The sunlight had shifted by the time Aika returned to the living room. It now filtered through the sheer curtains in gold-tinted strands, casting soft lines across the floor, the chair, the quiet man seated in it.
Ren was no longer asleep.
He had felt her presence—before he even opened his eyes.
Maybe it was the change in the air, the hush of something unspoken gathering weight between them. Or maybe it was simply the way her footsteps paused in the hallway, hesitant, heavy, breath held.
He opened his eyes slowly.
And saw her.
Standing just beyond the doorway. Framed by fading light. Holding something close to her chest.
The sketchbook.
His breath caught. His throat closed. Every muscle in his body tensed as if preparing for a crash—an inevitable, irreversible impact.
His worst fear sat in her hands.
He had never meant for her to find it.
Not because he was ashamed. Not because the drawings weren't meant to be seen. But because those pages were a part of him he never thought she'd witness. A private vault of every memory, every echo, every heartbeat he'd hidden since the day she vanished.
And now, she had opened it.
He sat frozen in his wheelchair, unable to speak.
His mind spiralled into chaos.
She knew. She finally knew.
She might be angry. She might feel betrayed.
What if she thought he had lied by omission?
What if she believed he had manipulated their reunion?
What if she saw him now—not as Ren, the quiet systems lead helping with her investigation—but as a boy who had clung to an old story, too pathetic to let go?
His hands trembled slightly.
She hadn't spoken yet. Just stood there, still as stone, expression unreadable, her knuckles white against the edge of the book.
Ren's memories started to cascade, too quickly for him to stop them.
The letter—folded carefully, slid into the edge of her locker with shaking fingers on the last day of school.
The next day—her locker was empty. Clean. Gone. No idea if she had received the letter or not.
And then, the teacher's voice: "Aika has moved away due to family matters. She won't be returning next semester."
That single sentence had changed everything.
He remembered sitting in the back of the classroom, paralyzed. The silence in his ears. The emptiness spreading like ink through his chest.
He had cried that day. Not in front of others. Never where anyone could see. But when he was alone in the computer lab—his sanctuary—he broke down.
Aika was gone.
No goodbye. No explanation.
Just… gone.
And the void she left had become part of him. It echoed through every year, every decision, every hesitation in letting anyone else come close.
And now here she was.
Not just Aika the lawyer. Not just Aika the fierce defender.
But his Aika.
Holding the truth of how he'd carried her, year after year.
He sat still, heart pounding, unable to look her in the eye.
Until she finally moved.
She took a step forward.
The hardwood creaked under her foot.
Ren's breath hitched. His hands gripped the armrest. His eyes flicked to the door—some small, irrational part of him wondering if she would leave again. Disappear again. If that moment would repeat itself.
But then…
She spoke.
Quietly.
Barely above a whisper.
Like something sacred being unearthed.
"You're the boy from school… aren't you?"
The world stopped spinning.
Ren couldn't breathe.
She had said it. She had remembered.
He stared at her, eyes wide, heart thundering so loudly he swore she could hear it.
He opened his mouth. No sound came out.
She walked toward him slowly, the notebook still pressed to her chest like a puzzle piece that had just snapped into place.
"I didn't recognize you at first," she said softly. "You look different. And yet… not."
He swallowed hard, voice cracking when he finally managed, "I didn't… I never thought I'd see you again."
Aika's face softened.
"I thought you were just… someone I used to protect," she said. "A memory. Someone who had moved on with his life while I was still training to fight the world."
She crouched down in front of his wheelchair, close enough to touch him—but didn't.
"I thought you were safe," she whispered. "I thought you didn't need me anymore."
Ren shook his head slowly, eyes glimmering. "I never stopped needing you."
Aika's expression trembled.
"I left without saying goodbye," she said. "I didn't even think to write. I didn't think you'd… remember me."
He gave her a small, bitter smile.
"How could I forget the one person who stood between me and the darkness? The only person who ever saw me… and didn't flinch."
The room grew impossibly quiet.
Only the sound of the wind brushing past the window, and two hearts that had waited seventeen years to beat in sync again.
Aika looked down, lips parting, then slowly raised the sketchbook.
She opened it between them.
Page after page of her. Of moments she hadn't even realized he was watching.
"Every line," she said, "every drawing… you remembered it all?"
"I didn't want to forget," he said, voice low. "Even when it hurt."
Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes—but didn't fall.
She gently placed the notebook on the table beside them.
And for the first time since stepping back into his life, she reached out and placed her hand over his.
Warm. Steady. Real.
"I remember now," she said. "I remember everything."
Seventeen years of silence. One heartbeat of truth.
What now?