Chapter Text
The radio shop always smelled like warm dust and rusted metal, the kind of scent that would linger on your clothes throughout the day. It wasn’t unpleasant, not to Gon, not in the way most people wrinkled their noses when they stepped through the door and caught that sharp tang of solder and old wiring. To him, it was a kind of familiarity, a promise that something broken could be coaxed back into usefulness if he kept his hands steady and didn’t lose his patience. The counters were scuffed from years of elbows and tools, the glass display at the front perpetually smudged with fingerprints, and every surface seemed to hold the faint vibration of sound, memories intertwined with every fiber.
He had a set open in front of him, the casing unscrewed and laid aside with care, its innards exposed like the ribs of a carcass. It was older than most of the new models lined up in the window, a heavy-bodied wireless with a cloth speaker that had faded to the color of his grandmother's perfectly steeped tea. The customer who’d brought it in had apologized for the state of it—ashamed with an apology tumbling out of her lips, with shaking hands offering something sentimental and ruined. It had belonged to her husband, she’d said, and it hadn’t worked properly since last winter. Gon had smiled at her like it was nothing and promised he’d do his best, because it never felt like nothing when someone handed him the remnants of a voice they’d once loved.
Outside the front counter, the newer sets sat bright and immaculate, their polished knobs a shining beacon of quality, faces turned outward as if they were eager to speak. They were tuned to the same station, all of them, filling the shop with an overlapping chorus of official voices. It was the sort of broadcast that seemed to press itself against your skin even if you tried not to listen, clipped and confident, rising and falling with practiced emphasis.
“…further reinforcements have been dispatched,” one voice said, crisp as if it were reading weather. “The Ministry confirms preparations for the next intake—”
The words thinned under a wash of static, then returned sharper, a blade finding its edge.
“—in light of continued operations on the continent…”
Gon’s hands did not pause. He shifted a wire between his fingers, thumb rolling it gently to check for fraying, and leaned closer to the open chassis, eyes narrowed in concentration. He could have repeated the broadcast back if someone had asked him to. He heard it, of course, he did. There was no escaping it these days, not when the war seemed to live in every paper headline and every shouted conversation in the street. But hearing something and letting it settle were different things. The broadcast belonged to the front of the shop, to the loud world outside, to men in uniforms and maps and voices that droned on about the horrors beyond his walls. His world, in that moment, was the small one under his fingertips, the delicate problem he could solve.
He had already done his physical back home. Months ago, before he’d ever stepped onto the mainland, before he’d ever learned the way this town smelled after rain, before the host family’s youngest daughter started greeting him as if he belonged to them. He’d stood in a line with other boys on the island, bare-armed and uncomfortable under the eyes of men with clipboards, and he’d passed every test they asked of him. There had been a stamp on a paper, a curt nod, the sense of a box being ticked somewhere far away. He’d walked out afterward feeling vaguely triumphant, like he’d completed something he wouldn’t have to think about again. He’d left the island with that paperwork folded neatly in his pocket, and with each mile the boat carried him farther from home, the whole thing had started to feel less like fate and more like an administrative detail.
The soldering iron hissed softly as he touched it to a joint, the metal giving in a clean, satisfying melt. He set the tool down carefully and flexed his fingers once, rotating his wrist the way he did when a task demanded more precision than brute strength, as he had slowly learned over time. His hands were calloused, the skin at the base of his fingers thickened from lifting crates, turning screws, and gripping tools day after day. There were faint scars along his knuckles from childhood scrapes that had faded into pale lines, marks that didn’t hurt anymore but still told their stories if you looked close.
From the back of the shop, his boss called out something about a delivery, and Gon answered automatically, voice bright, easy, the kind of tone that made even mundane tasks feel like a routine and more fulfilling. Rising to fetch what was needed, then weaving between the cramped shelves stacked with parts and cords and spare knobs, the narrow space was familiar enough that he moved through it without thinking. As he passed the window, the radios’ voices seemed to swell, as if eager for his attention.
“—the nation must be ready,” the broadcast insisted, thick with certainty. “Every able man—”
Static chewed the end of the sentence.
Gon’s eyes flicked toward the street beyond the glass. The afternoon was bright, the air clear in that way it sometimes was before the weather turned. People walked past carrying parcels or pushing bicycles, their shoulders hunched against the chill. A couple of boys in uniform laughed near the corner, cigarette smoke curling up in thin strands. The scene looked ordinary enough that the war could have been a story told in another language.
