Some endings don't echo. They fall into the world softly,
leaving nothing behind but stillness and the name that
won't return. They're winters that change us,
winters that shape the years that follow, and winters we
never learned to speak about because the person who held our
words is gone. Grief doesn't arrive with
warning. It comes in a call you weren't
expecting, a message you read twice, a moment where your
breast doesn't feel like yours. And when the world grows quiet
again, you find yourself returning to the place Haroud
once stood, to the memories Haroud left behind, to the
silence that remained after him. This is winter's last melody.
Chapter 4. The silence that remained.
Snow had begun to fall before dawn, softening the edge of the
harbour town long before anyone woke.
By the time Wren unlocked the door, the wooden chime up, up
the door rang quietly as he stepped inside.
The workshop was small, but it held everything Wren needed.
A heater in the corner, humped to life the moment he switched
it on. A single work table dominated
the centre of the room, worn smooth from years of use.
He took off his clubs, placed them beside the heater and set
water to boil on the small electric kettle he kept near the
tools. People came to him for different
reasons and heirloom that no longer played.
A music box passed down from our grandmother.
A gift someone wanted restored before our wedding anniversary.
Ren never rushed. He treated each piece like a
small memory. He liked that about the job.
It asked for patience, attention, steady hands.
It didn't ask for explanations. By mid morning, worms had seeped
into the room, fogging the lower corner of the window.
Ren sat at the work table with magnifying visor pushed over his
eyes, adjusting the positioning of a tiny spring.
He held the part between tweezers, rotating it gently
under the lamp. It was a delicate work, but he
preferred that delicate things made sense.
They told you what they needed if you listened.
The cattle clicked off behind him.
Ren set down the Twizzers and poured himself a cup of tea,
steam curling upward and thin, quiet ribbons.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the worm seep into his
fingers. There were days he wondered how
he had ended up here, in a small workshop on a side street of
Otaro, living a life so different from the 1 he once
imagined. He had chosen this life piece by
piece, quietly, deliberately, far from the noise of views, far
from the expectation of BA, far from memories that once shaped
him. His workshop was small, but it
was enough. The afternoon light shifted
slowly across the workshop floor, dimming from pale silver
to a muted winter grey. Ren was still seated at his work
table, the tools neatly arranged, his phone bust on the
counter. He didn't expect anyone,
especially not at this hour. Wren glanced at the screen.
Father. He picked it up immediately.
His father's voice came through calm, steady, the tone of some
assuring use not delivering a shock.
Wren, you still at the shop? Wren waited, expecting something
ordinary, but his father continued in the same even tone.
You remember the cow about a family?
Wren's fingers stilled around the edge of the table.
Yeah, he answered quietly. I remember they called us this
afternoon. His father said.
Their son passed away last night.
Wren didn't move. His father repeated gently,
unaware of the stillness foaming on the other end.
Their youngest son passed sometimes overnight.
Haru. His father paused, surprised
Wren had connected the name so quickly.
Yes, Haru, It's unfortunate. His father continued.
With the storm coming in, your mother and I don't think we can
make it tomorrow. Roads might close.
Could you attend the service on our behalf?
Ren swallowed. Yeah, I can't go.
Good. Dress warm and call us after
all, right? A few more ordinary words were
exchanged before the call ended. Ren set the phone down on the
work table. His hand didn't lift away.
The workshop, usually warm and humming gently with purpose,
felt suddenly hollow, as if the air had thinned, as if sound
itself had pulled away from him. Haru gone.
The heater clicked once, then fell back into its soft Tom.
Ren remained seated, the phone still beside his hand.
Though the call had ended minutes ago, he didn't move.
The workshop had never felt this quiet.
The silence was different, depressed against him.
He lowered his gaze to the table, the tools, the tiny brass
screws, the soft claws he meant to fold.
Ren inhaled once. His chest tightened before he
could stop it. Haru.
He hadn't heard that name spoken aloud in years.
He never needed to. It lived somewhere quieter than
memory. He shut his eyes and the years
fell away in a single sharp slide to a courtyard dusted in
snow, to Harrows small, startled smile, to the Sound of Music box
playing slightly off key, to the warmth Rand had held too
carefully and lost too easily. His throat tightened.
