The sun peeked over the horizon, thin beams of early light pushing through the curtains of the MC's bedroom. He stirred at the soft chirping of birds outside, blinking against the brightness. A wave of confusion hit him, followed by a deep ache as he remembered:
Rias was gone—truly gone. No more rebellious festival nights, no more stolen moments in the garden or nervous giggles at dinner. She'd departed with her family days ago, leaving an emptier mansion behind.
He slipped out of bed, padding across the carpet to the small glass bowl on his desk. Inside, Sora the goldfish drifted aimlessly, flicking its silver tail in gentle arcs. A tiny piece of the Underworld girl's memory lived on in that bowl, something he clung to with unexpected fervor.
"Morning, buddy," he mumbled, lightly tapping the glass. Sora swam in a half-circle, as if acknowledging him.
He grabbed the little container of fish food, sprinkling a pinch into the water. Watching Sora nibble at the flakes soothed him, but it also hurt—a reminder of who'd left him that small responsibility.
At least I still have you, he thought, swallowing back a lump in his throat.
The hall outside his room bustled with quiet staff activity, though less than when Rias had been around. He could hear faint footsteps, the low murmur of maids discussing breakfast preparations. A hush persisted—the mansion had felt subdued since the Gremory family's car pulled away, leaving a swirl of dust in its wake.
Days. It had been days. Yet he still half-expected to see Rias's crimson hair flash around a corner, or to feel her tapping his shoulder, urging him to explore a hidden nook of the estate. He exhaled, heart heavy. Stop it. Dwelling on her absence wouldn't bring her back.
By the time he stepped into the dining hall for breakfast, his parents were already seated. The table was still far too long for just the three of them, its expanse a constant reminder that they once hosted "important guests." He slid into a chair, eyes down.
"You slept well?" his mother asked gently, offering him a plate of toast and jam.
He shrugged. "I guess."
The meal was quiet. No polite morning banter from Lady Gremory, no stiff formalities from Lord Gremory, no watchful attendant reading the paper in the corner. The emptiness seemed to echo off the high ceilings.
After breakfast, his father asked him to help sort through a stack of papers in the drawing room, near the spot where Rias's father had so often stood, discussing underworld matters. The MC carried the papers carefully, half-fearing each rustle might conjure a memory of Rias's last day.
Setting them on a side table, he glanced around. The massive paintings on the walls—scenes of mountain landscapes and formal portraits—seemed too grand for a space that now felt hollow. He imagined Rias standing by the window, arms folded, wearing one of her dark-themed dresses and sighing about how boring adult conversations were.
A maid paused while passing by, noticing his distant stare. "Master Kazuki," she said softly, "are you feeling all right?"
He forced a smile. "I'm fine, thank you."
She gave him a sympathetic nod before moving on. He realized he'd been standing in the same spot for minutes, lost in recollections of Rias fiddling with a black ribbon, rolling her eyes at her father's formalities, or sharing a playful smirk when they locked gazes across the room.
It was midmorning when he decided to wander the mansion's corridors, seeking any corner that might still carry Rias's presence. A silly hope, perhaps, but he needed closure.
Corridor after corridor lay silent, the floors polished to a mirrored gleam. Occasionally, a staff member would greet him with a polite nod, but he tried to slip away unbothered.
He found himself in the guest wing where the Gremory family had stayed. The large double doors to Rias's old room were now propped open, the interior stripped of personal belongings except for a few leftover items—an empty vase on the dresser, a faintly rumpled bed cover. The air smelled faintly of lavender, possibly from the sachets Rias kept among her clothes.
Stepping inside, he ran his fingers over the smooth top of the dresser. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight that streaked through the window. It was bizarre—just a week ago, Rias had been right here, complaining about lace gloves or reading an old family tome in her rebellious, moody style.
A soft sound behind him made him turn. One of the maids paused in the doorway, carrying fresh linens. She gave a small curtsy, eyes understanding. "Miss Rias left this room in good condition," the maid said quietly. "She was… quite polite, despite her strong will."
He swallowed. "She… was," he agreed, voice hoarse.
The maid hesitated, then set down her stack. "I can come back later, Master Kazuki. Take your time."
He nodded, thankful for her discretion. Once alone, he let the silence wash over him. It almost felt like he could hear Rias's laughter bouncing off the walls, her foot tapping impatiently as she told him how bored she was with formalities, how she craved real experiences in the human world.
A dull ache in his chest reminded him: She's gone. No more shared nights gazing at the stars, no more whispered jokes at mealtime, no more festival mischief. Gone. He exhaled shakily, stepping out of the room before sadness overwhelmed him.
Returning to his bedroom, he sat at his desk, regarding Sora again. The fish hovered near the bowl's glass, as if greeting him. Kazuki found comfort in feeding it, swirling the water gently so the flakes drifted around in patterns.
"You're all I have left of her," he murmured. The fish gave no reply, of course, but he felt strangely less alone.
He decided to clean the bowl. He took the time to rinse a second container, carefully transferring Sora and some water so the fish wouldn't be stressed. As he scrubbed the bowl, the reflection of his own face looked back at him—eyes slightly red, cheeks a bit hollow. I'm probably as moody as Rias was, he thought, ironically.
In the process, a small black hair tie fell out of a hidden nook near his desk—one of Rias's ribbons she'd left behind, possibly. He picked it up, heart pounding. With a shaky grin, he realized it still had a faint flowery scent. A swirl of longing and gratitude flooded him. He placed it gently in a desk drawer along with a note she'd penned him, as if building a personal shrine to her memory.