Someone stepped into the shop, a man with a cap pulled low and a tired set to his mouth. He asked after a replacement tube and made a comment about how noisy the radios were getting these days, how you couldn’t even tune into music without being reminded of bombings and drafts and casualty lists. Gon found the part the man needed and handed it over with a smile that was almost reflexive.
“It’s better than silence,” Gon said, not entirely sure why it felt true, only that it did. The man huffed a laugh like he didn’t believe him, but his shoulders loosened just slightly as he left.
When Gon returned to the counter, the old wireless waited exactly as he’d left it, its interior still splayed open, patient and stubborn. He bent over it again, letting the world shrink to wires and contacts and the faint whisper of electricity. He adjusted a connection, tightened a screw, then reached for the tuning dial. The fabric speaker gave a low, uncertain crackle, as if clearing its throat after a long sleep.
For a moment, there was only static, thick and grainy. Then, gradually, something cut through: a thin thread of sound, trembling at first, then strengthening as the signal steadied. Music spilled into the shop, unexpectedly soft compared to the broadcast’s sharpness, a piano line threading through the air. The newer radios still blared their official voices, insisting on readiness and duty, but the old wireless held its own, warming the space with something human.
Gon’s breath caught, not in surprise so much as satisfaction. He turned the dial with careful patience until the music cleared, the notes rounding out into something whole. The sound wasn’t perfect—there was still a faint hiss beneath it, the shop’s constant companion—but it was alive again. It was enough.
He sat back on his heels, grinning. In the glass of the radio, his reflection looked younger than he felt, freckles bright against his cheeks, hair falling forward in stubborn spikes he’d never fully managed to tame. He pushed it back absentmindedly, fingers smudged with dust and a faint smear of grease, and reached for the casing.
Outside, the light had begun to soften, midday leaning toward evening. The broadcast in the window moved on to new details—names of places Gon had never seen, numbers he couldn’t picture, promises of victory they've been repeating for years. He let it continue without him. The old wireless in front of him played its small song like a private rebellion, and Gon focused on the simple act of making something work.
When he finished closing up the set, he wiped his hands on a rag and lifted the radio carefully, testing its weight. It felt solid, dependable. A fixed thing.
His boss glanced up as Gon brought it to the front. “That's the one from Mrs. Hall’s?” he asked.
Gon nodded, still smiling. “Yeah. It’s working.”
His boss made a sound of approval, then looked toward the window, the radios still droning on about preparations and manpower. “You’ll have the whole town wanting theirs fixed before the next call-up,” he muttered. “They’ll be wanting every last scrap of comfort before they start taking boys again.” The older man peered at him with a silent warning.
Gon laughed lightly, because it was easier than letting the words sink. He set the device on the counter and imagined Mrs. Hall’s face when she heard her husband’s favorite station again, imagined the way she’d close her eyes and get swept away by the music as the world shrinks to the size of their living room.
"They won't want me," he stated, brushing off the remains of dust and grime from his pants until they were smoothed over. "I'm better with wires than rifles."
He believed it, too, in that moment. Or maybe he believed in the part of himself that could still say it.
The radios kept speaking, their voices unwavering. Gon reached to turn down the display model nearest him, not because he was afraid of the news, but because the old wireless deserved to be heard.
For a little while longer, at least, he could choose what filled the air.
The bell above the shop door gave its familiar chime when Gon stepped out, bright and ordinary. Late autumn had settled into the town with quiet insistence. Leaves gathered in seams along the cobblestones and the edges of the curb, damp from earlier drizzle and pressed flat where carts had rolled over them. The light had begun to turn honeyed and low, slipping between chimneys and leaning across brickwork in long, soft strands.
Gon pulled his collar up out of habit and started down the street with an easy stride. He carried his satchel close, the worn strap familiar against his shoulder, and he let the sounds of the town wash away whatever discomfort came from the radio station. There was the rattle of bicycle chains, the distant call of someone closing up a stall in the market, the murmur of voices that rose and fell with tired laughter. Somewhere a dog barked once and then went quiet, as if it had remembered the hour was too late for fuss.
He noticed, as he always did, the small beauties that seemed to exist in defiance of everything else. A cluster of leaves, caught mid-fall, spiraled down from a bare-limbed tree and landed with a soft shush against the street. A window across the way reflected the sky, the glass turning the pale clouds into something almost luminous. The scent of bread drifted from the bakery on the corner, warm and faintly yeasty, and for a moment Gon’s mind slipped, uninvited, toward the island and Aunt Mito’s kitchen, the way she’d hum under her breath while stirring a pot as if she could lull the world into peace by sheer insistence.
