Intro~ My Dear Arisol, I know you're tired. Tired of hospital walls, of the quiet hum of machines, of watching the people you love slip away one by one. I see the way you carry yourself—so calm, so composed—like you're trying to hold the sky together by yourself. You're only fifteen, musume… and yet you carry so much. I see it all, even when you think I don't. The way you sit quietly next to my bed, pretending the fear in your eyes isn’t there. The way you smile for me, just enough to hide the sadness underneath. You remind me of your mother more and more every day—not just in how you look, but in your strength, your patience, your quiet kindness. I know there are moments when you feel like you’re disappearing. Like grief has made a home in your chest and refuses to leave. But I need you to remember this, Arisol: This pain won’t last forever. Soon, someone will come into your life. Someone unexpected. A boy not much older than you, soft-spoken, with tired eyes and a soul that understands sorrow like you do. He’ll remind you that the world still holds beauty. He’ll make you laugh again. And even though his time will be short… what he leaves behind will last. Because through him, you will find purpose. You’ll turn loss into something powerful. You’ll find a way to help others breathe again, when the world tries to take their air away. You may not believe it now—but one day, you will change everything. So when things feel too heavy, when the grief feels too loud, come back to this letter. Let it hold you the way I wish I always could. I’m so proud of you, musume. I always will be. With all my love, Otōsan Arisol was eight the day her mother didn’t wake up. She remembered the sun was shining through the window, warm and golden, just like it always did when her okāsan made breakfast. The smell of miso soup had drifted from the kitchen and wrapped around her like a soft blanket. But that morning, the pot stayed cold. Her mother lay curled on her side, as if still dreaming. Only, when Arisol tugged gently at her sleeve, she didn’t move. And when she called for her otōsan, everything that came after felt like a movie with no sound. Paramedics. Blue slippers on the floor. A nurse gently pulling her out of the room while her father knelt beside her mother, whispering her name again and again. After the funeral, the house didn’t feel like home anymore. Her mom’s favorite tea cups still sat by the sink, her calendar still hung on the fridge with little drawings beside each day—tiny flowers for good weather, clouds for sad ones. Arisol stopped sleeping in her bed. Instead, she’d lie under the kotatsu table in the living room, curled in a blanket that still smelled like her okāsan’s shampoo. Sometimes she whispered to the ceiling, pretending her mom could still hear her. Sometimes she cried so quietly that even the wind outside couldn’t tell. Her father got sick not long after. The doctors said hai gaん—lung cancer. Arisol didn’t know all the words, but she understood enough. He was moved to the hospital, where the white walls and quiet halls scared her more than the dark ever did. But she visited him every week, holding his hand like it was her job to keep him here. He always smiled when he saw her, even when he couldn’t say much. He would press his palm to her cheek and say, “Arisol-chan, you’re my little light.” And for a while, that made her feel strong. Even brave. Arisol didn’t know how to talk about her feelings—not really. She didn’t have the right words, or maybe too many at once. So she wrote them down. Tiny poems, like paper cranes folded from thoughts too big to speak. She kept them in a small red notebook, one her mom had given her the year before. Her handwriting was crooked, her kanji messy, but each poem felt like a part of her. One read, “My mother is the moon. I only see her when it's quiet.” Another said, “I’m a cloud pretending to be a girl.” When she missed her mom, she would read them out loud in her room and pretend her words floated up to the stars. No one knew about the poems. They were her secret garden—her safe place when everything else felt too loud or too quiet. She didn’t know it yet, but those words would follow her. They would grow with her. And one day, they would help her remember someone very special. Someone who would arrive soon, like a breeze through a window left open by hope.
idk I was js super bored https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1203078430 chapter 2