That afternoon, the MC helped his mother in the kitchen—something he rarely did when the mansion was full of Gremory retainers. Now, it seemed they needed fewer servants around, so everyone pitched in. He peeled vegetables, occasionally almost cutting himself when lost in thought.
The sudden arrival of a carriage at the front drive startled him. He peeked out the kitchen window. Wait, did the Gremory family come back? A flicker of hope rose, but the carriage crest was different. Possibly a local aristocrat or business associate paying a courtesy visit.
Curiosity got the better of him. He dried his hands and slipped away to see who it was. At the foyer, he found his father politely greeting a well-dressed woman with an air of mild authority. She appeared in her late twenties, wearing a tasteful burgundy ensemble. Her gaze swept the mansion's interior with measured interest.
Kazuki loitered near the staircase, out of direct sight.
"I heard the Gremorys departed recently," the woman said to his father, "so I hoped to speak with them. I suppose I'm too late."
His father offered an apologetic nod. "Yes, they left days ago. Lady Gremory said something about urgent Underworld business."
The woman sighed, disappointed. "I see… I needed to discuss a matter of devil house alliances. Ah well." She bowed politely. "Pardon my intrusion."
With that, she excused herself, the meeting ending almost before it began. It hammered home the point: Rias and her family were truly gone, and people still occasionally came searching, reminding everyone of that fact.
That evening, as dusk approached, Kazuki found himself strolling the orchard beyond the mansion, the same path where he and Rias had once joked about plucking apples or climbing trees. Now, the orchard was silent, the golden sunset painting the rows of trees in warm light.
He paused by a low-hanging branch, recalling how Rias teased him about being too short. He let out a faint laugh, the memory bittersweet. Each step in this orchard felt like stepping on footprints they'd left behind. It almost felt like her presence still hovered at his side, an echo in the silence.
Returning inside as night fell, he ate dinner quietly with his parents. They watched him with gentle concern, but said nothing. He appreciated they didn't push him to "get over it." After all, it had only been a few days. Letting the heartbreak fade would take time—maybe more time than a child's mind could fully grasp.
Tired, he retreated to bed early. But sleep came fitfully. He tossed and turned until his eyelids drifted shut.
Then came the dream—vague images of swirling shadows and a faint rumbling roar. A sensation of an endless void devouring everything. He jerked awake, heart pounding. What was that? He'd never had such a nightmare before. Perhaps it was simply stress from missing Rias.
He gulped water from the bedside glass, shaking off the dream's lingering chill. Staring at the moonlit ceiling, he realized how much he yearned for the comfort of Rias's rebellious grin, her eagerness to break rules. She made life… exciting. Without her, everything felt plain, colorless, overshadowed by daily routines.
Morning came again. Another hush-laden day. Another routine breakfast. Another set of chores.
Halfway through the day, he decided he couldn't keep moping forever. Rias wouldn't want that. She'd laugh at him for being so glum. So, after finishing a few errands, he grabbed a broom and decided to help sweep the front porch—a chore the staff usually handled, but he wanted the distraction.
As he swept away leaves and dust, he caught the reflection of himself in the polished glass of the mansion's large windows. He saw a boy in plain clothes, hair a bit messy, eyes carrying a new seriousness. I'm not the same kid I was before she arrived, he thought. Rias had nudged him into daring escapes, into questioning boundaries. She'd given him a glimpse of a bigger world.
He paused, resting the broom handle on his shoulder. One day, he'd be older—maybe old enough to visit her realm, or find her, or do something grand that bridged their worlds. That day felt impossibly far off, but the dream kept him hopeful. For now, he'd wait, building himself up, never forgetting the heiress who turned his life upside down for a few magical days.
A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, scattering a few leaves. He smiled, picturing Rias crossing her arms, telling him not to brood so much. The memory sparked a renewed sense of determination. If she was forging her own path in the Underworld, he'd do the same here, so that one day, if they met again, he could stand by her side proudly.
That night, he returned to his room after helping lock up. The staff had turned out most lights, leaving the mansion's corridors bathed in pale lunar beams. In his bedroom, he set aside his daytime clothes, donned pajamas, and approached Sora's bowl.
"Hey," he said softly to the silver fish. "How was your day?"
Sora wiggled, mouth opening and closing, perhaps in search of food. Kazuki laughed quietly. "All right, fine, just a pinch." He dropped in some flakes, watching the fish snatch them eagerly. The simple routine felt oddly comforting, a link to a girl with red hair and a playful smirk.
He switched off the overhead lamp, letting the moonlight spill across his desk. Shadows crept along the walls, but they felt less suffocating now. He was making peace with her absence. Step by step.
Pulling back his sheets, he climbed into bed. For a moment, he gazed at the small ribbon Rias had left, which he'd tied around one bedpost—another private vow never to forget. His eyes drifted shut, the day's exhaustion catching up to him.
In that half-liminal space before sleep, he imagined Rias in some grand Underworld hall, maybe rolling her eyes at a dull ceremony, longing for a festival's fireworks or moonlit adventures. She'd be okay—he felt it in his gut. She was too headstrong to let her noble duties break her spirit.
"Good night… Rias," he whispered, voice barely a breath in the stillness.
No answer came but the hush of the night and the distant rustle of leaves outside. And yet, in that silence, he felt a comforting echo, as if a part of her rebellious spark lingered, urging him not to lose hope.