took a few slow blinks before the smell reached her nose. Disinfectant. Cold. Sharp. Her throat felt dry, and when she tried to swallow, it hurt.

She turned her head.

A curtain. A metal stand. A chair pushed too far from the bed, like someone had meant to sit there and then changed their mind.

Hospital.

The realization landed quietly, without panic. Panic had already burned itself out somewhere deeper. All that remained was a dull pressure in her chest, like something heavy had been placed there and forgotten.

Rurika shifted her hand, expecting the familiar weight of her phone. The habit was automatic. Her fingers closed around nothing.

She checked again. Sheets. Plastic rail. Nothing.

Her phone was gone.

For a second, that scared her more than anything else. The phone was proof she still existed. Messages. Photos. Time stamps. Evidence. Without it, there was nothing to anchor her.

She pushed herself up slightly, wincing as her head throbbed. Her body felt wrong, like it belonged to someone else. There was a faint ache on her arms, on her shoulder. She didn’t want to look too closely. Looking meant remembering.

A nurse passed by the doorway. Rurika opened her mouth to call out, then stopped. The nurse glanced in, met her eyes for half a second, then looked away and kept walking.

That was strange.

She waited. Another nurse came. Another glance. Another quick turn away.

Something in her stomach tightened.

Eventually, footsteps slowed outside her curtain. Two voices. Low. Careful.

“She’s awake?”

“Yes. But… you know.”

A pause.

“The mother was arrested last night. Domestic incident. Livestream involved.”

Silence.

“…Poor girl.”

The footsteps moved away.

Rurika stared at the ceiling again. The words didn’t fully sink in at first. Arrested. Mother. Livestream. They floated above her like pieces of a sentence someone else was supposed to finish.

Her mother.

Reika Hanabusa.

Arrested.

Her mind tried to reject it, but her body already knew. Her hands began to shake, small and uncontrollable. Not from fear. From absence.

She turned her head again and noticed a clipboard at the foot of the bed. Her name was written there, but it looked wrong. Smaller than it should have been. Like it was trying not to take up space.

Hanabusa, Rurika.

She had always thought her name was too loud. Too sharp. Now it felt like it didn’t belong to her at all.

Time passed in pieces. A doctor came. Asked questions in a careful voice. Rurika answered automatically. Yes. No. I feel okay. I don’t remember everything.

The doctor nodded too much. Wrote too much.

When she asked if she could see her mother, the doctor hesitated just a fraction too long.

“We’ll talk about that later,” he said.

Later never came.

Instead, a teacher arrived. Or maybe two. Rurika couldn’t remember their faces clearly. What she remembered was how they stood. Not too close. Like she was something fragile and sharp at the same time.

They didn’t say her name out loud.

They talked around it.

“School will handle the arrangements.” “We’ll inform the administration.” “You should focus on resting.”

When she asked about going back to class, one of them smiled, thin and tight.

“We’ll see.”

That smile followed her even after they left. A smile meant to close a door.

Later, she was allowed to walk down the hallway with a nurse. Her legs felt weak, but she wanted to move. Lying still made her thoughts louder.

As they passed a window, she saw the outside world continuing like nothing had happened. Cars. People. A woman laughing into her phone.

At the end of the hall, she saw a group of students waiting with a teacher. Maybe someone else’s parents were late. Maybe someone had a fever.

One of the girls glanced at Rurika.

Their eyes met.

The girl looked away immediately.

Not in embarrassment. In avoidance.

The next student didn’t even look at her.

That was when Rurika understood.

It wasn’t gossip anymore. It wasn’t rumors. It wasn’t whispers behind hands.

It was distance.

She was something people stepped around.

Back in her room, Rurika sat on the bed and stared at the wall until the light outside dimmed. No messages came. No calls. No buzzing in her pocket.

Her home was sealed. She didn’t know that yet in words, but she felt it. The sense that there was no door waiting for her to unlock it. No familiar smell. No room where she could close the door and breathe.

Her mother was unreachable. Not asleep. Not busy.

Gone.

Not dead. Worse.

Erased.

Rurika hugged her knees to her chest. Her fingers dug into the fabric of the hospital gown. It felt too thin, like it could tear if she pulled any harder.

She tried to think of what she still had.

Her school? No.

Her friends? The word felt wrong.

Her reputation? She almost laughed.

Her name?

She wasn’t sure anymore.

A nurse finally came in with dinner. The tray was placed carefully on the table. Rice. Soup. Something warm.

“Eat a little,” the nurse said, not unkindly.

Rurika nodded.

She didn’t touch it.

After the nurse left, Rurika stared at the food until it went cold. The room grew quiet again, heavy with the kind of silence that pressed against the ears.

When night came, the machines hummed softly. The ceiling lights dimmed. Shadows stretched along the walls.

Rurika turned her head toward the doorway and spoke, her voice barely louder than a breath.

“Can I… go home?”

The words hung there.

No footsteps came back.

No answer followed.

The silence accepted her question and swallowed it whole.

Rurika lay back down and closed her eyes.

There was nothing left to return to.

Only what remained.