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The silence Orihime leaves behind is supposed to feel benevolent and beautiful.

Like a sunset. Like a gently burning star. Like hard-fought peace and gentle fingers closing an open wound.

Ichigo feels nothing.

Yhwach's presence is gone too. The air is sharp, clear of the thick fog and dark power that had been circulating all around the world. A weight has been lifted. He's gone. Yet, Ichigo's limbs feel heavy and pinned down. He struggles to raise his head. His ears ring with a recurrent, tinny noise. He keeps thinking, maybe he should reach for his zanpakuto—summon Zangetsu and wait for an attack. Keep his eyes open, keep moving, get up and keep fucking fighting.

And then he remembers.

He said something to her in the end, he thinks. Screamed himself hoarse. But he doesn't know what he said. He doesn't know if it matters. His ribs hurt so bad he thinks he might just break them if he moves. He hates himself for the fear of pain that follows. Hates that he still feels so alive after—after—

He clenches a fist. The scrape against hard ground sends a flash of pain up his already-broken fingernails. He doesn't deserve to cry, so he doesn't. The tinny noise keeps ringing in his ears, keeps ringing until he realizes it's the sound of Rukia breathing. He slants a glance at her from where he lays. Her face has gone white. Her hair has gone white. Her lashes are frosty, hands laying limp over the crown of ice. Her breath creates a thin layer of mist, feeble and barely there.

Somehow, the proof of life sends a little pulse into his body, and he pushes himself up on both arms so he can go to her. The pain is excruciating. He keeps anticipating a glow of warmth to flood his veins, keeps waiting for strength to encase his limbs, and then he almost stumbles when he realizes. He—realizes, and he can't believe he ever let himself get used to it.

Scraping Rukia's body out of the ice takes longer than it should after that, but he works at it with a stubborn, hopeless diligence. He lets frost-bite singe his wounds and ice numb his fingers. He lets the cold swim up his legs and raise goose flesh all over his skin. He lets his lips go cold, and the edges of his nostrils go flaky and dry. He lets nothing happen to his heart—his heart, which is nothing and nowhere and in no risk of any cold or warmth or sensation.

He hoists Rukia over his shoulder and takes her home.

+

Ichigo offers to take the Soul King's place, but Soul Society turns him down. There's a unanimous air about them, a somber silence. Ichigo hadn't realized until now just how much he'd been relying on this outcome—and when they refuse him, he burns with protest. Orihime walked up to the end of the universe and let it swallow her whole. He doesn't know how else to follow her there. He doesn't know where else to go.

He doesn't know why they just won't let him.

"We appreciate your willingness and your courage," Kyoraku says gently. "You've given us far more than a boy your age should have. But I can't let you take this upon yourself. If I did, someone would be very upset with me."

Ichigo frowns, confused. Then, his eyes drift to the empty square of the Thirteenth Division.

"Go home, Kurosaki-san." Kyoraku gives him a tired smile. "Go be with your family. The war is over."

+

"We should have never involved a human in our affairs," the Captain says one night. "By doing so, we violated a sacred principle upon which Soul Society rests. And yet..."

And yet, Renji thinks, following Byakuya's gaze down to Rukia. Had Ichigo not broken everything they held sacred, Rukia would not have been here. Nothing would have ever been the same.

Although sometimes Renji doubts how much of her mind or her heart is actually here. What little fits of consciousness she had in the beginning, she spent screaming for Orihime, shrieking an awful, soul-deep cry into the hallways, and then shrieking an awful, soul-deep cry into Renji's chest. She'd asked Renji to find Inoue, right before she went under. Find her, her lips murmured with every bit of strength it took—every bit of trust. Renji's told every friend and acquaintance he's ever had to keep a feeler out for Inoue's spiritual energy since then, but it's a lost cause.

They'd all felt it disappear.

"Are they watching him?" Renji asks now, trying not to sound hateful, but he supposes he does by the way Byakuya turns to give him a mild look.

"You know as well as I do that we have been watching Kurosaki Ichigo since the day we were made aware of him," he says after a long moment of silence. Renji appreciates the honesty.

"After everything he's done, after everything he's gone through, the least they could do is trust him. Leave him alone," he mutters anyway. "You think he'd burn down a world she died to save?"

"No."

"Even if he wanted to, I don't blame him." I know I would, Renji thinks but doesn't say. At its core, Soul Society is a rotten place, an unfair place, and some would say it's no more unfair than the rest of the universe, but if Renji was where Ichigo was, he would've burned it all to the ground. He almost did.

