The school bus rumbled off into the distance as Lily stepped onto the sidewalk. Her legs ached — a deep, pulsing soreness that ran from her knees up through her lower back. But she welcomed it.
She earned it.
One year ago, she couldn't take a step. Now, she walked home on her own.
The neighborhood was quiet, painted in soft amber light. The bakery on the corner still gave off the scent of fresh melon bread, just like it used to. She passed it slowly, her hand brushing the fabric of her skirt, fingers twitching at the phantom sensation of another life — one spent watching the world go by from the passenger seat.
You used to sit here with her, a voice in her heart said.
It was her voice now. Always hers.
But once, it belonged to someone else.
Someone who wasn't supposed to walk these streets in this body.
Someone the world didn't remember anymore.
Lily.
The door clicked shut behind her as she stepped inside the house. Warm, familiar quiet wrapped around her shoulders like a blanket.
"I'm home," she said softly.
There was no one to answer anymore, but she still said it. Every day.
She placed her shoes neatly by the door and changed into her slippers. The house hadn't changed — same faded tatami, same picture on the wall. She paused in front of it, heart catching in her chest.
Two children. One in a wheelchair, flashing a peace sign with a wide grin. The other standing behind her, awkward, a little camera shy.
The boy didn't exist anymore. Not in records. Not in photos. Not in memory.
But when Lily looked at the picture… she still saw him.
Still felt him.
I was proud of that moment, she thought. Not because I looked cool. I didn't. But because she smiled like nothing could ever hurt her.
The ache in her chest tightened. Not the same kind of pain that came from walking all day. This one lived deeper — under the ribs, behind the lungs.
Dinner was simple. Miso soup. Rice. Leftover greens.
She cooked slowly, methodically. The body she lived in still felt fragile some days, but she moved with a steadiness that felt earned.
She sat at the kitchen table and opened a small spiral notebook tucked into the drawer. The pages were filled with dreams, drawings, unfinished poems. Her sister's handwriting — uneven, light, stubborn.
One page had a half-finished sentence:
"I wonder if the sky looks different when you're standing under it…"
Lily swallowed hard.
"I think it does," she whispered, looking out the window at the early stars.
She closed the notebook and placed it back gently.
After eating, she sat on the balcony. A breeze tugged at her sleeves. Wind chimes down the street rang gently in the dusk.
Her thoughts drifted.
To the person she used to be.
To the sister who gave up everything so he could live.
To the strange way the world kept turning, as if Ethan Nakamura had never existed. Not in yearbooks. Not in phone contacts. Not even in Uncle Masaru's memory.
And yet… he lived.
Here.
In her hands. In her walk. In her voice when she laughed without thinking.
"I remember you," she whispered into the night, voice soft. "Even if no one else can."
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Mira:
"I still don't get it. But I'm not going anywhere. Sleep well, Lily."
She smiled — really smiled — and hugged her knees to her chest.
The stars shimmered overhead.
The wind moved the leaves gently.
And in the hush between moments, Lily sat there — no longer just the sister who couldn't walk. Not quite the brother the world forgot. But someone in between.
Someone healing.
Someone whole.