Word Count: 205
Notes: Set directly after Episode 29, "Azure Paler Than the Sky," and written as part of the Alphabet Game, a multi-fandom self-challenge from last summer.
They tell him that his heart stopped, but when he tries to reach back and try to remember what it was like, he comes up with the blank space where two frames (or slides) were spliced together. No white light, no angels singing, and no moment of judgment.
When he's strong enough to be berated, they ask him what he was thinking, checking himself out of the hospital in his condition; did he have a death wish? He wouldn't have phrased it in exactly those words, but it's a fair assessment of the situation. And if wishes were granted without knots in the grain, the story wouldn't be worth telling, would it?
He asks for a pen and paper, and tries to write a letter to Juri, apologizing, explaining, reassuring, but for the first time since he arrived at Ohtori, so many years ago, words fail him. A plan fails him. Nothing that he could possibly say would be good enough for her now, if it ever was. In the end, he tears up every page, and then stays awake the rest of the night, listening for the bells or the scent of the ocean, knowing that, now and perhaps forever, the window is closed.