The Weight of a Promise

The moment my fingers touched the box, I hesitated.

The wood was cool, smoother than I remembered. It felt fragile, like it might break if I pressed too hard.

I took a slow breath and opened it.

The hinges creaked slightly. Inside, a neatly folded piece of cloth rested on top, covering whatever lay beneath. I lifted it carefully, revealing a stack of papers, some photographs, and a small notebook.

My eyes fell on a particular photo.

It was old, the edges slightly bent. In it, two kids stood in front of this very shrine, smiling.

Me.

And Komaru.

I let out a breath, pressing my thumb lightly over the image. I remembered this day—how we ran up the shrine steps, laughing, how we made a promise about the future, one that I had long since buried.

Beneath the photo were letters, most in my own handwriting. Some were just loose pages, others folded neatly. I picked one up, recognizing the way my younger self had written back then—quick, messy, filled with thoughts I probably never said out loud.

"We said we wouldn't change. But I feel like I already have."

My grip tightened slightly.

I had written this.

I had written all of them.

I put the letter down and picked up the notebook instead. The cover was worn, the pages inside filled with notes, sketches, and random thoughts. Some of them made me smile—inside jokes, plans we made but never followed through on. Others… felt heavier.

I flipped through until I found a page with a date that made my chest tighten.

The day before it happened.

"They don't see me as a person. Just something to shape, to mold into what they couldn't be. I hate it. I hate the way they talk about my future like it belongs to them. Like I don't get a choice."

My breath came slower.

I remembered.

My parents had never cared about what I wanted. To them, I was just a tool—something they could use to fix their regrets, to live through me and achieve what they had failed to. And Shinobu… she had noticed.

At first, she was just annoyed, jealous that our parents had started giving me more attention. But over time, that jealousy turned into something else. She saw what they were doing to me, how they were shaping me into someone I wasn't.

And yet, in the end, it hadn't mattered.

Because I had killed them.

I gripped the notebook tighter.

That night faded into fragments—memories blurred by adrenaline, fear, and the weight of everything I had done.

Then—darkness.

And then—white.

I had woken up in a hospital bed.

The ceiling had been bright, painfully sterile. The distant beeping of a heart monitor filled the silence. My arms felt heavy, my body sore.

I had tried to move, but a voice stopped me.

"Don't force yourself."

I had turned my head.

Komaru was there, sitting beside the bed. Her arms were crossed, her eyes watching me with that same unreadable look she always had.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, she reached into her pocket.

And pulled out the key.

The same, rusted key.

She held it between her fingers, as if weighing something. Then, finally, she spoke.

"Are you going to come back?"

The question had lingered between us.

I had stared at her, at the key, at the quiet understanding in her gaze.

And instead of answering, I had reached out, taking her hand and closing her fingers around the metal.

"Keep it," I had said, my voice hoarse. "I'll come back to take it."

Komaru had studied me for a long time before nodding.

And just like that, the promise had been made.

I let out a slow breath, pulling my thoughts back to the present.

This box—these letters, these memories—this was the part of me I had left behind.

But I wasn't running anymore.

Reaching into my pocket, I felt the shape of the key Komaru had given me earlier that evening.

A reminder.

A promise.

I had a choice now.

To keep carrying this weight.

Or to finally take back what I left behind.

The wind stirred through the temple grounds, rustling the leaves that had begun to gather around my feet. I sat there, the box open beside me, my fingers still resting on the key in my pocket.

I had told Komaru I would come back to take it.

And now, here I was.

But was I ready?

I exhaled, leaning back slightly. The weight of the past felt different now—less like a chain and more like something I had carried for so long that I had stopped noticing its presence.

The letters, the photos, the notebook—they weren't just reminders of what had happened. They were proof that I had been someone before all of it. That there had been laughter, promises, dreams.

Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that I was just the sum of what I had done. That the moment I walked out that door, the moment my hands had been stained, everything before it had ceased to matter.

But that wasn't true.

Because Komaru had still been here.

Because she had still waited.

I ran a hand through my hair, staring up at the sky. The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the stone steps leading down the hill.

I had spent so long avoiding this place. Avoiding her.

But she had never let go of the key.

I closed the box carefully, my movements slow, deliberate. Then, with one last look at the shrine, I pushed myself to my feet.

The stone path stretched ahead, the same one I had walked countless times as a kid. The same one I had walked the night I left.

And now, the one I would walk back.

I found her where I knew she would be.

Komaru stood at the temple's entrance, her back resting against the wooden frame. Arms crossed. Eyes steady.

Waiting.

She didn't say anything when I approached, just tilted her head slightly, as if studying me.

I reached into my pocket.

And pulled out the key.

The metal was warm now, no longer as cold as when she had pressed it into my palm earlier. I held it out to her, watching as her gaze flickered down to it.

A pause.

Then, slowly, she reached out and took it.

Her fingers curled around the key, just as they had that night in the hospital.

She let out a breath—soft, almost inaudible. Then she shook her head, a faint, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Took you long enough."

I huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The temple grounds were quiet, the world settled in the space between us.

Then, Komaru glanced at the key in her hand before looking back at me.

"So? What now?"

I thought about it.

About the past. About the weight I had carried. About the promise I had made.

Then, I looked at her.

"Now?" I exhaled, hands slipping into my pockets. "Now, I move forward."

Komaru studied me for a second longer, then nodded.

"Good."

And with that, we walked down the temple steps—together.