White flowers. Dimmer light. Careful arrangements.
Everything is calibrated to say this is solemn, this is respectful, this is already decided.
Juri takes it in the same way he always does—quickly, thoroughly, without attachment. The habit remains, even if the body does not. He stands near the back of the room, half-shadowed by a pillar, where no one looks long enough to notice the space he occupies.
He has always preferred angles like this. Places that allow observation without invitation.
Taiga sits in the front row. That’s new.
His hands are folded in his lap, knuckles pale, posture too still. He looks like someone afraid that movement might break whatever fragile permission is holding him upright. Juri notes it distantly, the way one notes weather patterns or structural faults.
There is an urn at the front. Clean lines. Neutral glaze. Chosen with care.
Good, Juri thinks. He didn’t rush.
People speak in turns. Voices blur together—regret, borrowed reverence, a few words said too loudly about choices that were never theirs to judge. Someone mentions the life Taiga walked away from, the ceremony that never happened, the absence framed as scandal instead of survival.
Juri doesn’t listen closely. None of this is for him. He knows that. He has always known where he does and does not belong.
Taiga does not look back.
That’s all right. This moment isn’t for recognition. It’s for endurance.
Juri watches the way grief settles on him—not loudly, not dramatically, but with the kind of weight that sinks in and stays. He catalogs it the way he catalogs everything else, because cataloging is what keeps things from spilling over.
You’re doing fine, he thinks. Not comfortingly. Just factually. You’re still here.
The room feels complete. Closed. Like a loop that will not reopen.
That, more than anything, confirms it.
Juri exhales—out of habit, not necessity—and lets himself fade back another step, leaving the light to those who still need it.