The cicadas cried out that summer in a way they hadn't before. Their relentless, buzzing song filled the air, as if trying to drown out something no one could quite hear. The village lay quiet under the weight of their song, a sleepy place hidden between green hills and rice paddies, where time felt as though it had forgotten to move forward.

Setsuko watched the sky, her tiny feet dangling off the porch. Her hands, small and delicate, rested on her lap, clutching a faded ribbon that had once been bright red. Her brother, Haruo, sat beside her, his face thin and pale, eyes half-lidded in the midday heat. He hadn't been able to run as fast lately, and the bright energy that had always danced in his eyes was gone, like the fireflies they used to chase at twilight.

"Do you think the cicadas are lonely?" Setsuko asked, her voice barely a whisper. The question hung in the heavy air, met with nothing but the endless hum of the cicadas. Haruo didn't answer right away. His breath came slow, deliberate, as if every inhale took something precious from him.

"Maybe they're just trying to be heard," he said after a long silence. "Maybe they're afraid no one's listening."

Setsuko blinked, her heart aching at the words. Haruo had always said strange things like that lately, things that made her feel like something was slipping away, something important. She tightened her grip on the ribbon, the one he had tied in her hair every morning before school, back when the days were filled with laughter and running through the fields without a care. But that was before the sickness came.

The adults didn't talk about it much. They would smile gently at Setsuko and say that Haruo needed rest, that he would be fine with time, but she wasn't a child anymore. Not really. She could see it in her mother's eyes, the way her smile didn't quite reach her lips when she stroked Haruo's hair. She could hear it in the silence at dinner, when only the cicadas dared to speak.

Setsuko stood, brushing the dust off her worn yukata, and walked toward the garden where the bamboo grew tall and cast long, thin shadows over the ground. She had been afraid of those shadows once. Now they felt comforting, like a cool blanket in the suffocating heat. Haruo didn't follow her, too weak to stand. His gaze followed her instead, soft but distant, as though he were already far away, somewhere she couldn't reach.

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She knelt by the small stream that trickled through the garden, her reflection shimmering in the water. Her cheeks were round and flushed from the sun, but her eyes were wide and tired. She stared at her reflection for a long time, wondering when she had begun to look so different—so much older. She didn't want to be older.

"I'm going to bring you some water," she called to Haruo, not waiting for his reply. Her voice echoed slightly in the empty garden, and she felt foolish for speaking into the quiet. The bamboo rustled gently in the wind, a soft shushing sound, like a mother trying to soothe a crying child.

But Haruo wasn't crying. He never did.

When she returned with the water, he had fallen asleep, his head resting on his folded arms, his breathing shallow but steady. Setsuko knelt beside him, holding the cup, but she didn't wake him. Instead, she placed it carefully next to him and sat there, watching his chest rise and fall in rhythm with the cicada's song.

They used to laugh together, she and Haruo, about the cicadas—how their buzzing never seemed to stop, how loud they were in the evenings when the sun began to set. They had joked that the cicadas were calling to the moon, begging it to rise so they could finally sleep. Now, she found herself hoping the moon would come sooner, that the night would fall quicker, so Haruo wouldn't have to feel the heat pressing down on him anymore.

The day dragged on, the shadows lengthening as the sun sank lower. Setsuko laid her head against her brother's shoulder, her small body curled up next to his. She didn't cry. She didn't know how to, not anymore. Instead, she watched the sky darken, the cicadas' song slowly fading as the air cooled.

"Haruo," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear. "Do you think… do you think they'll still sing for you tomorrow?"

There was no answer, only the quiet whisper of the wind through the bamboo, and the fading hum of the cicadas as they, too, began to rest.

The night fell completely then, and the fireflies came, flickering softly around the garden like tiny stars. Setsuko watched them dance in the dark, remembering the nights she and Haruo had spent chasing them, their laughter filling the summer air. But tonight, she didn't move. She didn't chase them.

She just stayed there, her head resting against her brother's shoulder, as the last cicada sang its final song.