He wasn't crying, not yet, but the grief sat behind his ribs, a
cold, aching weight that felt like something old finally
cracking open. He pressed the hand over his
mouth. Red blinked heart, once, twice.
A tear slipped before he could stop it.
He brushed it away quickly. Another tear followed where
bowed his head, shoulders folding inward, finally, to the
name that had lived inside him long after he tried to move on.
Snow tapped softly against the window.
The storm thickened, and in the silent workshop where Red had
built his quiet life, a single name echoed back to him.
A name he hadn't spoken aloud in years.
Haru. The studio was warm, was
afternoon light, the kind that slipped through high windows and
softened every surface it touched.
Sewing machines buzzed and uneven rhythm across the room,
needles rising and falling like a soft mechanical heartbeat.
Isuki sat at his station near the back, shoulders relaxed, 1/2
finished charcoal wool coat draped across his knees, a clean
silhouette, careful stitching. He ran his thumb across the
seam, checking the tension. He liked the steadiness of it,
the quiet focus, the small decision only his hands
understood, the feeling of the fabric warming under his touch.
He wasn't a full designer yet, still an assistant, but he had
carved out a small, unofficial corner of the studio where he
could create things that felt like his own.
On the wreck beside him hung a few coats he never sent, pieces
he had made over the years while thinking of Haru.
The ones he had shipped up north over the years were gone, always
to the same mattress, always signed for, never replied to.
For Itsuki, that had been enough, knowing how we received
them, even if nothing was sent back.
He reached for a new spool of thread, lifted it to the light,
checking the colour. Everything was normal, routine,
predictable. Just an ordinary winter day in
Tokyo. The whole way outside the sewing
studio was narrow and bright, lined with pin sketches and
frame magazine's covers. Isuki stepped out only far
enough to escape the hum of sewing machine, brushing a loose
thread from his apron. His phone bust, once an unknown
Hokkaido number, lit up the screen.
Isuki frowned slightly. He didn't recognize it.
He answered politely. This is Isuki.
A brief pause followed, not the uncertain silence of a scam
call, but the composed stillness of someone organizing difficult
words. A man's voice came through,
steady and formal. Hello, is this Mori Isuki son?
Yes. Isuki replied slowly.
Who is this? Another quiet breath on the
other end, measured heavy. My name is Kawabat Ayuto, I'm
calling from Hokkaido. The surname notched something
faint in Itsuki's memory, but he didn't place it immediately, not
until Yuto continued. I'm Haru's older brother.
Isuki froze. Yuto's voice remained calm, not
cold. I'm very sorry to contact you
like this. I found your number among Haru's
old belongings. Isuki's hand tightened around
the phone. Belongings.
He already understood, but Yuto still had to say it.
Haru passed away last night. The hallway went silent.
Isuki didn't breathe, didn't move, didn't speak.
I'm sorry. He whispered without thinking.
What? Yuto's voice softened but stayed
steady. Our family is holding a small
funeral tomorrow in Altara. I don't know how well you knew
him, but I felt you should be informed.
Isuki let out a small, fractured breath, barely audible.
Thank you for calling. The cold ended quietly.
Isuki lowered the phone slowly, fingers trembling once before he
forced them still. The hallway was unchanged.
The sketches, the laughter faintly from the studio, the
winter light he pushed off the wall.
He would never return to the same way again.
Isuki stepped back into the studio without fully seeing it.
The warm light, scattered fabrics, the soft chatter, they
blurred into a single distant wash off sound.
Someone called his name once, lightly, but he didn't turn.
He moved straight to his workstation.
The urgency in his movement was unusual enough that one of them
stood a little. Isuki San, is something wrong?
He shook his head once too quickly.
Family emergency. He said, bowing apologetically.
I'm so sorry, I need to take a few days.
Alcohol. He didn't wait for permission,
didn't need it. They could see something had
cracked open behind his eyes. He slung his back over his
shoulder, nearly forgetting the threats still looped around his
wrist, pulling it free as he walked toward the elevator.
The doors closed around him. He couldn't fall apart here.
He wouldn't. He stepped out into the cold
Tokyo air and started running. He didn't remember the street he
crossed, only the rush of winter wind against his cheeks and the
doll thought of his boots on pavement.