"No," Byakuya agrees.

Rukia does not stir at the sound of their voices. Renji doesn't know which is worse—this subdued silence, or the hot, angry tears. In the academy, they didn't lie to you about what you were signing up for. Every shinigami knows that to walk into war is to walk into death. If he was there—if he had the chance to do with Inoue did, he would have done the same thing. So would Rukia. So would most people they know.

The knowledge doesn't bring any comfort.

"He hasn't come to see her yet." Renji jerks his chin out at Rukia. "I thought if he did, we could talk, but I don't know what I'd say."

Byakuya doesn't nod, but Renji feels him shift slightly. "I doubt he will."

There's a slight grimace on Byakuya's face, a recognition. A little shard of guilt strikes through Renji. The Captain has been here before. Maybe he knows better than Renji, what this specific loss feels like. The same part of Renji that soothed with relief when Ichigo brought Rukia back burned when he realized he would never be able to return the favor.

He would never be able to return Orihime—not the way Ichigo had returned Rukia to him.

"I think I'll stay here a while longer, sir," Renji manages, a little roughly.

Byakuya claps his shoulder and turns to leave.

+

Ryuuken has the housekeeper remove all instruments of self-harm from Uryu's bedroom. When Uryu is forced to emerge every now and then, his father's eyes are hawkish, wary. There's a strange, spiritual barrier around the house now. Uryu imagines that if he were to try and summon any of his Quincy powers, the barrier would not allow it.

He wants to laugh. Hateful, bitter surges of anger lash against his ribs, an anger for which there is no outlet. What good would it be to harm himself, when all the possible harm in the world has already been done? Or—if there is indeed the chance of more harm down the horizon, Uryu has lost his ability to measure it. He doesn't trust himself anymore with clever sleights of hand or wild cards. He doesn't trust himself to understand the difference between seconds. His mind tortures him with alternate realities—realities where he drew the gloves a second sooner than he did, or a second later. It did not matter if he brought the dark, terrifying force of Yhwach back.

It would only have mattered if he brought Orihime back with him.

There is no news of how Kurosaki is faring in this new, weightless world. There was a time when he would have gone hysteric, insisted on impossible things. Uprooted the earth in search of a new one. Uryu wants that possibility. He wants to pull Ichigo by the neck of his shihakusho and say Enough, Kurosaki. She is never coming back! Don't you understand?

But nothing ever changes. In here, in the Ishida Manor, things are silent and still under the constant drum of rain. When the threshold of an acceptable absence period passes, Karakura High sends a letter to his father about returning to school. Uryu rips the letter apart and tosses it into the fireplace. If the housekeeper finds the charred shreds and tells on him, Uryu hardly cares. If she tells on him for not eating his food, or for throwing it all up when he does—Uryu does not care.

Night and day at the manor pass in a listless sequence. The trees tremble and cast shadows on the wall. In dreams, they take form—the lithe and cunning Haschwalth, the fiery Bazz-B. Yhwach himself, staring at Uryu from under his cavernous nose.

"Well, my boy?" he says. "Was it worth it?"

Uryu wakes up with a fever. Almost blindly, he reaches for the drawer, for the half-finished patchwork that he likes to pluck at to soothe himself. When he realizes the needles are gone, he flies into a blind rage, knocking the lamp down and flinging a pile of textbooks into the wall. He picks up his glasses and smashes a fist into the bridge. When his knuckles come away bloody, he curses, because Inoue-san will definitely notice at school tomorrow. She will definitely insist on healing him, insist on being his friend and his confidant, insist on showing courage where he showed weakness. She will insist. She will worry.

He does not want Orihime to worry.

In the morning, he throws on a cardigan and fumbles with his spare pair of glasses. The barrier around the manor is at its weakest when his father has to head to the hospital. If he doesn't seize the opportunity now, he may never get the opportunity again. He heads to the north wing of the house and knocks a marble statue of some ancestor to the floor. The housekeeper shrieks, and a diversion is created.

Uryu steps out of the house and heads to the shoten.

In the bleak morning light, Karakura is as familiar as the back of his hand, but he feels slightly sick walking on its streets anyway. The shoten is closed for business, but Uryu slams his fist against the door. His knuckles sting.

"Time-travel," he breathes, when it finally swings open to reveal a heavy-lidded Urahara. "An ancient spell." He pins Urahara down with a fierce gaze. "You are an inventor. A shinigami. I will not believe you if you say you have not thought of a way to raise the dead."

