Even though she was the one standing there, watching him look back at her, she had the feeling of being a million miles away, viewing everything at a distance. It was like looking at something through a series of frosted windows; every glass layer served to blur her focus until what lay beyond was indistinct and incomprehensible.

Masamune was gone, and yet here was someone so like him. Camellias had been a part of her stormy relationship with him, and yet here Miyu’s brother had brought one carefully tended flower for her.

What kind of power could have made this… all of this… possible? It was too much to imagine.

Out of the well of her surprise and turmoil, silence erupted like a geyser. Silence had always been her first impulse when she didn‘t know what to say. Tsubaki supposed she had never been very good at saying aloud what needed to be said--it had been her silent hesitation that had disturbed Masamune so much in the past. He’d valued words, and she had never been able to give him the right ones before he’d left on his quest for self-identity.

The longer she said nothing, the more guilt stung at her. Masamune’s past anger and hurt was absent in the way he looked at her, but Tsubaki couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing it again. What she had done for years. Hurting an older brother with her lack of words.

But perhaps Miyu and her brother were different. Maybe they had had longer to understand one another.

Tell me what I can do.

She looked down for a moment, halting in the face of his intensity. How much of his sister did this brother see? The reverse was also true. How much did she understand about Masamune, the brother she’d barely known?

“You don’t… have to do anything,” she said at last. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. Thank you for the… for the flower.”