Page 199 of Mercy Written in Blood

"I understand that part."

"You spilled coffee."

"I was there."

"It was amusing."

"And then?"

Renji did not answer. Haruki moved closer — not enough to crowd him, enough that silence could not pretend to be distance.

"When did you last laugh like that?"

Renji's hands became still. Haruki immediately knew the question had been the wrong one. Or the right one asked too soon.

"I don't know," Renji said.

The answer was barely audible. Haruki looked at his profile. Renji did not forget anything. He had said so minutes earlier. He remembered a hospital trolley, a broken bowl, every person whose possessions he preserved. If he did not know, perhaps the memory was too far away. Or perhaps he knew exactly and could not bear to say.

Haruki lowered his voice.

"You don't have to tell me."

Renji nodded once. No relief followed. He looked towards the window. Night pressed against the glass, reflecting the two of them in the apartment — Haruki standing in one slipper with coffee down his trousers, Renji beside him, unsettled by joy. The absurdity should have restored the humour. It did not.

"I'm sorry," Haruki said.

Renji turned sharply.

"For what?"

"The books. The rug."

"That is not what you mean."

"No."

"You have nothing to apologise for."

"I made you uncomfortable."

"You made me laugh."

Renji spoke as though correcting him. Haruki waited. Renji's expression tightened.

"I had forgotten," he said.

"What?"

The answer took time.

"What it felt like before."

Haruki did not ask before what. Grief. Loss. Immortality. The fall of the Takahara. Perhaps there had never been one clear boundary — only centuries accumulating until laughter belonged to someone Renji no longer recognised.

Haruki stepped beside him. Their shoulders touched. Renji did not move away.

"Was it bad?" Haruki asked.