Chapter 57: “News”

The news arrived without ceremony.

Kei heard it at work, folded into a conversation that wasn’t meant for him. Two coworkers stood near the copy machine, voices lowered, faces drawn tight in the way people wore when they were speaking about something fragile.

“Did you hear about Aoyama-san?”

Kei stopped walking.

“She was found this morning.”

A pause. The machine whirred. Paper slid out.

“They’re saying it was suicide.”

The word landed wrong. Too heavy. Too final.

Kei’s hand tightened around the strap of his bag. He didn’t step closer. He didn’t interrupt. He stood there like a man overhearing his own name at a funeral.

Someone noticed him then. The conversation died immediately.

“I— Nishima-san—”

Kei nodded once. Automatically. He didn’t trust his voice.

At his desk, the world narrowed. Emails blurred. The clock on his screen ticked forward without mercy. He tried to remember the last message he’d drafted and deleted. The last time he’d chosen distance over discomfort.

He thought about her apologies.

About how quickly he had believed things would resolve on their own if he stepped back.

Responsibility pressed down on him, slow and crushing.

I should have checked.

I should have asked.

I should have noticed.

When he got home, his shoulders were heavy with guilt he couldn’t name properly.

Touko noticed immediately.

She always did.

Kei didn’t take off his shoes right away. He stood in the entryway longer than usual, staring at the floor. Yui was in the kitchen. Rurika sat on the sofa, knees pulled in, eyes unfocused.

Touko approached him quietly.

“Papa,” she said softly.

Kei looked down at her, and something in his face broke. Not visibly. Just enough for her to see.

“She’s gone,” he said. His voice was flat. Disbelieving. “The woman from work.”

Touko tilted her head. “Gone?”

“She… she took her own life.”

Rurika flinched.

The room seemed to shrink.

Kei pressed a hand to his face. “I should have helped her more. I should have said something. I knew she wasn’t okay.”

Touko reached for his hand.

Her fingers were warm. Steady.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said gently. “You tried to be careful.”

Kei shook his head. “Careful isn’t enough.”

Rurika stared at the wall. The words floated past her like sound underwater. Suicide. Gone. Wrong. None of them connected to her body properly. She felt light. Hollow. As if the floor beneath her wasn’t solid anymore.

Touko didn’t look at her.

She squeezed Kei’s hand instead. “Some people are already broken,” she said. “Even kindness can hurt them.”

Kei exhaled shakily. He didn’t pull his hand away.

Yui stood in the doorway, watching.

She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t rush to soothe. She observed the way Touko positioned herself just slightly in front of Rurika. The way Kei leaned unconsciously toward Touko’s touch.

Rurika’s breathing slowed, then dulled. Her mind slipped sideways, away from the moment. She felt like she was watching the scene through glass. Kei’s voice. Touko’s calm. Yui’s silence.

None of it felt real.

That night, Kei barely ate. He sat at the table long after the plates were cleared, staring at nothing. Touko stayed with him. She didn’t speak unless he did. She didn’t offer comfort in words. She offered presence.

When he finally stood, exhausted, she followed him down the hall.

“Papa,” she said softly. “You’re allowed to rest.”

He nodded, eyes wet. “Thank you.”

Rurika lay awake in her room, heart pounding without rhythm. Every time she closed her eyes, the word returned. Suicide. It felt like it belonged to her, even if it didn’t. Like a shadow that had chosen her shape.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t feel much of anything.

In the kitchen, Yui poured herself tea and watched the steam rise. She thought about patterns. About how grief moved through people differently. About how Touko’s hand had found Kei’s so quickly.

She sipped quietly.

Nothing in the house broke that night.

It bent.

And Yui watched them both.