I wake to warmth.

Not the warmth of sunlight on my face—though I can feel it faintly against my skin, softer than yesterday, duller than I remember. No, the warmth that anchors me is heavier, steadier. The weight of a hand curled gently around mine. The steady thrum of a heartbeat where my ear rests against a chest.

Shion.

For a moment, I lie there without moving, afraid that if I stir, the night before will vanish—shatter like a dream I shouldn’t have dared to keep. My throat aches, swollen from crying, from shouting. My lips still sting, tender, as though they’re remembering every brush of his against mine.

He’s breathing evenly, but I know he isn’t asleep. His hand tightens just slightly when I shift, like he’s been waiting for me to wake.

“…Morning,” he murmurs, his voice low, husky with exhaustion.

I swallow. The word feels fragile in my mouth, as if speaking too loud will break the spell. “Morning.”

There’s a pause. Then, softly: “How are you feeling?”

I almost laugh at the question. How am I feeling? I woke into darkness, fell apart, kissed him like my life depended on it—and somehow I’m still here, still held. My chest is hollow and full all at once.

“…Still blind,” I say, because it’s the only answer I can give. The words taste bitter, but he doesn’t flinch.

“I know.” His thumb rubs a slow circle against the back of my hand. “But you’re still Kaoru.”

Something twists inside me. Relief. Fear. Need. I can’t name it. I just grip his hand harder, terrified of what it means to lean on him like this.

---

The smell reaches me before anything else: eggs sizzling, faintly sweet miso broth. I hear the quiet shuffle of Shion moving around the tiny kitchen.

I sit at the table awkwardly, my world narrowed to sound and touch. He insists I rest, but I can’t stand the thought of doing nothing. Still, when he sets the bowl in front of me, steam brushing my face, I’m helpless but to obey.

“Eat,” he says firmly, like he’s daring me to argue.

I pick up the chopsticks, fumbling more than I’d like. My chest tightens as the tips clatter against the rim of the bowl. I grit my teeth, muttering, “I used to—”

“Shh.” His voice cuts me off, but it isn’t sharp. Just steady. He guides my hand lightly, adjusting my grip. “You’ll figure it out again. Slowly. No rush.”

No rush. As though time isn’t slipping through my fingers faster than I can hold. As though I’m not already losing more each day.

I want to scream. Instead, I eat, because he’s watching, and because the taste of warm broth and his quiet hum beside me makes the silence bearable.

---

The days pass strangely.

I begin to notice the shift—vision narrowing, shrinking, dissolving. At first, I could still sense the faint shapes of doors, windows, outlines of bodies when they moved against the light. But soon even those ghosts begin to fade. Shadows bleed into nothing.

One afternoon, I sit at my desk, brush in hand, and realize I can’t see the canvas at all. Not even the faintest trace of white. Just the void, endless and complete.

The brush drops from my hand. I hear it roll across the floor, but I don’t move to catch it.

It’s over.

I bow my head, hands gripping the edges of the desk so tightly my knuckles ache. This is the end of one world—the only world I’ve ever known. Color, line, shape—gone. The terror is sharp, raw, but beneath it lies something heavier: grief.

I don’t hear Shion at first, not until his hands close gently over my shoulders.

“Kaoru,” he whispers. “Don’t say it’s the end.”

I choke on a laugh, bitter. “Then what is it?”

“A beginning.”

He steps away before I can argue, the sound of his footsteps moving toward the piano. The bench creaks beneath his weight. For a moment, there’s silence—then the first notes fall, soft and searching.

The melody builds slowly, tender as dawn. It swells with aching sorrow, then blooms with warmth, carrying colors I can almost see. The gold of sunlight, the deep blue of night, the fleeting green of spring leaves. His music paints where my eyes cannot.

When the final chord lingers, trembling in the air, my face is wet with tears I didn’t feel falling.

“What… was that?” My voice is broken.

Shion answers softly. “When Colors Fade. It’s yours. Always yours.”

I press a hand to my chest, as if I can hold the music inside me. And I realize—it’s true. Even without sight, I am not blind. Not with sound. Not with love. Not with memory.

---

Years later

The gallery hums quietly with footsteps, whispers, the distant rustle of coats and programs.

I sit in the center of the exhibit, cane resting by my chair, hands wandering over the textured lines of a sculpture. The grooves are rough in places, smooth in others, layered with ridges that rise like waves frozen mid-motion.

I made this piece—we made this piece. With Shion’s help, I learned to build not with color but with texture, letting the world be felt instead of seen.

Fingers tracing the ridges, I imagine the flow of paint I can no longer see. But I don’t need to. My hands remember. My heart remembers.

Beside me, Shion sits, humming softly under his breath—some new melody, or maybe a fragment of When Colors Fade. I smile faintly, turning my face toward the sound.

“Kaoru,” he says gently, his hand brushing mine, grounding me like he always has.

I take a breath, steady and certain, and whisper, “Maybe colors fade… but you stayed. That’s enough.”

The world is dark around me, but inside, it is full of light. Because in the end, love isn’t something you see. It’s something you hold, something that holds you back.

And that is more than enough.