Rika walked to school the next morning with a lightness she hadn't felt in years. Her leg barely ached. The sun was out. In her bag sat a fresh box of lilies she had bought at the station and a letter she had stayed up all night writing.
“To my Anchor,” the letter began. “The garden yesterday changed everything. I realized that the story doesn't have to be a tragedy. Even if the ending is coming, the beauty of the middle is what matters. I’m coming after school. I have a surprise for you.”
She was so focused on the letter that she didn't even notice Sato in the hallway. When he tried to trip her, she simply stepped over his foot without looking back. He was a ghost to her now. Marin was the only thing that was real.
The school day felt like an eternity. Every tick of the classroom clock was a reminder of the time she could be spending in Room 302. When the final bell rang, she didn't just walk; she ran.
She reached the hospital, the bouquet of lilies clutched in her hand. She bypassed the reception desk, her heart racing with a strange, frantic hope. Maybe she’s back in the regular ward. Maybe she’s sitting up. Maybe she’s wearing the yellow dress.
She reached the door to the ICU. She stopped.
The door to Room 4 was wide open.
The monitors were dark. The rhythmic hiss of the oxygen was gone. The bed was stripped of its sheets, the bare blue mattress looking cold and clinical under the harsh lights.
A nurse was inside, folding a thin, white blanket.
"Where is she?" Rika asked, her voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "Where is Marin Kodakawa? She was... she was better yesterday. We were in the garden."
The nurse looked up, her eyes softening with a pity that made Rika want to scream. "Are you Rika?"
Rika didn't answer. She couldn't. Her lungs felt like they had collapsed.
"She had an embolism an hour ago," the nurse said softly, walking toward her. "It was very sudden. She didn't suffer, Rika. She was sleeping."
The lilies slipped from Rika’s hand, scattering across the linoleum floor. The letter—the one about the beautiful middle and the surprise—fell into the pile of flowers.
There was no final goodbye. No poetic last words. No sunset to frame the moment. Just an empty room and the smell of bleach.
Rika turned and walked away. She didn't cry—not yet. She felt hollowed out, as if someone had taken a pen and crossed out her entire soul. She walked past the clock tower, past the canal, all the way home.
She sat at her desk and opened her navy notebook. She picked up her pen, but her hand wouldn't move. For the first time in her life, the writer had nothing to say.
The page remained white. Empty. Silent.
Just like the bed in Room 4.
ns216.73.216.141da2
and then Add to home screen.