He reached his apartment faster than he should have, fumbling
slightly with the keys before stepping inside.
Everything felt too quiet. He sat his back down, excelled
shakily. Then he began to move a small
overnight duffel bag from the closet.
He didn't pack thoughtfully, just grab what he needed with
the instinct of someone preparing for something they
didn't want to face. He pulled open the drawer of his
small cabinet and froze. Inside was the rap bundle he
never touched except to dust the shelf.
The old music box he hadn't given away his hand over before
lifting it. He held it carefully, thumb
brushing the worn edge of the cloth.
The weight of it felt different today, heavier somehow, like he
knew why it was being held. He placed it gently into his
back. He looked down at himself.
He wasn't wearing black. He let out a small disbelieving
Excel sweater off, jacket switched hair pushed back with
both hands, smoothing it down more forcefully than needed.
He paused in front of the bathroom mirror.
His reflection looked too calm for what he felt, but his eyes,
his eyes told the truth. He zipped his bag, turned off
the lights, opened the door, then stood there in the doorway,
hand on the knob, pressed, suspended, not prepared, just
going. He locked the door quietly
behind him and stepped back into the cold Tokyo hallway, the air
already feeling different. He headed for the airport.
Otado was waiting, and Haru was gone.
The snowfall had thickened by the time Ren reached the temple
grounds in Otaru. The air was sharp with incense
and winter grief. Inside, the funeral hall was dim
and still. Ren bowed at the entrance, then
moved quietly along the right aisle.
Haru's photograph, framed simply, lit softly from within,
rested at the centre of the altar.
Ren felt something inside him tighten, then drop.
He joined the line of mourners, palms pressed together, breast
steady, eyes lowered. When it was his turn, he placed
the white flower gently before the incense, bowed deeply.
Ren kept his gaze on the floor. Only when the priest began
chanting did he allow himself to lift his eyes again, taking in
the room through a soft distimbler.
Haru's family stood near the front, shoulders held firmly,
hands folded, faces composed in a way people who had lived
through northern winters know how to be composed.
Wren had helped families through loss before.
He had watched neighbors and childhood friends say their last
goodbyes. He understood how grief spread
through a small town. Quietly, collectively, with the
weight dispersed across many hands, He offered what he could.
When he saw the incense thinning, he rose to help
replenish it. When Harrow's mother swayed
slightly while greeting a visitor, he stepped forward with
a discreet glass of warm tea. He didn't say much, his presence
was enough. Ren noticed movement near the
entrance. A young man had slipped inside
late, dark coat dusted with snow, breasts unsteady, posture
tight. He took a hesitant step forward,
bowing deeply toward the altar before finding a place near the
sidewall. Something about the way the
stranger's fingers gripped the strap of his back, the way he
didn't look up, didn't breathe. Foley.
The way he moved like someone holding the world together by
threads. Wren felt it.
This man knew Harrow. He didn't know how, but he knew.
When the chanting resumed for the closing rites, Wren found
his gaze drifting toward the stranger again, a quiet
awareness forming between two people who had never met someone
else, had lost him, too. The wind hit Izuki first, sharp,
stinging full of frozen needles that clung to his coat the
moment he'd stepped out of the taxi.
The temple grounds were quiet except for the storm.
Snow swirled low across the stones, muffling every sound
under a thick white hush. Issuki bowed once at the
entrance before slipping inside. Warms met him immediately.
He stopped a few steps in, letting his breath steady as the
door slit shut behind him. His eyes lifted slowly.
Haru's photograph rested at the centre of the altar he took.
His chest tightened once. He bowed deeply, holding the
pose a bit longer than necessary.
His movement was controlled, deliberate, respectful.
The kind of grace he had trained into himself after years of
holding things in. When he placed the white flower
before the incense, his fingertips trembled barely.
Just the smallest shift. The kind only he felt.
He straightened, bowed again, and stepped back.
Someone offered him a seat near the side wall.
He accepted with a quiet nod. From where he sat, he could see
the entire room. The altar glow, the flicker of
candles. Haru family, standing with a
straight backs and tired eyes. Isuki folded his hand in his
lap. He didn't blink often.
He didn't trust himself to. The chanting began.
Low, rhythmic, familiar in a way he hadn't heard in years.
