Milan had left the apartment quietly, carrying Sumire’s warmth in his arms. The night air was cool, but inside, a restless ache gnawed at him. He told himself she was better now, safe and resting, yet doubt pressed in—why hadn’t he stayed? What if she needed him and he wasn’t there? The weight of his own uncertainty settled heavy on his shoulders as he walked the empty streets back to his room. Every step echoed in the silence, and the hoodie he wore felt heavier than usual, though he didn’t realize he had left his own hoodie folded on the chair beside her.
His mind replayed the night’s moments—the fragile warmth of her body, the soft, breathy laugh when his fingers accidentally tickled her, the quiet promise to keep her safe. But now, alone, the ache of absence grew sharper, twisting quietly beneath the cool night air. He stopped beneath a flickering streetlamp, the pale light casting long shadows. His hands clenched into fists, the cold biting at his skin, but the chill was nothing compared to the gnawing worry inside. He whispered to himself, “I should have stayed… I should have stayed…” The city around him was quiet, the usual hum of life muted in the late hour. He felt the loneliness settle deep, a hollow ache that no warmth could fill.
He reached his own small room, but it felt alien. The silence was too loud. He paced the floor, his thoughts returning to the small apartment with the cat knocker. He imagined her waking up alone, confused, the fever returning in the dark. He looked at his hands—the same hands that had carefully changed her into pajamas, that had held the medicine to her lips. They felt empty now. He realized then that it wasn't just about her safety; it was about the connection that had sparked in that cold alleyway. He wasn't just a helper anymore; he was a guardian, and the distance felt like a betrayal.
The walls of his room seemed to close in. He sat on his bed, staring at the wall, but all he saw was the way her ears had drooped in the alley. He thought about the origami butterfly—how it had struggled to stay aloft, a mirror of her own fading strength. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt. He had done the "responsible" thing by leaving her to rest, but responsibility felt cold and hollow. He needed to know she was okay. He needed to see the rise and fall of her chest for himself.
He stood up, but his legs felt heavy. He walked to the window and looked out at the moon, which was partially obscured by thin, wispy clouds. The world outside was indifferent to the drama unfolding in that small apartment. He thought about his mother’s reply to his message—a simple "Be careful, I love you." It made him realize how much he valued the safety he was now trying to provide for someone else. He couldn't just sit here. He grabbed his keys, a small thermos of warm broth he’d prepared earlier, and headed back out.
The walk back was faster, driven by a quiet desperation. He didn't care about the hour or the cold; he only cared about the girl in the stone building with the ivy. Every shadow seemed to whisper her name, every gust of wind felt like a reminder of her fragility. He passed the alley where he had first found her. The bike rack was still there, a silent witness to the moment his life had shifted. He remembered the way her violet-black hair had spilled over the cobblestones, like a dark silk shroud. He remembered the heat of her skin, a terrifying contrast to the freezing air. He quickened his pace, the thermos clinking softly against his side. He wasn't just going back to check on a patient; he was going back to the only place that felt real tonight.
Meanwhile, in the quiet apartment, Sumire’s eyes fluttered open. The world was soft and hazy around the edges, her body weak but no longer burning with fever. Memories drifted like mist—the boy who found her, the warmth, the quiet care. Was it real, or just a dream spun by her fevered mind? Her gaze fell to the chair beside the bed, where a familiar gray hoodie lay folded. She reached out a trembling hand, fingers brushing the fabric. It smelled faintly of him—a mix of rain, cedar, and something steady. It was a small comfort in the quiet room.
Trying to lift herself, her limbs betrayed her, heavy and unsteady. She sank back with a soft sigh, frustration pooling in her chest. “Sumire… here… wait… nya…” she whispered, voice fragile and breathy, barely more than a murmur. “Can’t… go outside… not yet… mmm…” Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the dim light. A soft sob escaped, small and trembling. The silence of the apartment felt oppressive, a reminder of her usual isolation. She had always been alone, a delicate creature in a world that felt too loud and too fast. She thought about her life before this fever—the quiet days spent in the library, the long walks through the melancholic streets, the way people looked at her ears with a mix of curiosity and distance. She had learned to be invisible, to blend into the shadows. But tonight, someone had seen her. Someone had reached into the shadows and pulled her out.
