The storm had been gathering since dawn …
When the courier arrived, Keisha almost didn’t answer. The man at the door wore his uniform stiffly, water streaming from the brim of his cap. He said her name once, softly, as if it might break.
Then he held out two envelopes.
One bore the seal of the Colonial Administration. The other was older, smudged with fingerprints and travel … his handwriting across it, unmistakably uneven, as though the hand that wrote it had trembled more from exhaustion than age.
She didn’t open them right away.
By the time she did, evening had come. The kitchen was dim, the tea on the table long gone cold. A single bulb flickered above her head, buzzing faintly in the silence. Outside, the clouds pressed low against the town, ready to weep.
The first letter, the official one … was brief. Formal.
She read only the first line before setting it aside, face-down.
Her hand hesitated over the second envelope. The paper was soft from handling, edges darkened by oil and dust … the scent of a place far from home. She broke the seal carefully, afraid the act itself might erase what little of him remained.
Inside was a single sheet, folded twice.
Dear Keisha,
It’s been a long while since my last letter, hasn’t it?
Still, I wanted you to know … I’m alright.The nights are quiet here, but not peaceful.
I can’t seem to dream anymore. Every time I close my eyes in this tin pod, all I hear are the screams of the ones who never made it back.
They don’t fade, no matter how far I go.I don’t dream, Keisha.
I only remember.
And those memories … they never let me rest.
It feels like the past has its hand on my shoulder, whispering, “Don’t forget me.”I’m lost, little sister.
Your big brother … he’s lost somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow.I remember what Endou used to say:
“Meet the world with open arms, Kaito. Life will be kind if you let it.”
He believed that. He really did.I tried to believe it too.
But I took too long, Keisha.
And I wandered too far.If I could, I’d tell you to keep smiling.
To see the sunrise for me, even when it hurts to look at the light.
I’d tell you not to wait … not for me, not for anyone who walks this kind of road.I’m sorry, Keisha.
Forgive your big brother … for not coming home sooner.With love,
— Kaito
When she reached the end, the words blurred into water. She pressed her palm to the paper, trying to steady her breathing.
Outside, the first drops of rain struck the windowpane … hesitant, almost polite. Then the rhythm deepened, a soft percussion against the glass, as though the sky itself had found a way to grieve.
She folded the letter again with careful hands. The ink had bled faintly at the edges where her tears had fallen, but the words remained intact.
Keisha stood and crossed the room. Beyond the door, the small garden waited … soaked and quiet. The plum tree stood at its center, slender but resilient, its leaves trembling in the wind. Her brother had planted it years ago before he left, his hands still calloused from the shipyards. He’d laughed then, saying it would be tall by the time he came back.
It never had the chance to grow that far.
She stepped out barefoot. The earth was soft, the rain cool against her face. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Her fingers brushed the tree’s trunk, tracing the grooves in the bark. “You’d have liked it here,” she murmured. Her voice cracked halfway through. “It’s quieter now.”
For a moment, it felt as if the air itself leaned in to listen.
“Home,” she whispered.
A wind stirred, carrying the scent of rain and soil and something faintly warm … something she couldn’t name. The branches swayed, and a handful of leaves drifted down, settling gently against her shoulder and the wet ground below.
She closed her eyes, letting the quiet wrap around her. And when she finally spoke, her words were soft, carried like a prayer.