It was easier, always, to think of home in fragments rather than fully. The island wasn’t just a place. It was salt wind and wet sand, old wood warmed by the sun, Mito’s hands busy with work she made look effortless. If he let himself look straight at it, the ache would swell too quickly and take up space he couldn’t afford. So he thought of it in pieces. The sound of gulls. The taste of soup. The way the light flared against the water at midday, until everything looked like it was made of gold.
A voice called his name before he’d made it halfway down the block.
“Gon! Hey, Gon!”
He turned with the smile that came so naturally it felt like a reflex, and saw one of the younger boys from the row of houses near the square jogging toward him, cheeks flushed from cold and effort. The kid’s cap was crooked, and his scarf was knotted badly. He looked proud, as if he’d been tasked with something important.
“It works!” the boy said, breathless. “Mum says it works now. She says the music came back, and it sounded like it used to.”
Gon’s smile widened, warmth blooming low in his chest. He remembered the radio he’d carried over two days ago, the way it had fought him, stubborn and crackling. He’d stayed after hours to set it right, partly because he was paid and partly because he liked the feeling of solving something with his own hands.
“I told you it would,” Gon said, and ruffled the boy’s hat before he could stop himself. “Just don’t let your little sister slam the dial again. It’s not a door.”
The boy giggled, then sobered, hesitance took his frame. “There was news on it, too,” he said, voice dropping. “Dad said… Dad said they’re taking more men soon.”
Gon kept his smile in place, gentle and steady. He didn’t want the kid to see worry in him, not when the boy looked like he wanted reassurance. “They say that all the time,” Gon replied, and it was technically true. “Come on, you should get home before it gets dark.”
The boy nodded, then darted off, and Gon watched him go with a soft fondness. When he turned back toward the street, a lorry passed with a canvas-covered bed and a driver whose face was shadowed beneath his cap.
Gon didn’t stop to look closer. He had learned, without ever naming it, how to let those words and faces wash past him. He had learned to keep his world small enough to fit into his hands.
At the crosswalk near the square, an elderly woman stood with a basket tucked into the crook of her arm, Miss Ancel by the looks of it, her posture stiff with the determined patience of someone who refused to admit she needed help. The traffic wasn’t heavy, but the street cut through the town like a shallow river, and wagons and bicycles still moved through it with enough speed to make the moment feel risky for fragile legs.
Gon slowed and stepped up beside her. “Need a hand?” he asked, voice light, as if offering was as casual as greeting.
The woman’s mouth tightened, then softened. “I can manage,” she insisted, fingers twisting around the basket handle.
“I know you can,” Gon said, and his smile shifted into something warmer, almost conspiratorial. “But I’m here anyway.”
She huffed as she disapproved of his cheek, and then, with the smallest nod of surrender, allowed him to offer his arm. Together they crossed, Gon matching his pace to hers, steady and patient. Halfway across, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
“You’re the radio boy,” she said.
Gon laughed softly. “I guess I am.”
“My grandson listens to your music now,” she continued, and there was something guarded in her tone, like admitting softness was dangerous. “He says it helps him sleep.”
He can imagine it, picturing the young man, not much younger than himself, lying awake to the quiet hiss of a wireless, trying to drown out thoughts of far-off places and lists of names. A sliver of unease slid under his ribs.
“I’m glad,” Gon said, because it was all he could offer. “Everyone deserves to sleep.”
When they reached the other side, the woman patted his hand once, brisk and quick, and then moved on without looking back, too stubborn to let him see the gratitude. Gon watched her go with his smile still in place, then continued toward the corner shop, his steps turning toward purpose.
The stationery store sat wedged between a butcher and a shop that sold wool and mended coats. Its front window displayed a modest arrangement of notebooks, nib pens, and a few greeting cards whose cheerful illustrations felt almost out of place now. When Gon pushed inside, the air changed. It smelled faintly of paper and ink and something floral that might have been soap. A small bell rang overhead, announcing his arrival.
Behind the counter, the shopkeeper looked up, and her face softened immediately. She was a woman past middle age, her once jet black hair, now washed with grey, pinned tightly back, matching her grey eyes that missed very little. She’d known him since he’d arrived, since the first week he’d wandered in asking after spare paper and postage and after a gentle scolding regarding his incorrect currency, she scooted the supplies over the counter with an exasperated expression, in trade for a promise he'd run to the bank and trade his bronze for something usable.