Urahara watches him silently. There are big bags under his eyes, the faintest hint of a stubble.

"Say something!" Uryu demands.

"Ishida-san," Urahara begins, his tone lacking its usual levity. "I wish there was something else I could say to ease your pain. But some things are beyond the realm of invention."

"You're lying."

Something flickers in Urahara's gaze. "Do you think I didn't say the same to Kurosaki-san?"

Uryu goes cold. "He's been here?"

Urahara neither confirms nor refutes Uryu's question. Urahara may have had no reason to divulge key information to a liar, a traitor. But he would not lie to Ichigo. For a moment, Uryu clutches his own arms and rocks back and forth. Memories arrive to him of the glove, of the miscalculation.

"You know, I was off by a single second," Uryu says. "If I'd slipped it on only a moment earlier, she would've returned with him."

Certainly, it would have made the war effort harder. It would have brought back the dark mass of Yhwach's power, his brutal dominance. They would've had to fight Yhwach himself and not Haschwalth, whose shrewd tacticality and subtle power were formidable, but nowhere close to his master's level of strength.

But it would have also brought back her. And anything in the world would have been worth bartering for her.

"Somehow, I doubt that Inoue-san would have appreciated that," Urahara muses.

Uryu finds himself staggering away. When he stumbles back to the manor, he's so sick he almost throws up in the bushes. Two housekeepers grab him from under his armpits and help him up, dragging him to the foyer where his father—still in his white coat—is waiting with crossed arms.

"Did Urahara-san call you?" Uryu demands, betrayed.

Ryuuken ignores him. "Go upstairs and pack your bags," he says. "I'm having you sent to the holiday house in Zushi until the end of the year." He pauses. "A proctor will visit when you feel ready to take your exams, and three members of staff will live with you around the clock. I will visit in the winter, if time permits." His mouth tightens into a line. "You are not well."

Uryu laughs without humor. "Do you think a year by the seaside will cure me? Do you think a year by the seaside will convince me that a universe where I am alive and Inoue-san is dead is a just universe? A fair one?"

"A universe where a young woman dies for an older generation's war will never be just," Ryuuken returns calmly. "But there is no universe where your survival is an insignifcant thing." The words hang between them for a second, and then Ryuuken clears his throat. "Pack your bags. The car will arrive to pick you up tomorrow morning."

+

Yuzu keeps trying to iron her uniform, but there's a pit in her stomach that grows heavier with each glance she shoots up the staircase. Her brother hasn't come down to the hall since he returned. She doubts he's even showered. The house is heavy with silence, and their father has told them to give their brother a wide berth. When the reason was revealed, she and Karin had both been horrified, had spent a sleepless night recalling Orihime's enthusiastic voice ringing through their house, the snacks she brought them, the fondness with which she greeted them, even as Ichigo rushed her upstairs so they could study together.

Study together, Karin would mouth and make pointed finger-bunnies after they left. Yuzu never truly believed their brother was ready for an intimate relationship, but it was hard to resist the charm of the idea. Especially when she thought about how relaxed Ichigo was around her, how sweet.

Her hands wring her own shirt, and she has to stop herself from cursing in frustration. The cloth is already hot to the touch, and she really shouldn't be overdoing it. She's just ducked over to check the handle's settings when the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it!" Dad calls from the hallway to the clinic.

Yuzu lifts her gaze up just in time to see Tatsuki standing at their doorstep. "Is he here?" The thin anger in her voice scares Yuzu. Her gaze drifts to her father, who seems unusually grim at the sight of her.

"Yuzu," he says. "Go get your brother."

Yuzu wants to protest. Ichigo is in a fragile mood, already disheartened and pushed to the edge. Besides—a part of her is afraid of going to the door, afraid of what she may find behind it. She's been relying on the brief pressure of the floorboards and the flick of switches whenever he goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night. She's been relying on the footsteps to, the footsteps fro. She's been counting them. But suddenly, as much as she's been yearning to see her brother—to talk to him—she's afraid of seeing him face-to-face.

Her father just gives her a look.

Yuzu turns around and heads up the stairs. She takes one at a time, her heart pounding in her chest, her nerves frayed. Ichigo's door is closed like it always is, an eerie silence laying beyond it. She hesitates, then raises a fist to knock on the door.

"Brother?" she calls.

There's no response.

"Tatsuki-chan's here to see you," she tries. "She's at the door."

