SHARPER || Chishiya Alice in Boarderland

-36- Grief Group

It's been a week since the funeral. Since the last handful of dirt fell, since I stood by the river with Nio, gripping her hand as if letting go would make me disappear too.

Now, life has settled into something quieter. Not easier—just... quieter.

After the funeral, Nio and I went back to my small apartment. It was strange at first, being in a space that still smelled like the life I had before. A life where Mari and Keru were just a phone call away. Their names still sit in my phone, untouched. I can't bring myself to delete them.

Thankfully, the bed Nio ordered arrived the same day we moved in. I don't know how we would have managed without it, especially since two days later, I picked up Kenji from the hospital. He moved in with us, and now the apartment is cramped, but none of us complain. It feels... safe. Warmer than the emptiness I expected. The three of us don't talk about it, but we all know. The silence in this space isn't loneliness—it's comfort.

Kenji doesn't sleep much. Neither do I. Most nights, we find ourselves on the couch, bundled in blankets, some late-night show playing in the background. He never talks about his sister, and I never push him to. We exist in that unspoken understanding, the kind that only people who have lost everything can have.

Nio, on the other hand, copes differently. She can't sit still. She needs something to do, something to care for. So, naturally, she went to the shelter and got a dog.

Not a cute one. Not an easy one. No, she asked for the hardest case they had, the one no one else would take. And now, we share a two-bedroom apartment with a growling, scarred mutt that flinches at sudden movements and doesn't trust anyone but Nio.

She named him Goro.

At first, I thought she was insane. But watching her with him... it makes sense. The patience, the stubborn kindness, the way she refuses to give up on him—it's how she loves, how she grieves. And maybe, in some strange way, training Goro helps her feel like she's fixing something. Like she's saving something, even when she couldn't save Takeru.

It's not easy, especially in such a small space. But somehow, we make it work. Goro has his spot by the window, Kenji has the second bed, Nio has her books scattered everywhere, and I have the only plant in the apartment that hasn't died yet. It's chaotic. Messy. But it's ours.

Kenji's parents will be here in a week. He doesn't talk about it much, but I can tell he dreads it. The idea of leaving, of going back to a house that no longer has Himari in it. I don't blame him.

He spends most of his time with me. We go on long walks, sit in coffee shops without ordering anything, wander aimlessly around the city. Sometimes we talk, but most of the time, we just exist together. I don't mind. It's easier than being alone.

The stitches on my arms have finally healed, leaving behind faint scars I don't recognize as my own. I run my fingers over them sometimes, tracing the new shapes of my skin, the raised lines that feel foreign against my fingertips. Another reminder that I survived when so many didn't.

But I don't like my new body. I don't like the way the scars mark me, how they turn my skin into a map of everything I lost. Every time I see them, I remember the pain, the smoke, the screams. They remind me that I made it out, but they don't let me forget what was left behind. And I hate that. I hate them.

All except one.

There's a scar on my wrist that doesn't look like the others. It's not jagged like the ones left by shrapnel, not faint and healing like the ones from stitches. It's different—deliberate. A curve, a sharp edge. It looks like a letter. C.

I don't know how it got there, and maybe that should scare me. But strangely, it doesn't. Out of all my scars, it's the only one I don't hate. I run my thumb over it absentmindedly again and again, feeling the way it sits on my skin, as if it was carved in on purpose. As if someone meant for it to be there.