“You’re late,” she said, but there was no real bite in it.
“I was fixing something,” Gon replied, and set his satchel strap more firmly on his shoulder. “It finally gave in.”
“Machines always do,” she said. “It’s people that don’t.”
He moved along the shelves, fingers trailing over the spines of notebooks he could not afford to buy just for the joy of it. Paper was precious now. Everything was precious now. Even the smallest things were rationed or counted or watched.
He selected a small bundle of writing paper, a fresh bottle of ink, and envelopes that were slightly too thin but would do. He hesitated over a box of nibs, then added it to the pile, imagining Aunt Mito’s amused scolding if she saw him splurging. He wanted to write to her properly. He wanted his words to arrive clean and legible, not smudged and hurried, not as if he’d been too nervous to slow down.
At the counter, the shopkeeper tallied his purchases with practiced efficiency, then paused. Her gaze slid to his face, measuring him in a way people did when they were thinking about the numbers overhead, the way his boss looked at him earlier.
“Another notice came through town hall,” she said, voice lowered. “They’re preparing the next call-up. They’ll be looking for boys who’ve moved. If you’ve got papers from your physical, keep them close.”
Gon’s smile didn’t quite falter, but something in him tightened. He remembered standing on the island with that stamped form in his pocket. He remembered telling himself that was the end of it. “I did everything I was supposed to,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Back home.”
“That doesn’t always matter,” the shopkeeper replied, and then, perhaps regretting how sharp that sounded, she softened her tone. “You write your aunt often. That’s good. Keep doing it.”
“I will,” Gon promised, and meant it.
When she handed him his parcel, she slid an extra thin stack of paper beneath the top bundle, quick and discreet, as if it were an accident. Gon looked down, startled, then looked up.
“I can’t,” he began.
“You can,” she interrupted, and her eyes were firm in a way that brooked no argument. “Paper’s harder to get than they used to be, and boys like you always think there’ll be time later. There isn’t. So write while you can.”
The words left a strange hush behind them. Gon swallowed around it, then nodded, gratitude swelling in his throat. “Thank you,” he said softly.
The shopkeeper sniffed as if she’d done nothing at all. “Go on,” she said. “Before the light’s gone.”
Gon left the store with his parcel tucked close against his chest,letting the door close behind him. The sky had only deepened in color, the sun slipping lower behind cloud cover and washing the streets in a purple hue. The town felt quieter now, with evening's arrival. The light on the cobblestones had turned softer, diluted by the approaching dusk, and Gon walked with his breath visible in small puffs, his hands warming around the paper bundle as if it were something precious.
His lodging was above a tailor’s shop at the edge of the square; the family he was staying with liked him well enough. The window display below showed half-finished coats and neatly folded bolts of cloth in muted colors, the fabrics sturdy and practical. As Gon climbed the narrow staircase along the side of the building, he could smell pressed wool and chalk, the faint dust of thread. The stairs creaked on the third step, always did. He’d learned where the floorboards complained and where they stayed quiet, learned the small quirks of the house the way he learned machines, with attention and gentle familiarity.
Upstairs, the warmth of cooking met him as soon as he stepped into the hallway. The host mother, Mrs. Harker, glanced up from the kitchen doorway and smiled. She was a small woman with tired eyes and a way of moving that spoke of constant work done without complaint. “You’re home,” she said, as if she’d been waiting.
“Hi,” Gon replied, and his voice brightened with renewed energy. “It smells good.”
“It’s stew,” she said, like she expected him to be disappointed. “Don’t get excited.”
Gon’s grin widened. “Stew is perfect.”
From the sitting room, Mr. Harker called out a greeting, and their daughter, Elsie, popped her head around the corner with hair half-unraveled and a look of immediate interest. She was fourteen and had decided, within a week of Gon moving in, that he was hers to tease.
“Did you bring anything?” she asked, eyes darting to his parcel.
“It’s paper,” Gon said, and held it up. “Don’t get any ideas.”
Elsie groaned theatrically. “Paper,” she repeated, as if that were the most boring word in the world. “You’re always writing.”
Gon’s expression softened. “I like writing,” he said simply.
Mrs. Harker’s gaze flicked to his face, gentler now. She didn’t ask who he was writing to. She already knew. They all did. Mito was a presence in this house by proxy, carried in the careful way Gon addressed envelopes, in the way he always checked the post twice, in the way he grew quieter for a beat whenever the island was mentioned.