Silence, yet again. Yuzu stares at his door for so long, she nearly goes dizzy, her eyes focusing and refocusing around the '15' badge hanging from the nail. She's just about to head back downstairs in defeat when the door swings open.

"Brother—!"

Ichigo brushes past her and heads down the stairs. Yuzu is so stunned she barely catches a glimpse of his face. An odor follows him out of his room, and it makes her retch. But she doesn't venture into his room to try and clean it. Instead, she clambers down the stairs behind him.

She nearly bumps into Karin when she turns a corner.

"What's going on?" Karin murmurs, a towel still pressed to her wet hair.

Yuzu rushes past her and presses herself to the window, only vaguely aware of her sister following her. On the street, Tatsuki and Ichigo are talking. Rather, Tatsuki has balled up a fist, shrieking inaudible curses at an Ichigo who has his head bowed. She tugs Ichigo's shirt and forces him to face her. She screams again, and Yuzu can hear it this time.

"Dad, do something," she cries, startled.

But by the time she turns back to the scene, Tatsuki has fallen to her knees in defeat, her head slumped over on a motionless Ichigo's thigh. Ichigo stands with his fists curled by his side.

He never moves to touch her.

+

Sado returns to school. There's no other way about it. He's always been used to the staring, the unsubtle whispers. It makes no difference now. If anything, it makes things easier. No one asks him how he is. No one offers him a comment. Keigo and Mizuiro exchange glances when he arrives but they fall in line with him without a word. A few of his teachers remark that they're glad to see him back. Sado just takes his remedial worksheets and finds a far corner of the classroom to get to work.

In the afternoon, the three boys head to the cafeteria for lunch. Sado picks up a tray and gets in line, unthinking, but when Mizuiro and Keigo tense, he feels his own senses grow alert. He follows their gaze to a point ahead, where Tatsuki and Orihime's other girl friends are waiting in line for their own food. When Tatsuki catches Sado's gaze, a mute fury floods into her face. She slams her tray on the counter and turns around to leave. The other girls scurry to follow her, shooting Sado sympathetic looks over their shoulders.

"Let's go to the roof," Keigo says, when people start to stare. Sado is just about to follow him when he feels something blocking his path.

A young girl with a buzz cut stares up at him, her eyes uncertain but strangely determined. "Sado-senpai! Hello there!" There are two others behind her, a scrawny guy in glasses and a taller, surlier guy who stares at Sado with a frown.

"Hey," Sado says slowly.

"We, um. Well, I'm Miho." The girl points at her own chest, then gestures behind her. "These two are Saki and Shihara. We're a part of Inoue-senpai's fan club." At the blank look on Sado's face, she soldiers on. "We've been trying for days now to set up a memorial meeting for Inoue-senpai. We loved her quite a lot, you see."

Sado's hands tighten on his tray.

"But the school—well. They weren't mean about it, but with finals coming up and some of the senpai—I mean, you guys—about to graduate, they figured it was bad timing."

"They didn't want it to be a distraction," Shihara grunts.

"Exactly." Miho turns to Sado, her eyes hopeful. "But we thought Inoue-senpai deserved better than that. She was—she was a part of this school. She meant things to people. And you don't just forget that. We haven't forgotten that." For a second, she seems overcome with emotion, but she reigns herself in and plows on. "We figured, since you were one of her closest friends, you'd be in support of something that honors her memory." She presses a poster into Sado's hand. "We're planning on having it in 3-A today, detention be damned. If you would—if you would do us the honor of attending, senpai, we were thinking of having you say a few words. Just so people could hear about who she really was."

"Miho-san," Keigo mutters, a little incredulous.

Sado, however, takes the poster. "I'll be there."

Miho's eyes go wide with gratitude. She bows. "Thank you, senpai! We'll rally up the troops." She gives her friends a hasty nod and takes off, a girl about her business. Saki and Shihara chase after her.

If Keigo and Mizuiro have thoughts, they keep it to themselves. It's only when they reach the roof that Mizuiro says, "Well. She was always quite popular."

"And it's not like anyone could pay attention now, anyway. Everyone's been talking about it." Keigo shoots Sado a nervous glance. "You really think you're up for something like this, though?"

"Mm."

"And Ichigo...have you heard from him?"

"No."

