Only silence filled the living room. The television was on, but no one was watching. Her father sat quietly with the newspaper spread before him, while Misaki stared absently at her phone. Three years had passed since her mother’s death. The conversation between them had withered to the bare minimum, and time passed like air—present, but unspoken.
“We’re going to Grandma’s house tomorrow.”
The sudden words from her father made Misaki look up. Her grandmother had passed away just a few days ago. It was natural to go for the sorting of her belongings, but when was the last time she’d gone somewhere alone with her father?
Her grandmother’s house was steeped in memories of family life. Dusty photo albums, yellowed curtains, cushions her mother had once crocheted. While cleaning, Misaki’s eyes caught a glimpse of an old photograph. In it were her younger parents and a much smaller version of herself.
“Do you remember this?”
Her father leaned in silently to look. A faint smile crept across his face.
“You used to cry a lot. Even here—you were scared of the ocean…”
The words surprised Misaki. It had been a long time since her quiet father had spoken like this. Back when her mother was still alive, he had laughed more. She used to cling to that back of his.
Among her grandmother’s belongings, they found a bundle of small letters—written by her mother, addressed to her father. The gentle handwriting seemed to bring her mother’s voice back to life. He quietly read them, then turned to Misaki.
“It might be too soon for you to read these. But someday…”
His back looked smaller than before. Yet there was still a trace of that strength she remembered. On the way home, Misaki muttered almost to herself:
“You talk more than I thought, Dad.”
He gave a slightly bashful smile.
“You just never tried listening before.”
In the silence that followed, something deeper than words passed between them. Misaki felt the urge to reach for that familiar back once more.
That night, back home, she opened the old family album alone. In every picture, her father always had his back turned. But now, she thought—maybe she finally understood what that back had been trying to protect all along.
