Kazou closed the door softly behind him.
The latch clicked with a dull finality.
For a moment, he stood there in the hallway, palm still hovering near the handle, as if part of him expected Janssen to call out. He didn’t. The machines inside the room continued their quiet, indifferent rhythm.
Kazou listened.
Kazou exhaled slowly and started walking.
His footsteps were soft, almost apologetic, absorbed by the thin carpet runner lining the center of the hall. A pair of hospital workers stood near a folding table set up against the wall, temporary, improvised.
A handwritten sign taped to the front read:
EAST WING CAFETERIA CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS! AS AN APOLOGY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE, WE HAVE FREE TEA — PLEASE TAKE ONE!
Steam rose from several large insulated dispensers. Paper cups were stacked neatly beside them.
One of the workers noticed him approaching and gave a tired but friendly nod.
“Help yourself,” she said. “It’s cold out there.”
Kazou paused. For a second, he seemed unsure, then he nodded back and stepped closer. He poured himself a cup. The tea was plain, black, and faintly bitter. Familiar. Comforting in its simplicity.
After a brief hesitation, he poured a second cup, then put lids on both and slipped them into the pockets of his coat, careful not to spill. He didn’t know why he took two.
Habit, maybe. Or the quiet, unreasonable hope that someone might need it.
“Thanks,” he said.
The worker smiled.
“Take care.”
Kazou continued down the hall, passing more signs pointing visitors away from the closed cafeteria, past carts stacked with folded linens and a janitor mopping carefully around orange cones. The hospital felt older here, less polished, more human. A place that had seen too much and kept going anyway.
At the end of the hallway, glass doors led out to the east wing courtyard.
He pushed them open and stepped outside.
The rain had thinned to a mist, drifting lazily through the open space.
***
The sky hung low in grey threads. The sun was nearly gone, barely flickering behind the cloudline like a match about to die. Somewhere nearby, the rumble of traffic drifted through the open courtyard, softened by wind and concrete. Kazou Kuroda sat on a bench outside the east wing, holding a paper cup of tea.
He hadn’t planned to stay long.
He noticed her a moment later, the girl. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Her hoodie was too thin for the wind. She was seated three benches down, arms folded, legs pulled up onto the seat, eyes red. A bandage peeked from her wrist. She looked like someone who hadn’t spoken to another person all day.
Kazou sipped his tea, then glanced over.
“…Do you want one?” he asked, gently holding up his cup.
She blinked at him, startled.
“What?”
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“The tea,” he said. “They’re giving them out free today. Something about renovations in the cafeteria.”
The girl snorted.
“What kind of hospital bribes people with tea?”
Kazou smiled faintly.
“The kind that forgets people don’t want to be here in the first place?”
She eyed him with guarded suspicion.
“You don’t work here, do you?”
“No,” he said. “I’m… just visiting.”
“…Who?”
He paused.
“A friend.”
The girl looked away.
They sat in silence for a long time. Wind moved through the courtyard. A pair of nurses passed behind them, chatting softly in Dutch.
Then she spoke again.
“My dad’s in there,” she muttered. “Bastard broke his spine drunk driving...”
Kazou didn’t respond.
She kept going anyway.
“Killed my dog in the crash. Didn't even say sorry... And everyone’s still treating him like he’s some poor man in a bed. They keep calling me lucky. ‘At least he’s alive.’” Her voice broke slightly. “As if I wanted him to be... ”
She wiped her face on her sleeve.
Kazou sipped his tea, then set the second cup down on the bench beside him.
“My mother was a drinker,” he said quietly.
The girl frowned.
“Yeah?”
“She died in a hospital like this,” he added. “Alone.”
She stared at him.
“You didn’t visit her?”
“No. She didn’t want me to. I was around your age. A long time ago…” He smiled softly. “I went anyway. Just once. She was asleep. I left a peach on the nightstand and walked out. I never saw her again.
“...A peach?”
“She liked them when she was sober.”
The girl shifted in her seat.
“Did she… ever say sorry?”
“No,” he said. “But sometimes, that’s not the point.”
She frowned.
“Sometimes,” Kazou continued, “people are too broken to be anything else. They don’t need to be forgiven to matter. But you don’t need to forgive them to heal, either.”
The girl looked away, face twisting.
"I'll never fully forgive my mother... We never got closure. Ever. It is an awful feeling, but once you learn to live with it, you begin to feel some peace. It's about finding closure in your mind."
“You’re weird.”
Kazou let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence returned.
Then, more softly:
“Your friend,” she said. “Are they okay?”
Kazou looked up at the grey sky.
“I hope so.”
“…Did they try to die too?” she asked.
He turned to her, eyes gentle.
“No,” he said.
The girl bit her lip.
Kazou stood slowly, his tea long forgotten.
“You should go in,” he said. “Before it gets cold.”
She scoffed.
“I’m not scared of the cold.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Kazou said with a small smile. “But your heart’s already tired. No need to make your body match it.”
He began to walk past her.
She looked back at him sharply.
“Wait—”
He paused.
“…What’s your name?” she asked, reluctantly.
Kazou turned slightly, the wind brushing his black hair across his eyes.
“Li Wei,” he said without hesitation.
A lie.
But a kind one.
She nodded slowly.
"And you?" He asked.
“Zhang Fang. But Fang is fine. Thanks… I guess.”
He gave her a soft bow, almost like an apology, and walked toward the exit.
Fang couldn't move her eyes off of him.
The sun began to peak out of the clouds slightly, the soft morning drizzle calming.
Fang slowly removed her hood, her dark hair waving in the wind.
"What a chill man... Something feels familiar..." She muttered to herself.