It's all they get out of him. They sit down and eat lunch together in silence. Sado watches the swaying trees beneath them. He can't remember the last thing he and Orihime said to each other, but he has a feeling it might have been a resolution. A promise. When they first began training together, Orihime had strictly told him that they were to hold each other accountable. Push each other when others refused. Neither of them had underestimated the gravity of their own decisions. But regret sits heavy on Sado now. And with it, the loneliness. There's nobody to share this with. In the end, Sado held himself back, played it safe. Orihime, on the other hand, had dared to dream.

"I'll see you in 3-A," he manages to get out, getting up and sliding the door to head to the boys' room. Fortunately, it's empty. Sado sets both hands down on the sink and lets himself heave for a moment, his eyes wet with tears. His stomach sinks, and it's like he's there again, back at the palace, feeling the sudden dip of Orihime's spiritual pressure. The sudden collapse of the guardians. The avalanche of white sand thrusting him, Renji and Ganju back into columns while Sado bellowed with pain, with anguish...

Sado heaves again. When his body won't allow him the release, he scrambles for a napkin in his pocket. What he finds instead is a crumpled piece of paper, battered by several rounds in the washing machine to a point where it barely still holds. Nevertheless, he uses gentle fingers to pry it open, surprised by the dash of ink that has managed to last, a post-it from so long ago. The faded letters and animated drawings conjure up the voice before he can help it: Don't forget to take a break, Sado-kun!

Sado crushes it within his fist and sobs. He's not sure whether sixth period began, or if they've already crossed over into the seventh. He just stands there for a long time, shaking. When he slides the door back open, the corridors are quiet with a timelessness that makes him lightheaded.

Instead of heading to whatever class he's supposed to be in, Sado's feet carry him to 3-A.

There's a little table at the front of the classroom where someone—probably Miho—has set down a framed picture of Orihime. The picture is too up close to make out any background details. Orihime is mid-laugh, her eyes closed. The chalkboard behind the table has two simple words written in elegant handwriting—In Memoriam. Any time now, a throng of students will rush in, eyes red-rimmed and chins trembling. Some will talk about how Orihime gave them a band-aid or a tampon in their time of need. Some will say she rescued them from bullies. Some will admit that they wanted to confess to her but never got the chance.

Sado just leaves the post-it by the frame and goes home.

+

Ichigo tries to dream about her.

It should be a matter as simple as closing his eyes, thinking about her and trying to drift. It should summon her, he thinks, to a place where she's still real. Where he can still talk to her, and look at her, and make sure she's okay.

But nothing comes. Staying up for hours together just makes him dull. Oversleeping makes him feverish. A haze of images arrive, but none of them have enough radiance to remain in his memories, so he knows they couldn't be images of her. By the time he's up, he's only reminded yet again that he's here, and she's nowhere, and nothing at all feels real. Nothing at all feels worth it. He only eats for Yuzu's sake; maybe that's the mistake. Maybe the more alive he is, the farther away he will be from her.

In any case, nothing helps. He walks around Karakura at night with his hands in his pockets and imagines that the faint glow he sees beyond the ABCookies windows is her. That she's in there, rolling her fingers over dough, huffing with the effort of keeping strangers well-fed, sorting through the leftovers for something he'll like. Smiling to herself. He stares at the windows of the bakery from across the street each night, wondering when his limbs will stop feeling like lead, when life will let him cross over and open the door so she could see him at last—so he could ask her why she went ahead when he told her she was supposed to stay behind him.

A few times, an employee or two steps out to take out the trash, barely giving him a glance. The warm draft makes him ache—it beckons him and taunts him. Ichigo just keeps walking.

When he goes back to school, it's only because he knows his family is worried. None of the letters make sense, all of the words people say to him pass him by. When a Hollow howl splits the earth in two, he stirs. But he no longer lifts his sword. The shinigami in Karakura town have increased in number. Ichigo sees them around, flashing between poles. Some days, the howls never stop. The earth trembles like it struggles to hold its own weight. Some days are quiet. The aftermath of the war leaves a subtle effect on the world—headlines about hurricanes and earthquakes, a rash of crime in poor neighborhoods. The usual rhythm of life and death. The rhythm she fought so hard to bring back. Ichigo ignores it all, just like he ignores the call of his own soul. He has nothing to say to Zangetsu—nothing at all to say to the spirit who gave him so much power it amounted to no power at all.

