With the sound of rain ringing in his ears, his mind felt completely blank. He couldn't remember much clearly after he parked the car. He must have dragged his feet to the cemetery as usual. He tried to wake his numb brain, but what did it matter? The white chrysanthemums and the paper bag in his hand made their presence known through their weight.

...Oboro Shirakumo.

He muttered softly, laying the flowers before the headstone. The date engraved on the stone caught his eye. The date when you, who were always bright, cheerful, and optimistic, lost your radiance and withered away before your time. It filled him with a bitter resentment—that the date of your blessed birth and the date you finally crumbled were one and the same.

The past is just the past. Venting anger here changes nothing, and shedding tears changes nothing. Even so, the physical effort and time spent to get here were already irrational.

...Because it's your birthday.

He set down the paper bag and took out a paper cup. He pulled out a bottle of orange juice and gave it a shake. If you're so upset about it, you should have died later. I couldn't bring the alcohol you laughed about wanting to try. Because you're still a child. Unlike me, who has grown old, faded, and blurred by the rain, you are still...

How are you doing? I'm... doing okay, I guess...*