They sat down for dinner together, four bowls arranged neatly on the table. The stew was dark and fragrant, thick with root vegetables and whatever meat they’d managed to stretch through rationing. Bread was passed around in small portions. The lamplight made everything feel softer than it was, casting warm shadows along the walls and making the worn tabletop glow as something loved.
Gon talked while they ate, because silence made room for thoughts that were too large. He told them about the wireless set he’d fixed, about Mrs. Hall’s face when she’d come to pick it up, about the way the old radio had fought him like it had a personality. Elsie laughed at his imitation of the crackling static, and even Mr. Harker’s mouth twitched, amusement reluctant but real. For a handful of minutes, it almost felt like a normal evening.
Then the knock came.
It wasn’t loud, but it was firm—like a pebble dropped into still water, and the ripples moved through all of them at once. Mrs. Harker’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. Elsie’s laughter died cleanly, as if someone had turned down a dial. Mr. Harker set his bread down with care that looked like caution.
“I’ll get it,” he said, and stood.
Gon’s stomach tightened before he knew why. There was no reason for it. People knocked all the time. But something about that sound carried weight, an authority he felt more than heard. He watched Mr. Harker move down the hallway, heard the muted scrape of his shoes against the floorboards, then the front door opening with a soft groan.
A voice drifted in from the entryway, formal and unfamiliar. “Good evening. We’re looking for a Mr. Freecss.”
Gon’s heart gave a small, disorienting lurch, as if it had misstepped. His spoon slipped from his fingers. The room went too bright and too quiet at once, even with the lamp still burning. He swallowed hard and tasted stew that had suddenly turned to ash in his mouth.
Mr. Harker’s voice came back, cautious. “He lodges here,” he said, and there was a pause, a beat of resignation. “Gon,” he called, louder now. “They’re asking for you.”
Gon stood automatically. His chair legs scraped against the floor. Elsie stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted as if she wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Harker’s face had gone pale around the eyes. Gon’s hands were suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. He took two steps forward, then three, and the hallway seemed longer than it should have been.
When he rounded the corner into the entryway, he saw the two men in uniform, standing half inside the doorway—their boots leaving damp marks on the threshold. Their coats were buttoned neatly, their caps shadowing their eyes. One held a clipboard. The other held an envelope that looked too official to belong in a home like this.
“Gon Freecss?” the man with the clipboard asked.
Gon’s throat felt tight. He managed, “Yes, sir.”
The officer’s gaze flicked over him quickly, taking in his height, his posture, and the way his shoulders had gone tense. “We’ve been attempting to contact you regarding your induction,” he said. His voice was calm, neutral, and practiced. “Your initial medical examination was recorded on the island. Notice was sent to your previous address and forwarded. You are required to report to—” He glanced down at his paper. “To the local board office on Monday at eight hundred hours. From there, you will be transported to your training facility.”
Gon heard the words, but it felt like a different language, simply floating through him. His mind snagged on small, strange details instead. The damp shine on the officer’s boots. The envelope corner was slightly bent. The lamplight behind him made Mr. Harker’s face look older, drawn tight with worry.
The man holding the envelope extended it toward Gon. “This is your formal notice and instructions,” he said. “You are expected to respond. We were sent to confirm your residence and ensure you understand your obligation.”
Gon’s hand lifted as if it belonged to someone else. The envelope was heavier than it should have been for paper. It felt like a stone. His fingers closed around it, and he could feel the slight texture of the seal, the finality pressed into wax and ink.
“Yes, sir,” Gon said, because polite words were something he knew how to offer even when his mind was slipping sideways. His voice sounded too normal. That, somehow, scared him more than if it had cracked.
The officer continued speaking, giving details about what to bring, how to present himself, and what would happen if he failed to appear. The language was precise and unkind in its neutrality. Gon nodded in the right places and made sounds of acknowledgement. He could feel his pulse in his throat, in his wrists. He tried to anchor himself by focusing on the lamplight spilling onto the floorboards, a warm pool of brightness that looked out of place beside uniforms and duty.
At some point, the officers finished. They offered a brief, perfunctory “Good evening” as if they had only come to deliver a parcel, and then they stepped back out into the dark, the cold air swallowing them. The door closed. The latch clicked. The sound was small and absolute.
Gon stood with the envelope in his hands, staring at it as if staring could change what it contained. Mr. Harker cleared his throat softly. Mrs. Harker hovered at the end of the hallway, her face composed by force. Elsie had come out of the dining room and stood behind her mother’s shoulder, eyes glassy.