Perhaps that's when the gateways open, an appeal from Zangetsu, when he sleeps one night and wakes up in the back of a bus somewhere. Daylight spills in through the windows, hazy with the blur of a dream. Ichigo has no idea where they're going, but it feels like somewhere nice. A few rows ahead, the girls are chattering, Michiru braiding Mahana's hair. Tatsuki stands with her arms crossed, watching them. Ichigo feels the familiar pang he always feels on trips—the subtle disappointment when Orihime would leave the boys' side and go join the girls.

She's not with the girls now.

When Tatsuki catches his eyes, she nods to a point behind him somewhere. Ichigo turns over his shoulder and nearly gasps when he sees Orihime sitting right behind him with a coy smile on her face.

"Hi, Kurosaki-kun." She laughs, then pats the seat beside her. "Come sit with me."

Ichigo hungrily stares at her face, her curious smile. Then, he decides to obey her. The boys are at the back somewhere, bickering among themselves. No one pays any mind to Ichigo and Orihime, sitting together. Ichigo lowers himself tentatively, then glances down at her hand, which had pat the seat to beckon him.

"Inoue," he breathes. "You're here."

"Of course! It's nice to get a break from everything, right?"

"A break?"

"Mm-hmm." She smiles serenely, gazing out the window. "I'm happy."

"Me too," Ichigo tells her.

Orihime laughs cutely, like he said something funny. Then, her face softens with a knowing smile, almost sad, and she touches his cheek. "It'll end soon, though."

Ichigo holds her hand to his face. "No. Why?"

"My stop is almost here," she whispers.

"No, Inoue." His breath starts to lose its steadiness. "You can stay. You have to stay. We're all going to the same place. We—"

She mutely shakes her head and stands, crossing his legs to get to the aisle. Ichigo makes to grab her. "Inoue! Wait! It's not time yet!" He tries to stand too, but the jolt of the bus pushes him down. His legs are heavy with lead, so heavy he struggles to stand back up. Orihime, on the other hand, has already made it a few paces ahead.

"Inoue!" he calls out. "Inoue!"

She turns over her shoulder in slow motion. Before he can catch a glimpse of her face, he wakes up, his lungs burning. Heaving. The first thing he sees is the grim face of his father. His father, who is holding him down with one heavy arm on his chest, breaking a mild sweat from the effort.

"Dad?" Ichigo croaks, and he's surprised by the rough ache in his throat. He frowns.

"Sorry," Isshin tells him. "You were scaring your sisters."

Ichigo processes that, his chest still heaving. It's way past midnight, judging by the light of the moon. His mouth tastes like blood, and his body is numb. Critter sounds fill the air, ringing and loud and annoying. Reality drowns him like cold water, like a moonless night. Ichigo wants to die.

When Isshin can tell he has no more fight left in him, he lifts off. Ichigo just rolls over and presses his face to his pillow. After a while, when he's certain Isshin has left the room and shut the door behind him, he closes his eyes.

Again, he begs. Please, again.

This time, Zangetsu doesn't indulge him.

In the morning, Ichigo eats breakfast at the table, and his sisters pretend they didn't hear him scream himself hoarse the night before. Halfway through, taste dissipates, and so does his appetite. With the harsh scrape of his chair, he stands, barely registering his sisters flinch.

"I'm going out," he tells his dad, then leaves the house with his breakfast uneaten.

He meant to go to school, he thinks, but he ends up going to Orihime's apartment.

The second-floor unit is quiet, an empty brown house with the occasional slats of sunlight spilling in. She hadn't locked the door. Dust motes dance like golden flies in the light. Ichigo takes his shoes off and ventures in.

The shelves of her apartment nearly overflow with secondhand books. Manga. Novels. He doesn't touch them, but his eyes rove over the space. The bottom shelf holds all her textbooks and notes. Her stereo, coated now with dust, must have played her favorite songs once. It's quiet now. Her plants are all dead. In the morning light, the robot piggybank has a plasticky translucence. His heart sinks when he realizes there's barely any money in it.

From the pantry, a stale scent beckons him, the smell of old bread. Ichigo brushes its handle with his fingertips, then feels his chest twist and leaves it alone. For years, they'd fought battles together, gone to school and movies together, and each time, this was the place she would return to. Ichigo tiptoes over the floorboards with as little weight as he can manage, eyes drifting from wall to wall, heart clenching when he sees red circles and big, loopy letters on her calendar. Events she was looking forward to. Days that were coming right up.

Nothing about the apartment suggests evidence of a girl who intended to die.

