Winter had come again.

The maple tree in front of Kuro and Yui’s house had long shed its leaves.

Things seemed fine.

Yui went to work in the morning.

Kuro opened the doors of his counseling clinic in the morning.

In the evening, they came back home and discussed work over dinner.

It was not everything.

But it was happiness.

Until one day.

---

One day, when they had lunch, Kuro’s phone rang.

It was the number of the doctor of his mother.

Kuro quickly answered the phone.

"...Hello?"

The voice of the doctor sounded calm.

"Mr. Kurogane... your mother’s condition has got worse."

Kuro’s smile disappeared.

"...I understand."

"We advise you spend as much time as you can with her."

"...Thank you."

Kuro just listened for a few seconds to the silence after the call.

Yui immediately noticed the change in his mood.

"Kuro?"

He looked at her.

"It’s Mom."

"...She is worse."

---

Kuro’s father had died a few years ago.

She had suffered silently and bravely.

Never complained.

Never wanted to burden her son.

Even when she herself fell ill, she always smiled when he came to see her.

"It’s just old age."

"She was collected too many birthdays."

But now...

It was different.

---

That evening, they went to the hospital together.

The room was very quiet.

The afternoon sun penetrated through the curtains.

Kuro’s mother smiled when they came.

"You both came."

"Of course."

She smiled.

"I was expecting you."

---

Yui looked carefully at the medical chart with the attending physician outside of the room.

Everything possible was done.

All options were considered.

As a doctor...

She knew.

Medicine could make miracles.

But medicine could not stop time forever.

When Yui came back to the room, she forced herself to smile gently.

Kuro understood immediately.

There will be no miracle.

---

During the next weeks, Kuro visited her every day.

Sometimes before work.

Sometimes after work.

Sometimes both.

They read books.

They watched old television dramas.

They shared quiet talk on various topics.

On weather.

On gardening.

On childhood memories.

Kuro’s mother rarely spoke about her illness.

But she talked about Kuro’s patients.

"Did you help someone today?"

"I hope so."

She smiled.

"You always liked listening to people."

---

One day, she asked him something unusual.

"Do you remember when you were eight years old?"

Kuro laughed.

"Probably not."

"You came home crying because some boy was being bullied."

"I remember that."

"You could not understand why people ignored him."

She smiled.

"Even then..."

"You could not ignore someone else’s pain."

Kuro lowered his eyes.

"I do not always know how to help."

"You do not have to."

she said.

"Sometimes..."

"Just sitting by somebody’s side is enough."

These words sank into him deep.

---

Day by day, her strength was getting weaker.

Walking became difficult.

Then sitting.

Then talking.

But each time when Kuro entered her room...

She always smiled.

---

One quiet day, she looked at Yui.

"Doctor."

Yui smiled.

"You do not have to call me that."

"I know."

"But today I want to."

She stretched her hand.

Yui gently grabbed her.

"I watched my son growing up into a nice man."

She looked between them.

"And then..."

"I watched him becoming happy."

Tears appeared in Yui’s eyes.

"Kuro spent so many years being worried about everybody else."

His mother smiled.

"But after meeting you..."

"He learned someone would be worried about him too."

Yui could not hold tears any longer.

"I..."

She could not find words.

"Thank you..."

His mother whispered.

"For being good to my son."

"For sitting by his side."

"For giving him a family."

Yui lowered her head.

"I promise..."

"I will always take care of him."

His mother smiled happily.

"I know you will."

That evening, when Yui came outside to talk with the nurses, Kuro stayed at the bed.

His mother looked at him quietly.

"You became the man your father wanted you to become."

Kuro’s throat tightened.

"I still have a lot of things to learn."

"We all do."

She smiled.

"But you grew up being nice."

"And I am proud of you."

Silence reigned in the room.

Comfortable.

Gentle.

The kind of silence which can exist only between a parent and his child.

"Kuro."

"...Yes?"

"Don’t give up living after my death."

His eyes immediately started to fill with tears.

"Mom..."

She raised her trembling hands and gently touched his cheek.

"You spent your whole life helping people to move forward."

"When the time will come..."

"You will do the same."

Even for yourself."

A few days later...

The morning came quietly.

Snow was falling outside the hospital’s window.

Kuro and Yui were sitting together near the bed.

There was no dramatic final speech.

No desperate fight with death.

Just peace.

Kuro was holding mother’s hand.

Yui stood quietly behind Kuro.

His mother’s breath was getting quieter.

She looked at them for the last time.

Her smile appeared.

And then...

She quietly closed her eyes.

The room was absolutely quiet.

Kuro was sitting in the same place, still holding mother’s hand.

Neither him, neither Yui did not say anything.

Some things did not need words.

The funeral was simple.

Friends.

Neighbors.

Former coworkers.

Patients that Kuro’s mother helped in quiet way.

Everyone was telling stories which Kuro had never heard before.

How she was cooking extra meals for the neighbors.

How she remembered everyone’s birthday.

How she never let anybody to go home hungry.

Hearing these stories, Kuro realized something.

Kindness left echoes.

For a long time after the person’s death.

When everybody went home, the house became unusually quiet.

For the first time in many years...

Nobody was waiting for them there.

This silence hurt Kuro more than he expected.

Some evenings he just sat quietly in the living room, holding the old photo of his family.

Yui never tried to interrupt him.

She just sat quietly near him.

Sometimes she held his hand.

Sometimes she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Sometimes she just did not say anything.

She knew that grieving did not need any words.

Sometimes...

Just company was enough.

One night, Kuro finally said something.

"I counsel people through their losses."

