Chapter 142: The Night of Tears
“Ryusei! Ryusei!”
A voice pierced the darkness. At first, I thought it was a dream—until someone shook me hard, snapping me out of sleep.
My eyes opened to Keiko’s pale, panic-stricken face.
“What—what happened?!” My heart jumped into my throat.
Her lips trembled. “It’s Mom. She just called. Something’s wrong.”
I didn’t even know what time it was. The staff room clock was useless without electricity. My phone screen lit up as I grabbed it: 12:07 a.m. The typhoon had passed, the floodwaters had started to retreat, but now this?
Within minutes, we were out the door.
---
The night air was sharp, cutting through my skin like knives. Autumn cold always bit deep, but this time we’d run out in thin clothes, barely thinking about jackets. Our breath fogged in front of us as our shoes splashed through puddles still left behind from the storm.
“Keiko, slow down—!” I called, panting.
But she didn’t. She kept running, desperation carrying her forward. I could barely keep up, my lungs burning.
“Please be okay, please be okay…” she whispered over and over, like a prayer she was trying to keep alive.
When I saw the faint glow of headlights down the street, my heart leapt. A taxi. At 2 a.m., in this mess, it was a miracle.
“Taxi!” I waved frantically. The driver slowed, clearly shocked to see two soaked, desperate people.
“Keiko, get in!” I held the door open.
Her hands were shaking as she gave the address. “Please—hurry.”
The driver nodded, sensing the urgency, and the car sped off through the eerily quiet, half-flooded streets.
---
When we arrived, I froze at the sight before us.
Keiko’s childhood home stood battered, an old structure that had endured too many storms already. The wooden shutters hung crookedly, tiles from the roof scattered across the yard. Broken branches littered the entrance.
And then I felt it—goosebumps running down my spine. Something was wrong.
“Mom!” Keiko’s voice broke as she bolted inside.
I followed, heart racing.
The living room was messy but intact. But when we reached the hallway—my chest tightened.
Her mother was lying there, trapped. A heavy wooden beam from her bedroom ceiling had fallen across her leg.
Keiko gasped, stumbling forward. “Mom! Mom!”
I froze for half a second, then rushed to help. The beam was thick, waterlogged, impossibly heavy. My hands gripped the slick wood, and I pushed with everything I had.
“Ughh—damn it—!” My arms shook. I was no longer the boy who used to carry crates with ease. My body had shrunk, my strength halved. But I clenched my teeth and heaved again.
“Ryusei, please—!” Keiko’s voice cracked, on the verge of breaking.
That gave me the last burst I needed. With a loud creak, the wood shifted just enough. Keiko pulled her mother free, sobbing.
Her mother’s face was pale, sweat dripping down her temple. Her chest rose shallowly.
“Mom… it’s okay, it’s okay…” Keiko whispered, stroking her hand. But her mother’s gaze was hazy, her lips barely moving.
“She’s in shock,” I muttered. “Keiko, water. We need water.”
She turned to me desperately. “Where—?”
“Stay with her. I’ll get it.”
It surprised me how well I still remembered the house layout. My feet carried me straight to the kitchen, my hands finding a clean glass, filling it with trembling urgency.
I hurried back and held it out. “Here.”
Keiko gently helped her mother sip, though only a little went down. It wasn’t enough.
“Hospital,” I said firmly. “We can’t wait.”
Keiko nodded, her tears brimming. “Yes. Let’s take her now.”
I crouched and slipped my arms under her frail body, lifting her onto my back.
She was lighter than I expected. Still, my legs shook as I rose. My breath came out ragged, but I forced a smile at Keiko. “I’ve got her. Let’s go.”
Keiko’s voice wavered. “Ryusei—you’re soaked, and you’ll—”
“Not the time,” I cut her off gently. “Lead the way.”
---
The taxi driver didn’t even question us when he saw me carrying her mother. He just threw the doors open and drove like a man possessed.
At the hospital, nurses rushed her into the emergency ward. Keiko tried to follow, but a nurse held up a hand. “Please wait outside.”
And so, we waited.
The bright fluorescent lights of the waiting room felt like knives stabbing my eyes after so much darkness. My clothes clung cold to my skin, and every muscle ached.
But none of that compared to Keiko.
She sat stiffly beside me, her hands trembling in her lap. Her face was pale, her lips pressed tight. She stared straight ahead, unblinking, trying so hard not to let the tears fall.
I couldn’t bear it.
Slowly, I reached out and covered her hand with mine. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away.
“Just cry if you want,” I whispered.
Her jaw clenched. She shook her head hard. “No… I can’t… not now…”
I swallowed. She was still trying to be strong, to carry everything herself. But I didn’t push. Empty promises like ‘She’ll be fine’ would be cruel right now.
Instead, I shifted closer, guiding her gently until her head rested against my shoulder.
Her body tensed for a moment—then melted. Her hands curled around my sleeve, clinging.
I stroked her hair slowly, saying nothing.
Minutes passed. Then I felt it. A damp warmth spreading on my shoulder.
I turned my head slightly. Keiko’s tears finally broke free, sliding down her cheeks silently.
I said nothing. I just let her cry, holding her close, brushing my fingers gently through her hair.
She buried her face deeper against me, as if hiding her weakness—but also as if relying on me fully for the first time.
And I realized, in that quiet moment, that this bond between us was no longer just circumstance. It was something fragile, precious, and growing deeper each time life threw storms our way.
---
Time blurred in the waiting room. The clock ticked past three, then four. Nurses passed by with hurried footsteps, but none approached us yet.
Keiko’s breathing steadied eventually. She wasn’t asleep, but her tears had slowed. She finally whispered, voice hoarse:
“…Thank you, Ryusei.”
I smiled faintly, though my chest ached at her vulnerability. “No thanks needed. I’m here because I want to be.”
Her hand tightened around mine. She didn’t answer, but her silence was more honest than words.