The door snapped shut between Haru and his sister with a deadly snap, sealing off her final backward glance.
He never saw her again.
Haru now bore the full weight of his father's ever-present rage on his own tiny shoulders. His mother and sister's departure seemed to have wounded his pride and he took that out on Haru.
All he could think was at least it's not her.
He would have killed her already, for suggesting the divorce. I had to be the one to stay.
He would have killed her already.
He would parrot this mantra every time he saw the signs of an incoming rage, every time his knees were shaking so badly he could hardly climb the steps into their apartment: at least it isn't her.
Haru would dream of getting out and being with his mother and sister, he could imagine the happy days around the dinner table, laughing and playing. He would be so happy.
He continued to write letters to her, clinging onto the desperate fantasy of being together with them.
Haru clung so desperately to it that he clutched his final letter to her in his hands while the fear choked out the increasingly thin air.
His final bleary thought was the hope that, beyond all reason, he would somehow get to see her face again.
But the last thing he saw was darkness.