“Well,” Mr. Harker said, and his voice tried to be steady. “I suppose… I suppose that’s that.”
Gon looked up, and it took him a second to remember how to smile. He attempted it anyway. It came out faint, a curve more than a glow. “It’s fine,” he heard himself say. “I’ll be fine.”
Mrs. Harker crossed the hallway and touched his arm, brief and careful, as if afraid he might shatter. “You’ll write your aunt,” she said; it wasn't a suggestion.
Gon nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “I will.”
He carried the envelope upstairs to his room. The space felt smaller than it had earlier that evening, the ceiling lower, the window narrower. He set his parcel of stationery on the desk, then stood with the draft notice still in hand, unsure for a moment where to put it, as if setting it down would make it real.
When he finally broke the seal and unfolded the paper inside, the language was exactly what he expected and yet nothing like what he was prepared for. Formal. Clean. Impersonal. It spoke of requirements and reporting and service, as though it were describing a job posting rather than the narrowing of a life. His name sat printed there in hard ink. Gon Freecss. Eighteen. Required.
He read it once, quickly, breath caught high in his chest. Then again, slower. Then a third time, not because he didn’t understand, but because understanding was a process his body resisted. His hands trembled lightly by the second pass, and he pressed the paper flat against the desk with his palm as if he could steady himself through force.
Outside, the town was quieting. Somewhere, a train horn sounded long and low, and the wind nudged the windowpane with a soft complaint. Gon stared at the notice until the words began to blur, not from tears but from exhaustion and disbelief twisting together.
Eventually, he exhaled, slow and shaky, and his gaze slid to the bundle of paper he’d bought earlier. The extra sheets the shopkeeper had slipped him were tucked beneath the top. The sight of them made something in him loosen, just slightly, as if his body recognized a familiar task. A small problem. A repairable thing.
He sat down.
He unfolded a clean sheet and smoothed it with his fingertips. He opened the ink bottle carefully, the scent sharp and familiar, and dipped his nib in with the same gentleness he used for wiring. His hands were steadier with a pen than they had been holding the notice. Writing was a movement. Writing was control. Writing was a way to reach across distance and insist that someone still existed on the other side.
He stared at the blank page for a long moment, breathing in the quiet, then began.
Dear Mito,
The first lines came easier than the truth. He wrote about the town, about work, about the radio shop, and how he’d repaired plenty of radios now that his boss trusted him not to get overexcited. He wrote about the way the sky had looked at sunset, the leaves falling like little sparks, the smell of bread near the square. He wrote about the host family and their stew and how Elsie teased him for always writing. He let his words build a world for her, something warm and intact, as if he could place it in her hands through ink and paper.
Only after that did he pause, nib hovering, and let the reality slip in.
There’s something new I have to tell you. Two officers came to the house tonight. They found me here, and they gave me my notice. I have to report on Monday.
He swallowed, the pen tip trembling for the first time. He forced himself to continue, because he could not leave the sentence unfinished, could not let his fear sit on the page like a stain.
But please don’t worry. I’m alright. I think it will be okay. I’ve always been good at learning new things, right?
He could almost hear her voice in his head, gentle and scolding, telling him not to be reckless, telling him to eat properly, telling him to keep his scarf wrapped tight when the wind turned. He imagined her hands on his cheeks. He imagined her pretending not to cry.
His chest tightened. He pressed the nib down harder than he meant to, and the ink darkened on the page.
I’ll write you as often as I can. I promise. I’m still me, Aunt Mito. I’m still here.
When he finished, he sat back and looked at what he’d done. The letter lay on the desk, neat and carefully written, a small piece of himself made portable. The draft notice sat beside it, cold and official, its edges harsh against the softer curve of his handwriting.
Gon folded the letter slowly, aligning the corners with too much care, then slid it into the envelope. He sealed it, pressed the flap down, and wrote Mito’s address on the front with deliberate steadiness. Island ink, island name. The act of writing it felt like touching home.
He placed the envelope on the desk and rested his hand over it for a moment, palm flat, as if he could warm it through contact. Downstairs, in the muffled quiet of the house settling back into itself, someone turned on the wireless. A faint thread of music rose through the floorboards, thin but unmistakably alive, and for a few seconds it sounded almost like a promise.
Gon closed his eyes and listened until the song faded beneath the hush of the night, and then he opened them again, because there was nothing else to do but keep going.