[sometimes, the grieving process starts all over again.]
[you think you’re done with it. you think you’re stuck in the finality of acceptance, able to move on, live your life with little regret left in your bones. you think you can live a normal life. and in a perfect world, that would be the truth. all grieving would stop at acceptance, never double back, never repeat itself.]
[but this isn’t a perfect world. if it was, maybe a woman by the name of hanayo nakahara would still be alive.]
[boat in hand, the somber figure tread down towards the beach, gaze trained not on the flame, but on the note nestled into the lantern cradled in his hands.]
“ sorry.
i know you can see me up there.
and i know you don’t like what you see.
i don’t think we’ll meet in heaven. “
[it felt almost final, a declaration of his wrongdoings. acknowledgement of the blood stained into the creases of his palms, the soles of his shoes, the cracks of his withered soul.]
[he let the boat drift off into the bay, calm waters carrying his message across the heavens.]