"Eventually, everything will disappear.
But some things — a look, a touch, a goodbye — remain like a burn mark you can't rub off."
— Banana Yoshimoto

A week passed.
And he didn't come back.

I sat on the stone bench, same as always.
Hands on my lap. Eyes set in the distance —
as if if I looked long enough,
he would appear again at the end of the corridor,
holding an umbrella,
his long coat fluttering gently in the wind.

But no.

Only petals fell.
One by one.
Even without wind.

—

Everyone at the hospital said I looked better.

Healthier.
More colour in my face.
My heartbeat steadier.
I could sit up longer. Eat more.

No one knew...
that it was the last time he asked for me to stay.

Just once.
In exchange for everything.

—

I started asking the nurses about Room 3-07 —
the room where he once said his "family" was being treated.

One of the nurses checked the records, then shook her head.

"There's no patient under that name, dear. That room's been empty."

I nodded. Thanked her. Asked nothing more.
Because I knew if I kept digging...
I wouldn't be able to stop.

I was looking for someone who didn't belong to this world.
I was longing for someone...
who maybe never truly existed.

—

That afternoon, I drew another cat on the glass.

Wind slipped through the window crack,
lifting the paper where my IV schedule was written.

I stared at the cat I'd just drawn.
It looked a bit off.
Maybe my hand had trembled.
Or maybe...
I had forgotten how to draw it right,
because it had been so long since I needed to check if I was still alive.

—

That night, I dreamed.

In the dream, I sat alone on the bench.
No one beside me.
No book.
No flan.

Just a cherry blossom tree in front of me —
both bare and blooming.

One last flower was left on the branch.

And as I reached out —
it fell.

Not waiting for wind.
Not waiting to be picked.
Not waiting for anyone to notice.

It just... fell.

—

The next morning, I woke up with my chest clenched tight.

And... he was there.

No warning.
No footsteps.
No knock.

Just... there.

Standing in the corner of my room.
Not in human clothes.
No umbrella.
No books.
No smile.

Just him —
Death, exactly as I saw him for the first time when I was seven.

Black cloak.
No face.

I sat up, throat dry.

"You're here... to take me?"

He didn't answer.
Just stepped forward.

His hand reached out —
not touching, just... offered to me.

I looked at that hand.

The same one that once picked a cherry blossom from my hair.
The same one that held a spoonful of flan.
The same one that held an umbrella over me in the rain.

Now the same hand that would take me
past the point no one comes back from.

I looked at him.

No fear.
No tears.

Just one question:

"Do I only have one day left?"

He nodded. Soft as breath.

"One day.
That's all I could keep for you."

I smiled.

"Then... let's not waste it."