A shape moved on the opposite side of the hall.
A man, dark coat, quiet presence, head bowed.
Isuki recognized nothing about him, but something in the man's
posture resonated. Not the same grief as his, but a
grief that belonged to Haruttu. Isuki's gaze drifted back to the
altar. He did not cry.
He wouldn't. Not here, not in front of
strangers, not when his hands felt like they were made of
glass. The service continued.
Prayers, incense, soft footsteps.
Isuki stood. Only when everyone else did.
He bowed toward the family. They thanked him politely.
He stepped aside to pull out his phone, intending to check the
time. A notification blinked on the
screen. Flight cancelled due to the
severe weather. The words didn't sink in at
first. Then his breast shuddered.
Silently, he turned toward the exit.
Snow slanting sideways outside, wind shaking the bare branches.
Panic flickered. Not loud, just deep.
He looked around for someone local, someone who might know.
His eyes landed on the men from earlier.
Isuki stepped closer, clearing his throat softly.
Excuse me? He said, voice low, steady
despite the cold clouding around his ribs.
Do you know if the trains are suspended too?
The man looked at him, and in that small second of shared
winter silence, something unspoken passed between them.
Around them, people murmured updates.
Roads closing, visibility dropping, taxi stopping service.
The storm had swallowed Otaru home.
Haru's father called out over the wind, offering calm
hospitality through his grief. Several mourners bowed
gratefully. Others hesitated, not wanting to
impose. Hisuki didn't move.
His jaw worked once, a tiny motion.
Like he was holding everything steady by force.
Ren stepped closer, keeping his tone gentle, not intrusive.
My workshop is 10 minutes from here.
He sat softly. It's warm.
There's a sofa, blankets. It'll get you through the night.
Isuki breast caught. You sure his voice wasn't
steady. Ren nodded once.
Yes. The temple bell hummed, a single
low note stretching into the cold, and together, without
speaking further, they stepped into the winter night.
The storm shoved against the street of Otaru as they reached
the workshop, a narrow building glowing softly through layers of
snow. Ran unlocked the door, and the
worms inside greeted them in a slow exile.
He switched on another lamp. You can put your things
anywhere. He said gently.
Isuki nodded once. The workshop felt nothing like
home, but it was warm, grounded, alive with the quiet hum of
someone's crafts removed to the small kitchenette setting. 2
sermon cops on the counter. How warm the sake, he said.
I'll take a bit. Izuki murmured the soft thank
you then wondered. Ren lit the small tabletop
burner and poured sake into a tiny metal to goody to heat.
The soft crackle of the flame filled the room.
Isuki's attention drifted to the shelves lining the workshop.
Dozens of music boxes, all shapes, all woods, all quietly
waiting. He stepped closer.
His fingers hovered over one made of dark walnut, delicate
flowers carved into its lid. He didn't open it, just looked.
A craft man's touch. Wren glanced over while handling
the sake, but didn't interrupt. Yizuki finally reached for a
small one, crafted a Maple, simple in design.
He turned the crack slowly. The Tokuti clicked softly
against the burner, then poured the warm sake into two small
cups and walked toward him with one.
Yizuki accepted it with both hands, bowing lightly.
They sat, ran on the sofa edge, Yizuki near the low table where
the music box rested between them.
The storm outside stretched against the windows, wind
howling like something hollow and tired.
Isuki took the first sip. Warm spread slowly through his
hands, then his chest. Then Isuki's control cracked.
Not loudly, not messily. Just a trembling inhale that
broke apart halfway through. A hand pressed against his
mouth, shoulders quivering in small restraint shutters.
Ren looked away to give him privacy, jaw tightening, his own
eyes burning. Outside, the wind rolled inside
the socket, cooled and untouched cops as two men set with the
winter Harrow left behind, not speaking, not touching, just
existing through the ache until the night softened enough for
them to breathe again. Some silence don't arrive
suddenly. They grow in the space we avoid
in the years we drift, in the things we never say until it's
too late. A life leaps, echoes behind
footsteps in the snow, warms on a cop.
A name spoken only in memory. This was winter's last melody.
Chapter 4. The silence that remained.
Thank you for walking with us. If you'd like to continue the
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so the next Charter reaches you when you're ready.