The rain fell in steady sheets, cold and relentless. The sky was a dull gray, as if the heavens themselves mourned with them. A field of freshly dug graves stretched before the gathered survivors, wooden markers standing in silent remembrance of those who had fallen. The scent of damp earth mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingered from battles past.
Haruto stood motionless, his fists clenched at his sides. The weight of grief settled heavily in his chest, an unbearable pressure that threatened to crush him. He barely felt the rain soaking through his clothes, the chill biting into his skin. His gaze was fixed on one grave in particular—the one that bore Shina's name.
Sakura stood beside him, silent. Her usual sharpness was absent, replaced by something softer. Regret? Guilt? Haruto couldn't tell. He only knew that she hadn't said a word since they left the battlefield.
Namra was the first to break the silence. Her voice was hoarse, raw. "They didn't deserve this."
No one responded. The wind howled, carrying her words into the void.
Jin, ever the strong one, let out a long sigh. "We've lost too many. Every time we fight, we think it'll be different. That we'll finally gain the upper hand." His fingers curled around the hilt of his katana. "But in the end, the dead just keep piling up."
Haruto's throat tightened. He wanted to speak, to say something—anything—but words failed him. Instead, he stepped forward, kneeling beside Shina's grave. His fingers brushed over the carved letters of her name. His chest ached as memories of her laughter, her kindness, flashed through his mind.
"I should've saved you," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain. "You were still in there… I know you were."
Sakura shifted but didn't speak.
Makami, standing at the edge of the group, kicked at the wet ground, frustration evident in his movements. "We don't have time to mourn," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. "The parasites aren't going to stop just because we're sad."
"But we have to mourn," Namra countered, her tone unwavering. "If we don't, then what's the point? What are we even fighting for?"
The words struck deep. Haruto squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. He had been asking himself the same question over and over.
Ashita, the leader of their group, stepped forward. His presence alone commanded attention. "We honor the dead," he said, his voice steady despite the sorrow woven into it. "Because they gave everything so that we could live. But Namra is right—we have to keep moving. We don't have the luxury of stopping."
Silence fell over them once more.
Then, one by one, they stepped forward, each leaving behind something small—tokens of remembrance. A bullet casing. A torn piece of fabric. A single flower, already wilting in the rain.
Haruto reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, silver necklace Shina used to wear. He had found it near her body after the fight, broken but still intact. With trembling hands, he placed it on the grave.
"I won't forget," he whispered. "I promise."
The rain continued to fall, as if sealing his vow.