A breathy laugh, almost. But not really. Shinji didn't smile.
"No one that strong just disappears," Hana said. "Right?" Her voice had a note of pleading. Not much. But it was there.
Jiro finally spoke. "Strong people die too."
That made her go quiet.
The fire popped once, and they all jumped slightly. Shinji looked toward the window again. "Is Ren still at the forge?"
"I think so," Hana said.
"You knocked?"
She nodded. "He didn't say anything."
"He probably didn't want to."
"I know."
Another silence. This one longer. Then Hana muttered, "He shouldn't be alone." Shinji stood and walked over to the bench by the door. His coat hung from the peg above it. He grabbed it, hands slow.
"I'll go," he said.
"No," Jiro said at once.
Shinji hesitated. "Just for a minute."
"No," Jiro repeated, sharper this time. "It's not safe. Not now."
"But he's alone," Shinji said. "What if...?"
"He's not a child," Jiro snapped.
Shinji turned his head, blinking. "He's not that much older than me."
Their father's eyes were tired. But hard. "He's Goro's son. He'll be fine."
Hana looked down at her knees again. The room went quiet once more. The silence didn't feel like waiting anymore. It felt like watching.
Much later, when the fire had burned to low red coals, Shinji slipped away from his mat. Not to sneak out—he wouldn't get far, not with his father awake—but just to move. His body was too restless, his head too loud.
He made his way to the small storage room behind the kitchen. The floorboards here were cold, and the wind through the walls made the old boards creak. He sat down near the basin and hugged his knees to his chest.
No one had mentioned the bell in days.
It was still buried out near the old terrace, where they'd hidden it weeks ago. It hadn't meant much, even then. Just a childish thing. A promise. He wondered if Ren remembered it. He wondered if he still did.
Lately, Shinji had been thinking about things from before. Before this village. Before Kinsen. Before the war. Before the cold mornings and cracked rice bowls and rough hands pulling weeds.
Dreams had brought it back—dreams that still clung to the corners of his mind like cobwebs.
He remembered the feeling of a warm car seat. A metal sink. Rain on glass. He remembered his old father's voice. Not loud or rough like Jiro. Not silent like Ren's. Just steady. Like running water.
It came back sometimes in the quiet, between thoughts. Not as a ghost. Not as some message.
Just memory.
The contrast between then and now had never felt sharper. When the village had been safe, the dreams had felt far away—like stories from another life. But now, everything here was starting to crack. And Shinji didn't feel like a part of either world.
He didn't feel like he belonged in this house. Or that old one. Just stuck in between. And Ren was alone, And Goro might be gone forever.
And something with six eyes was still out there, floating through the trees like a nightmare trying to become real. He rested his chin on his knees and stared at the wall until his eyes stopped focusing.
The cold helped. It made things feel simpler.
Eventually, Hana came looking for him.
She didn't say anything when she found him—just sat down beside him and pulled her blanket tighter.
"I can't sleep," she said.
He nodded.
She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"I don't think I've ever seen the village this quiet," she murmured.
He nodded again.
"You don't think Ren…" she didn't finish.
Shinji shook his head.
"I don't think he's trying to hurt himself," he said softly.
She looked at him sideways. "I wasn't going to say that."
He didn't respond.
"I just…" She curled her toes against the floor. "He always looked up to his dad, even when he pretended not to."
"Yeah."
"He's going to be really different now, isn't he?"
Shinji didn't answer.
Hana leaned her head against her knees. "I hope he doesn't stop talking to us."
"I don't think he will," Shinji said.
She sniffed again. Her voice came out wobbly. "I miss him already."
He wanted to say something, but the lump in his own throat wouldn't let the words out.
So instead, he reached out and nudged her arm with his.
She didn't say anything, but leaned a little closer.
They stayed like that for a while—two kids in a cold storeroom, sitting still and saying nothing while the village tried not to fall apart around them.
When they returned to the main room, Jiro was still awake, still at the door.
He didn't ask where they'd gone.
He just looked at them once, then nodded.
They lay back down without speaking.
The fire had almost died.
The sky was still dark.
But morning was getting closer.
The sky outside had turned from black to a pale, bruised blue. Not sunrise yet. Just that early light that made the world feel colder instead of warmer.
Inside the house, the fire had died completely. Shinji lay on his side beneath his blanket, eyes open, watching the soft shadow of Hana's shoulder rise and fall with her breathing.
He hadn't slept.
Neither had Jiro, who still sat by the door, blade resting across his knees. At some point, he'd wrapped a scarf around his shoulders, but he hadn't shifted once all night.
Shinji didn't ask if he was tired.
They all were.
Hana stirred a little when the first knock came—three quiet taps at the front door. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just steady.
Jiro was already moving.
Shinji sat up. His heartbeat kicked into gear, fast and sharp. He didn't know why—maybe because he already knew what this meant.
Jiro unbolted the door and opened it just enough to see outside.
Masato stood there, soaked from mist and sweat. His bow was unstrung, slung over his shoulder like an afterthought. His face looked older.
"They found him," he said.