Ichigo pushes through the doorway and heads to the kitchen. In the sink, a heap of dishes lay soaking in muddy water. Ichigo bends over to clear the drain, then begins washing them one at a time. Suds fill up the sink, iridescent clouds of foam that smell fresh and sharp. Ichigo runs his thumb along a little chip on the rim of one of her mugs and wonders what the story there is. There's always a story. By the time he's done, his uniform is soaking wet, and morning has turned into noon. The daze of the day makes him sleepy. He clears out her pantry and her kitchen for something to do, finds an old notebook with instructions on how to dispose the trash. The handwriting on this one is childish, scrawny. Ichigo pictures a twelve-year-old with little front bangs, fastidiously writing down whatever the garbage collectors told her. Alone, in a world without anyone by her side, but she would have made sure to try and get things right.

She always tries to get things right.

A thump from downstairs suddenly catches his attention. Footsteps.

"Inoue-san?" A man calls out from behind the door. "Is that you?"

Iwao-san is always grumpy when I walk too loudly, a sheepish voice rings in his head.

Ichigo slips out of the window before the landlord can slide the door open.

+

The first thing Renji says when he returns from Karakura is, "He didn't talk to me."

Rukia sets down the paper she was holding and looks up at him.

"I asked his sister to let me up to his room." Renji closes the door behind him and shrugs. "Didn't seem like he was all there. He's been eating though. Sister says he'll come down for dinner, lunch. Graduated too, about a week ago."

"That's good," Rukia says, when she finally finds her voice.

Renji just gives her a knowing look. "It's been months."

"I know."

"You two knew her the best," Renji continues. "You both lost her."

Rukia fights the ache in her throat. "I know, Renji."

"You've got to see him, Rukia." Renji shakes his head. "You've—you need someone to help you carry this."

"I have you."

"You have me," Renji confirms readily, and her heart soothes like it always does. "You had me, back in Rukon, when we lost Fuji, and Mame, and Kosaburou," he adds. "But it's not the same. You know it's not the same."

Rukia closes her eyes because Renji is right about that, at least. The captain's exam is in a few weeks. She'd been gently but firmly persuaded to take it. With her strength and the training she received at the palace, she knows she's pretty much guaranteed the white haori her captain once wore. With it, she'll inherit his duty, his responsibility. His jurisdiction. When Rukia becomes captain of the Thirteenth Division, she will have to oversee the district where some of the people dearest to her came from. The district where she lost the only girl she had ever held dear. It's been looming at her every night, and while sneaking in to sleep at Renji's barracks keeps the nightmares at bay, she's not sure she can ever face that town and those riverbanks again. The promotion is a necessary formality. But Rukia knows, deep down, that she's already failed the town assigned to her.

"I can't, Renji," she manages to say. She can't go give Ichigo a slap on the back and tell him to get up again. Not this time.

If Renji is disappointed, he holds it in. Rukia fights the dismay. In the last few months, he's been the only person holding her together. He's the only one she can bear to be around, really. The only one who won't coo at her or give her sympathetic looks while not really understanding her attachment to a human girl. It's a reputation thing. Kuchiki Rukia, the odd woman who stuck a sword through a boy's chest. Everyone in Soul Society can appreciate the value of a human sacrificing herself for a war, but not all of them can understand forging a genuine friendship. It kills souls to remember they were once human. To acknowledge that they're still every bit afraid of dying as they were before.

Luckily, Renji is not one of them.

"Come here," she says to him, as soft as she can manage within her office.

Renji wordlessly strides over and lets her rest her head against his hip. They stay like this for a few moments. Rukia thinks about Orihime, and Kaien, and the scattered atoms of their heart that are out there somewhere in the universe. Then, she straightens.

"Let's go out and get something to eat."

Renji lets her go. "Sure. We could go over your strategy for the exam again while we're at it too."

"We will not," Rukia says crossly. But she squeezes his hand in implicit gratitude.

+

A year passes, and then a few more months push forward at a sluggish pace. In November, Sado finds Ichigo at the riverbank, sitting with his elbows on his knees and staring into the distance. He's grown even thinner since graduation, his hair longer. Old bruises and ark circles paint his skin in awful hues. When Sado sits down beside him on the grass, he murmurs out a greeting. Time hasn't treated him well, but Sado is still relieved to see him.

For a while, they say nothing to each other. Then, "I saw Arisawa the other day. Keigo said she was heading out to Bunkyo-ku."

"I see," Ichigo replies.

"Ishida's father had him sent somewhere too. Enoshima, maybe. No one knows."

