Every year it was the same routine. Heâd walked this same path so many times, yet it always felt wrong to him, like one year heâd wake up and this would all go away. But life couldnât be that kind. And so, every year, this is where he found himself; knelt before his parentsâ grave, tidying up as he waited.
He sat there alone for a while, in what wouldâve been silence to anyone else. It was always too loud here, though he knew it couldnât be helped. The dead donât stop talking when theyâre buried. Perhaps if they did, he wouldâve noticed the couple in front of him sooner. No mater how many times he visited, he could never stop himself from crying when he faced his parents.
Following what had become their tradition, his mother took his hand, leading him to a tree not far from the grave. Sheltered there from the prying eyes of anyone who may come nearby, Shuichi broke down in his parentsâ arms.
