"Her name was Fuyuki," Rinchei told her one day. "She was the grandma that lived next to our apartment. Her daughter worked till late, so I visited her often. She was the one who taught me to draw."
"She sounded lovely," Juri said, watching as his eyes took on a nostalgic gaze. Even his ever-diligent hand paused from writing for awhile.
"She was," he eventually responded, an unwritten sigh hidden between the lines. "She couldn't understand me, but she'd always ask me to sing for her."
He chuckled, undoubtedly replaying those memories in his mind. Juri didn't interrupt him.
"When she died, a part of me went with her. Her daughter moved away not long after, so all that's left of her is the picture I still keep in my room," he finished.
They sat in silence after that. Juri thumbed the words on the drawing book, wondering if she too one day could say aloud the resonating feelings caged in her chest.
"When did she die?" she found herself asking.
[Last year] Rinchei signed.
And with that, she knew there was no way she could, weak as she was.
The reflection on the mirror taunted her.
Juri had woken up in the middle of the night, unable to fight away the nightmare haunting her dreams. His voice was calling out to her, demanding why she deemed his killer worthy of forgiveness. (Impmon wasn't a murderer. Beelezebumon was!) She had no answer.
Washing her face, she turned away from the mirror and left the bathroom.
She spent the night watching shows that were still on TV, not for the first time missing the strong yet gentle arms that used to envelope her and chase the darkness of her life away. She fell asleep dreaming of a warm embrace.