He was looking at the photo.

"I thought I understood grief."

Yui gently entwined her fingers with his.

"And now?"

He smiled sadly.

"Now I’ve learned that it is different when it’s your own grief."

She nodded.

"Yes."

None of them pretended that it was not.

Several weeks later, they visited the cemetery together.

The morning sky was clear.

Kuro laid fresh lilies at his parents’ graves.

For a long time, they were standing quietly.

The wind was moving through the trees around them.

Finally, Kuro said something.

"I was thinking that healing means disappearance of the pain."

He was looking at the engraved names.

"But..."

"I think it’s not possible."

Yui came beside him.

"No."

She was looking at flowers.

"Healing does not mean forgetting."

"It does not mean pretending nothing happened."

"It means learning to carry love and loss together."

Kuro nodded slowly.

"I think Mom already knew that."

"She did."

He smiled faintly.

The pain was there.

It probably always will be there.

Kuro realized next to Yui that what the study of psychology had only begun to teach him was that some wounds never heal completely, but rather become a part of us as we continue on in life.

He took hold of Yui’s hand as they turned away from the headstones of their mothers and started to walk away together.

Not because they had stopped mourning, but because as his mother had wished, life still required them to move on.

Perhaps healing is not the absence of sadness, but developing the ability to travel with your sadness.

It had been close to a month since the funeral when Kuro unlocked the front door of the house where he grew up in.

The sound of the lock echoed throughout the silent house.

For the first time in his life...

He was greeted by silence.

No soft voice welcomed him,

"Welcoming you back."

Silence seemed to surround him.

Yui followed silently, carrying the box where they might wish to put the things which they want to keep.

She didn’t say anything.

She just took his hand in her own.

"I’m here with you," she whispered.

Kuro just nodded.

"I know."

---

Dust danced in the afternoon sunlight.

Everything in the house was in exactly the place where his mother had left it.

There were reading glasses beside an unread book.

There was a neatly folded knitted blanket lying on the sofa.

The kitchen calendar was turned to the very month when his mother died.

Time froze inside the house.

Slowly, Kuro walked through each room.

Every step reminded him of something.

It was the door where his father used to measure his height every birthday.

It was the table where the family used to gather for meals before his father died.

It was the little bookshelf where his mother always kept those books which she thought he should read.

He smiled sadly.

"...She never stopped recommending me with the books."

Yui smiled.

"She believed every book had some lesson in it."

"She did."

---

They went inside the kitchen.

Kuro opened one of the cupboards.

Inside there were several neatly labeled jars.

There was one jar that caught his eye.

Kuro’s Favorite Tea.

He stood like a statue.

Gently, Yui opened the jar.

There were some tea leaves which were not yet opened.

His mother knew that he would come someday and she prepared for that.

Without saying anything, Yui started boiling water.

After several minutes, she put two warm cups on the table.

The smell spread throughout the silent kitchen.

Kuro sipped the tea.

His eyes gradually became moist.

"...It tastes exactly the same."

Yui nodded.

"She would have definitely scolded us if we brew it the wrong way."

A little laugh came out from him.

"She definitely would."

---

In the afternoon, they started sorting out their old photographs.

There was a book full of photographs from the time when Kuro was child.

A five-year-old Kuro proudly holding a handmade paper crown.

There was another photograph of his father teaching him to ride a bicycle.

There was one of his mother laughing while flour was covering her face after a failed baking attempt.

Yui couldn’t stop smiling.

"You looked so serious."

"I thought I was."

"You looked adorable."

"I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it."

She laughed silently.

"No, you wouldn’t."

---

When they reached the last pages of the album, they found a folded envelope which fell down from it.

Kuro frowned.

"I’ve never seen this."

His name was written neatly on the front cover.

For Kuro.

His hand was shaking as he was opening it.

Inside there was a single handwritten letter.

Quietly, he started reading.

"My dear Kuro,

If you are reading this letter, then I’ve reached where your father has been waiting for me.

Don’t be sad about our separation. Be thankful about it.

From the moment you meet me, I’ve never wished you to be rich or famous.

All I wished is that you become kind.

You became kinder than what I have ever imagined.

Your father would be proud of the person you have become now.

And I hope that someday, if you have your own kids, you would look at them the same way you look at me.

Live your life completely.

Laugh often.

Forgive yourself when life becomes hard.

And when you miss us... don’t dwell in the past.

Look towards those people who are walking beside you.

Because love doesn’t disappear.

It simply changes its form.

Thank you for being my child.

With all my love,

Mom.»

The entire room fell silent.

Carefully, Kuro folded the letter back in the envelope.

A tear dropped down his cheek.

And another one.

Yui silently hugged him.

She tried to console him in any way but didn’t stop his tears.

For several minutes, all the sound that they could hear in the house was the sound of crying.

Finally, Kuro whispered,

"...I thought I had cried everything."

Yui gently shook her head.

"Love never works according to the schedule."

He rested his forehead on hers.

"I miss them."

"I know."

"I always will."

"I know."

---

When the sun was setting, they packed the last box in the car.

Before locking the front door, Kuro turned back.

The house looked empty.

Yet somehow...

It didn’t feel like being lonely anymore.

Their laughter lived inside the walls of the house.

Their kindness was preserved in their memories.

Kuro smiled tenderly.

"Thank you."

He didn’t know to whom he was talking to...

To the house...

Or to the two people who made the house home.

Quietly, he locked the door.

Then he took Yui’s hand.

Together, they walked towards the future.

They carried memories which will never fade.

And they carried the love which no loss can take away from them.