Seta Ichika - I Don-t Have A Mother Anymore- So... [RECOMMENDED]

“So…”

On her desk lies a half-empty cup of tea, now stone cold, and a single piece of paper. It’s a form—a school permission slip for the upcoming cultural festival. The line marked Parent/Guardian Signature is painfully blank. Seta Ichika - I Don-t Have A Mother Anymore- So...

A late autumn evening. The sky above Tokyo is a bruised purple, fading to black. Seta Ichika sits alone in her room at the rooftop flat she once shared with her mother. The window is open a crack, letting in the cold air and the distant sound of a train. “So…” On her desk lies a half-empty cup

She doesn’t plug in. She plays one note. Low. Long. A single, sustained vibration that travels through the wood, through her chest, through the cold floor of the apartment. A late autumn evening

It is a note that says: I am still here. And I am carrying you with me.

Her mother’s fox is gone. Buried.

It is not a sad note. It is not a happy note.