The cool wind swept across the desolate hills, rustling the long grass and sending shivers through the trees. The sky, tinged with the soft blush of twilight, hung low above the cemetery, as if the heavens themselves mourned for the fallen. Mashura stood at the entrance of the graveyard, his breath shallow, his chest tight.
A year had passed since that fateful day—the day Yakumo had been taken from them. The day everything changed. And yet, here he was, staring at the gates, his heart pounding, his feet heavy as though the weight of the past year clung to him like a shroud.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Binka's voice cut through the silence. Her tone was soft, but there was no mistaking the concern in her words. Standing a few paces behind him, Binka's gaze was fixed on Mashura's back, her hands loosely clasped in front of her. The young girl, always so composed, was now a silent support for him, her presence the only comfort he could lean on in a time like this.
Mashura didn't turn around. Instead, he stepped forward, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, remained locked on the path that led toward the hill at the center of the cemetery—the hill where Yakumo now lay.
"I have to," Mashura murmured. His voice was low, a whisper against the wind. "It's been over a year… I've never… never been able to say goodbye. I've carried this pain inside me for too long, Binka. It's time."
Binka sighed, taking a few careful steps forward to stand beside him. "I get it. You don't have to do this alone."
Mashura glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though it was sad, fragile. "I know… I just… don't know if I can do it."
The memory of that day—the day Yakumo fell—flooded him once more. He could still see her smiling, her vibrant energy lighting up the room. She had always been so full of life. She had been his anchor, his heart's calm in the storm. But now…
He shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. He couldn't let the grief consume him, not today.
They walked in silence, the soft crunch of their footsteps on the gravel the only sound accompanying them. The wind whispered its mournful song through the trees, a sound that almost seemed to mirror Mashura's soul. And as they reached the crest of the hill, Mashura stopped in his tracks.
Before him stood a simple stone marker, weathered with age, but still sturdy—etched with Yakumo's name. He had never been one to believe in grand gestures or lavish monuments, but this… this felt like an insult. A meager tribute to a person who had meant so much to him. To everyone.
"I'm sorry, Yakumo," Mashura whispered, stepping forward, his knees trembling. He knelt beside the grave, his hand reaching out to touch the cool stone. His fingers brushed against the engraved letters, the name that haunted him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind, the world outside seeming to pause, as though holding its breath.
Binka stood a little further back, giving him space, her arms crossed as she watched him with quiet understanding. She had never known what it was like to love someone so deeply, but she could see the torment Mashura had carried. She knew, more than anyone, how much this moment meant to him.
Mashura's breath caught as he fought the surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak, to say the words he had rehearsed a thousand times but never found the strength to voice.
"I never got to tell you how much you meant to me," he said, his voice cracking. "I couldn't save you, Yakumo. I couldn't… I couldn't protect you the way I promised. I failed."
The guilt hit him again, stronger than before. The failure was a weight he couldn't escape. He had promised her so many things—he had sworn to never let her face danger alone, but now she was gone, and all that remained were his hollow promises.
Binka's soft voice broke the moment of silence. "You didn't fail her, Mashura. No one could have saved her from what happened. It wasn't your fault."
Mashura shook his head, standing up slowly, his hands clenched into fists. "I should have done more. I should have been stronger, faster. Maybe—maybe I could have—"
"No, Mashura." Binka stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Yakumo wouldn't want you to do this to yourself. She loved you. She would want you to remember the good times, not blame yourself."
He let out a shaky breath, turning his face toward the horizon. "It's just… so hard, Binka. Every day without her… It feels like there's a piece of me missing."
Binka didn't respond at first. She simply stood beside him, letting the quiet stretch on. She knew this wasn't something he could fix in a moment. But she also knew that this was the first step—the first time he had allowed himself to truly confront his grief, to face what had happened.
"I can't stay here long," Mashura said after a while, his voice steadying. "But I want to believe that she's at peace. That she's happy wherever she is."
Binka nodded, giving him the space to take one final look at Yakumo's grave. The winds began to pick up again, the rustling of leaves surrounding them as if the earth itself were speaking its own form of solace.
Mashura closed his eyes for a moment, his heart heavy, but lighter than it had been before. When he opened them again, he let out a deep breath and turned away from the grave.
"I'll never forget you, Yakumo," he whispered, his voice steady now, the pain in his chest more manageable. "I will live for both of us. I promise."
Binka smiled softly, walking beside him as they began their descent from the hill, heading back toward the gate.
For the first time in a long time, Mashura felt like he could breathe again. The weight hadn't disappeared, but it had lessened. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to move forward.
As the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the cemetery in a blanket of darkened hues, Mashura knew that Yakumo's memory would always be with him, guiding him through the darkness.
And no matter how many years passed, he would continue to honor her—one step at a time.