She closed her eyes, trying to summon the image of his face. He had been so gentle, his movements careful and respectful even when she was at her most vulnerable. She remembered the way he had tucked the duvet around her, the coolness of the washcloth on her brow. It was a kind of care she wasn't used to—unconditional and quiet. She felt a strange warmth spreading through her chest, different from the fever. It was a feeling of being seen, of being protected. She thought about the origami butterfly—her only constant companion. It was a part of her, a reflection of her soul. And tonight, it had seen him too. It had felt his warmth, his steady presence.
The small pink origami butterfly, now resting on the nightstand, gave a weak flutter. Its wings were still slightly crumpled, reflecting her own exhaustion, but it glowed with a soft, reassuring light. Sumire watched it, her breathing slowing. She pulled the hoodie closer, tucking it under her chin. The fabric was soft against her skin, a surrogate for the warmth she had felt earlier. She drifted in and out of a light sleep, the scent of the hoodie anchoring her to the real world. Every creak of the old building made her ears twitch, hoping it was the sound of his footsteps. She imagined him walking through the cold streets, his hands in his pockets, his mind perhaps on her. The thought made her heart skip a beat—doki doki.
She remembered the way he had spoken to her in the alley. His voice had been a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of the fog. "Hey... can you hear me?" It was a simple question, but it had meant everything. It meant she wasn't alone. It meant someone cared. She thought about the way he had carried her, his arms strong and steady. She had felt so safe in his embrace, like nothing in the world could hurt her. She wanted to feel that way again. She wanted to hear his voice, to see the way his eyes softened when he looked at her.
"I even .. don't know your name, nya" she whispered to the empty room, feeling strange yet right on her tongue. "Don't... leave Sumire... nyan." She felt a sudden surge of fear—what if he didn't come back? What if he had only helped her out of duty? She shook her head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts. He had been too kind for that. His eyes had held a genuine concern that duty couldn't fake. She clutched the hoodie tighter, as if it were a lifeline. The silence of the room was no longer empty; it was filled with the memory of his presence. She began to hum a soft, melancholic tune, a song her mother had sung to her long ago. It was a song about the moon and the stars, about finding light in the darkest of nights.
The night wore on, the shadows in the room shifting as the moon moved across the sky. Sumire watched the patterns of light on the ceiling, her mind a whirl of thoughts and emotions. She felt a strange sense of anticipation, a feeling that something was about to change. She didn't know what it was, but she knew it was important. She felt a connection to Milan that she couldn't explain, a bond that went beyond words. It was as if their souls had recognized each other in that cold alleyway, two lonely creatures finding solace in each other's presence.
The quiet was broken by a gentle knock at the door. It wasn't the harsh sound of a stranger, but a rhythmic, hesitant tapping. Sumire's ears twitched, standing a bit straighter. She held her breath, her heart thumping—doki doki—against her ribs. She tried to sit up again, and this time, she managed to prop herself up on one elbow. The room spun for a moment, but she gritted her teeth and waited for it to settle. She felt a surge of energy, a desperate need to reach the door, to see him again.
A familiar voice followed, calm and steady, muffled by the heavy wood. “Sumire? It’s me. I... I couldn't just leave. I brought some soup and more water.”
The relief that washed over her was so intense it made her dizzy. He had come back. The dream wasn't over. She tried to call out, but her voice was still a mere rasp. Instead, she reached for the origami butterfly. With a final, determined effort, the little paper creature took flight, wobbling toward the door and slipping through the crack at the bottom to greet him. It was a small gesture, but it carried all of her hope, all of her gratitude.
Outside, Milan saw the pink butterfly emerge. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The sight of the little paper creature, still weak but determined, brought a smile to his face. He reached for the spare key he'd kept, his hand no longer shaking. He felt a sense of peace settle over him, a feeling of rightness. He was back where he belonged. He opened the door and stepped inside, the scent of lavender and old paper welcoming him home. He saw Sumire propped up on the bed, her eyes wide and shining in the dim light. He knew then that he would never leave her again.223Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRq8AzDODk1
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