But there was one last thing Hikaru had left for her: a small, silver pendant drive, carefully placed into her hands by his parents. The pendant was simple, almost unnoticeable, its smooth surface gleaming faintly in the light. Hikaru's mother looked at Miyuki with a soft, almost knowing smile, as if she understood the weight of the moment. "He said, if a girl ever came looking for him after his death, you should have this," she said gently, her voice laced with both sadness and understanding.
Miyuki held the pendant in her hand, her fingers trembling as she stared at the small, inconspicuous object. It felt heavier than it appeared, as though it contained a world of memories and emotions she could not yet comprehend. It was as if Hikaru had anticipated that she would come searching for answers, that she would need something to remember him by, even after he was gone.
Later, alone in her room, Miyuki plugged the pendant into her computer, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and dread. The screen flickered for a moment, and then it came alive with a cascade of files—photos, notes, and recordings, each one carefully organized as though Hikaru had meticulously planned for this day. Her breath caught in her throat as she scrolled through the files, each one a piece of him, preserved for her, hidden in plain sight all this time.
The first file she opened was a collection of photos—snapshots of moments she had long forgotten, images of places they had visited, events they had shared. There were photos from the café where they had first met, from the park bench where they had sat together in silence, from the small, quiet moments that had defined their time together. In each image, Hikaru was there, smiling, laughing, always present in a way she hadn't fully realized until now. It was as if, in every one of those photos, he had captured a part of his love for her—silent, patient, but always there.
As she moved through the files, she discovered more—notes he had written, some in text, some in his own handwriting. Some were short, simple thoughts, others more profound, written in the stillness of the night when he had no one to share them with. There were notes about their shared experiences, about the things he had loved, and about the feelings he had never voiced aloud. She found herself lost in his words, in his careful observations of the world around them, and in the way he had silently included her in his life, even when she hadn't been aware of it.
Then, among the files, she found the audio recordings. Hesitant but eager, Miyuki clicked on one. Hikaru's voice filled the room, soft and familiar, as though he were standing right beside her. "Miyuki," he began, and just hearing his voice made her heart ache. "I know this may seem strange, but I wanted to leave something for you. Something that might make it easier to understand how I feel. I've never been good at saying things out loud, but I hope this helps." His voice was steady, yet she could hear the faint trace of emotion underlying his words, a vulnerability he had never shown her in life.
As she listened to his recordings, his voice recounting moments they had shared, his hopes for the future, and his quiet, unspoken love for her, Miyuki felt as if Hikaru were right there beside her. The distance that had always existed between them seemed to disappear as his voice reached out to her from beyond the grave. The words he had never been able to say in person—his feelings, his dreams—were now unfolding before her, a bridge between the past and the present.
In the recordings, he spoke of the quiet moments they had shared, of how he had always wished to say more, but never had the courage. "I never told you," he said in one of the recordings, "but I wanted to. I wanted to tell you how much you meant to me, how every time I saw you, my heart would race. But I didn't want to scare you, so I kept it all inside. I never wanted to make things complicated, but now… now I just hope you'll know how much I loved you."
Miyuki sat in silence, the weight of his words settling over her like a blanket of sorrow and tenderness. She could hear the longing in his voice, the quiet hope that had never been fully realized, but had always existed in the spaces between them. It was as if he had known, even then, that one day she would come looking for him, and he had left these pieces of himself for her to find. Each message, each recording, was a piece of the puzzle he had left behind, a final act of love that transcended time and space.
With each recording, she felt closer to him, as if, through his words, he was guiding her through the grief, offering her comfort in a way he never had in life. The voice that had once been so distant, so reserved, now felt as if it was right there beside her, speaking to her, sharing with her the love he had kept hidden for so long.
As the last recording ended, Miyuki sat in the quiet, the pendant still plugged into her computer. She felt an overwhelming sense of peace, mixed with an aching sorrow. Hikaru had left her more than just memories—he had left her a final gift, a glimpse into his heart, a way to carry him with her even after his death. And though it was too late for them to be together in the way he had hoped, his love for her was still present, still alive, in every word, every image, every recording. It was a love that would remain, forever imprinted on her heart.