I.

There’s a certain smell after the rain.

The smell she used to love. The smell she used to enjoy with cups of warm chocolate, leaning against the zaisu chair put on the porch, feet dangling in the air (sometimes they playfully tickled each other, other times they tangled in comfortable silence), and a blanket too big for two yet didn’t stop them to press their bodies so close that they became one.

And those days are long gone.

The ever so big blanket becomes even bigger for her alone. The hot chocolate lost its warmth as it sits untouched on the side, missing its pair.

A cellphone lays in the place where another zaisu chair is supposed to be, its screen black since hours ago.

The screen lit up with a start before it blinked in a slow tempo.

Then there is a beep.

“Sakura,” A husky voice echoes from the cellphone, and the figure sitting on the zaisu chair doesn’t move an inch, “It’s about time to eat. Father is preparing your meal in his kitchen. Go get your meal, else I’ll get mad. I love you.”

The voice stops after another beep. A signal for the figure to finally move and Sakura blinks her eyes open.

The screen is back to black beside her.

Sakura folds her legs away from the edge of the porch before standing up, moving smoothly across the room as if she had done that countless times.

When she slides the shoji door of her father’s kitchen, the old man is already waiting by the chair beside the mechanical bed.

II.

There’s a reason why Sakura keeps moving from one place to another in the house.

“I’m not going home,” The same voice echoes from the cellphone, now laying on top of the wooden table in the living room, “I know you won’t leave me if I’m home, so I told father that I don’t want to go home.”

She says that, yet she left everything about her everywhere in the house.

Sakura traces her fingers against one of the shogi pieces, the others spread on their respective positions. To untrained eyes it looks like a messy game, but to Sakura it holds a memento.

Sakura has memorized the exact position of every piece down to its exact coordinates. Even a few millimeters shift won’t be missed by her sharp eyes.

When the clock rings to tell another hour has passed, Sakura stands up carefully so she wouldn’t knock the table before walking to the other room; a workspace with unfinished painting in the middle of it.

Just like the shogi room, Sakura carefully maneuvers to the chair across the canvas then lays her bum on it. Her body naturally moves to a pose that is exactly like on the canvas.

She stays in that room for some time before moving to another room.

III.

There’s a memory when all dining chairs were occupied, and laughter filled the table.

Even though Sakura spent half of those times just watching or listening to others, she felt her heart lighter. Sometimes she would be the topic of conversations, other times she pitched in some jokes that she learned from watching everyone.

Overall, it was one of her favorite moments.

But lately, it feels different.

Even though all chairs are occupied, and the same familiar faces surround her, Sakura couldn’t lift the corner of her lips like she remembered how it supposed to be.

Because despite all chairs are occupied, one chair is missing from the table.

IV.