The Sky Always Changes

Akira's fingers twitched.

"The walls burned. The ceiling collapsed. Smoke filled my lungs. And my body—already broken—could barely move."

He swallowed hard.

"But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. Not when my grandchildren were still inside."

A deep breath. A slow exhale.

"I carried them out. Through the flames, through the pain. And when I finally got them to safety…"

He gestured to his face, his burnt, ruined skin.

"This… was the price."

A heavy silence settled between them.

"But I never regretted it."

"Not for a second. Not then. Not now. If I had to do it again, I would. A thousand times over."

"Without hesitation."

Akira's gaze remained locked onto him, his expression unreadable.

"I survived," the old man continued, his voice growing quieter.

"And when I woke up in the hospital… the first thing I thought about was seeing my family again. Seeing their faces. Hearing them say they were okay."

His lips pressed together tightly.

"But when I got out…"

His fists clenched.

"People stared at me."

A beat.

"Not with gratitude. Not with respect."

Another pause.

"But with fear."

Akira's eyes darkened slightly.

"I ignored it,"

The old man muttered.

"Why should I care what strangers thought of me?"

"As long as my family could accept me, as long as they could bear to look at me, then it didn't matter."

His breath grew unsteady.

"But when I got home… the house the government provided us temporarily… when I walked through that door…"

For the first time, his remaining eye finally turned to Akira.

And in that moment, Akira saw it.

The pain.

The kind of pain no physical wound could ever compare to.

"They were terrified of me."

A sharp inhale.

"My grandchildren—my grandchildren—screamed when they saw me. They begged my son to send me away. They called me a monster."

Akira's jaw tightened.

"And my son… my own flesh and blood, the boy I raised with my own hands.

The old man laughed. A hollow, broken sound.

"He told me to leave."

Akira's fingers curled into a fist.

"They said I was bad luck. That I was cursed. That I would bring misfortune upon them if I stayed."

A deep, shuddering breath.

"I never got a 'thank you.'"

His voice wavered.

"Not a single word of gratitude. Instead, I was insulted. Mocked. Thrown away."

Silence.

The wind howled softly in the distance.

"And so… I left," the old man finally whispered. "With nothing. No family. No home. Only this ruined body… and a small government insurance check to keep me alive."

Akira sat there, unmoving.

"And that's why I only come out at night."

A bitter chuckle.

"Because if people can't see me, they can't judge me." They can't avoid me. They can't fear me."

The old man looked back down, his gaze distant once more.

"And today… I saw you."

A pause.

"I don't know why, but when I saw you sitting there… I saw loneliness."

His lips trembled.

"That's why I thanked you."

Akira's dark eyes flickered.

"Because—even though you didn't see my face at first—you were the first human to stay close to me.To sit with me, in silence, without fear, without disgust, without running away."

His voice cracked.

"For the first time since the incident-

A single tear slipped from his ruined eye, trailing down the scarred skin of his cheek.

Akira stood up now before him, hands in his pockets, his face partially hidden by the hood. His dark eyes, however, gleamed beneath the shadows—steady, unwavering.

"You lived."

The old man blinked up at him.

"And they didn't," Akira continued, tilting his head slightly.

"Not really."

"They exist, they breathe, but they threw away the only part of them that mattered."

The old man swallowed.

"And what part is that?"

Akira's dark eyes gleamed.

"The part that could still look at you and see a father."

"A grandfather."

"A man who burned for them and still would."

The night felt still. Even the wind seemed to pause.

The old man let out a shaky breath. "But I'm… broken."

Akira scoffed lightly. "So what?" He gestured around.

"You think the world is whole?"

"You think anyone walking around here hasn't been shattered at least once?"

The old man let out a breathless chuckle.

"You talk like you've already figured it all out, young man."

Akira smirked faintly, but his eyes held something deep—something vast and unreadable.

"I just know what it's like to stand at the edge and wonder if there's a point in taking another step forward."

The old man stared at him.

Akira turned, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Go home, old man."

"And if you don't have one, make one.Even if it's just for yourself."

He took a few steps away, then paused. Without turning back, he added,

"The fire didn't take you out."

"Don't let their rejection do what the flames couldn't."

Then, with the quiet grace of a shadow, Akira walked off into the night.

Akira's steps were slow, fading into the quiet night. His words had been spoken, raw and unfiltered, and now there was nothing left to say.

Just as he reached the edge of the park, the old man's voice called out—low, weathered, but carrying something new. Something warm.

"Young man."

Akira didn't stop, but he listened.

The old man chuckled, a deep, knowing sound.

"You remind me of the sky before dawn."

Akira's brow furrowed slightly. He turned his head just enough to hear the man continue.

"Dark. Quiet.Heavy with things most people can't understand But no matter how long the night lasts, the sky always changes."

"The sun always rises."

The words lingered in the cold air, hanging between them like an unspoken promise.

Akira stood still for a moment. Then, for the first time that night, he exhaled—not in frustration, not in exhaustion, but in something else. Something lighter.

He glanced back over his shoulder, his voice quieter than before. "…Guess I'll wait for the sunrise, then."

The old man smiled, deep and genuine. "It'll come."

Akira didn't say anything else. He simply turned forward and kept walking.