Ichigo turns to give him an inscrutable look. Sado shrugs. It's the first words they've said to each other in over a year.

"I made a shrine for her on Día de Muertos," Sado continues, staring at his own hands. "It's...the day I feel closest to her."

Ichigo's voice is soft when he asks, "What did you leave?"

"Sugar cookies. Bread from her bakery."

"Mm."

Beyond their eyes, the river glitters under the sunlight. Sado thinks of summers and dragonflies. Of three awkward boys following the lead of a boisterous, talkative girl. They were so sure of themselves back then, so confident that the world was more adventure than war. But when the curtain was pulled aside and truths were revealed, Orihime was still game for anything.

Sado thinks he might just miss her for the rest of his life.

"I'm heading back to Okinawa," Sado announces—the real purpose of his visit. "Found an old contact there with a job for me."

A shade of their old selves spills over them. For a second, he thinks Ichigo might consider this a ridiculous decision, an improper one. The protest is certainly written into his features—however feeble. But Ichigo nods and lets it pass.

"I'll send you a postcard," Sado says.

"Sure," Ichigo replies.

It's the last promise they make to each other.

+

The spring after Rukia is made captain, Renji comes home to a peculiar sight. In their garden, Rukia stands with her back to him, her short hair stirring through the breeze. There are two young boys on either side of her, gnawing on half a peeled orange each. When Rukia senses his arrival, she turns over her shoulder to give him the slightest smile, then nods at an attendant to watch the boys in her stead.

"I found them on my way back from Rukon," she explains when she comes closer. "They were going through my knapsack for food."

Renji snorts. "Ballsy little shits."

"I know," Rukia says with warmth, but her eyes are pensive.

"What's up?"

Rukia lifts her gaze to meet his. "Will you mind? If we shelter them here?"

"Of course I won't."

Rukia lets out a breath. "I haven't discussed it with Brother yet, but I imagine there'll be some noise from the family about it."

"The Captain's used to noise," Renji assures her.

Rukia makes a noncommittal sound. Then, "They have a friend. A little girl. They think she headed into the forest for a boar-hunt."

Renji frowns. "On her own?"

"That one had a fever." Rukia nods at the darker-skinned boy. "The other one was keeping watch around the perimeter." Their eyes meet again. "They think she slipped past them to get them food somehow. Little fool."

"Y'know how it is out there." Renji casts his gaze out at the boys, who stand close together. Who stare at everything with the same, wary gaze, a space between them left for their counterpart.

"I'm going to find her," Rukia says, staring directly at Renji with an unspoken vulnerability. "I have to find her."

"Okay."

"Will you come with me?"

Renji says yes. He's surprised she even had to ask.

+

In the twenty years that pass between the war and the new world that's formed all around them, Ichigo quits his job at Ikumi's, picks up a position at a bookstore, and moves into an apartment a bit on the outskirts of town—mostly so his father and his sisters can go back to life as it was before him.

(Of course, this doesn't stop Yuzu and Karin from visiting him once a week. Just to check in, Yuzu assures him, a code, he assumes, for just to make sure you're still alive).

Ichigo doesn't know what that's supposed to mean anymore, but he pushes on. Lives. He takes a literature class at an evening college and washes his cigarette-stained clothes on the weekends. He thumbs through Orihime's secondhand books and reads her post-its. Her impassioned arguments against whoever had already written on the margins before her. Her directives to ask about this, to find out more. Lonely little conversations with herself that he starts writing back to, in his own notebook. Responses to her responses. Opinions on her opinions. There is no trace of her in his world except for her stern handwriting, her steadfast heart. He holds onto what little he gets.

He's walking back home one day alongside a familiar strip of juke joints, seedy hotels and host clubs when something catches his eye—a briefest flutter of movement. The click of a woman's heels. She's got long legs, and short brown hair, but there's something familiar about her that makes him stop short in his tracks. In a short, swanky dress, she is as graceful as a swan. And thin. Rib-thin. The details are wrong. All the details are wrong.

And yet. There is a strange magnetism.

Somehow, despite being separated by a layer of glass, the woman seems to sense his gaze and turns. Ichigo catches her eye, then catches the flickering lights of the establishment above him. He's passed by this area several times, but he's never seen her before, the woman with the strangely familiar eyes. Never paid attention to the board either, with its bold ads and lurid enticements.

Despite it being years since he last stood on a battlefield, adrenaline kicks in, a fast, hard surge of his heart.

He swings open the door and steps in.