The Second Ring

The inn room smelled of salt and cheap incense. Killua sat cross-legged on the tatami, a whetstone in his hand, running it along the edge of a throwing knife in long, deliberate strokes. Outside, the ocean was a sheet of hammered tin under the late afternoon sun. Alluka was supposed to be napping. Instead, she was holding his phone. "Alluka." He didn't look up. "Put it down." "But you haven't finished your list." Her voice was soft, almost accusing. She sat on the futon with her legs tucked under her, the phone cradled in both hands like a precious artifact. "Number seven. 'Tell Gon about the sunset in Padokia.' You never told him." "Because I haven't called him." Killua set down the knife. The whetstone made a small clink against the wooden floor. "And you stole the phone last time. I didn't get to say half of what I wanted." "So call him now." She held out the device, screen facing him. The contact name was already on display: *Gon*. Her thumb hovered over the green button. "Alluka—" She pressed it. The dial tone buzzed through the quiet room. Killua's hand shot out, but Alluka skipped backward, light on her feet, grinning. "Too late!" He could hang up. He should hang up. The thought was there, crisp and logical, like the sound of the blade against the whetstone. But he didn't move. The line connected. "Killua?" Gon's voice, slightly breathless, carrying the muffled crash of waves in the background. "Is that you?" Alluka shoved the phone into Killua's hand and vanished behind the paper screen door, mouthing *talk!* before sliding it shut. Killua pressed the phone to his ear. "Yeah. It's me." "Wow! I was just thinking about you. There's this huge whale shark washed up on the beach today—it's still alive, and I helped push it back into the water with some fishermen. It was so heavy, but its skin was really smooth, like—" "Gon." Killua's voice came out softer than he intended. "You're rambling." "Oh, sorry! I'm just happy you called. I mean, Alluka called. But you answered. So it's kind of the same, right?" Killua leaned back against the wall, letting the cool plaster press into his shoulder blades. "Not really. She's the one who keeps doing it." "But you stay on the line." Gon's voice dropped, losing some of its brightness. "That means you want to talk too, doesn't it?" The question hung between them like the smell of salt in the room. Killua closed his eyes. He thought of number seven on his list—the Padokia sunset, where the sky turned the color of a bruise and the ocean reflected it back like a mirror stained with wine. He had watched it alone, pretending he wasn't imagining Gon beside him, pointing at clouds. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I do." "Then tell me something. Something real." Killua opened his eyes. Through the paper screen, he could see Alluka's silhouette, sitting perfectly still, listening. She always knew when he needed a push. "There was a sunset in Padokia," he began, the words feeling strange on his tongue—like rusty gears turning. "It was... purple. And orange. And it looked like the whole sky was bleeding. I thought you'd like it." "I wish I could have seen it with you." Gon's voice was quiet, earnest. "Maybe next time I can come? Or you can come here. Whale Island is pretty boring, but we could fish, and there's a cave that glows at night because of all the fireflies. Alluka would love it." Killua's throat tightened. "You'd want that?" "Of course! We're friends, aren't we? Even if we don't talk every day. Even if we're apart. That doesn't change." Silence. The waves on Killua's side of the call, the waves on Gon's—they were different oceans, but they sounded the same. In the background, Killua heard a distant shout, someone calling Gon's name. "I have to go," Gon said, regret thick in his voice. "Aunt Mito needs help with dinner. But call me again, okay? Or I'll call you. I'll memorise your number." "You probably already have." "Maybe!" A laugh, bright and unfiltered. "Bye, Killua. Take care of Alluka." "Always." Killua pressed end. He sat there for a long moment, the phone warm in his palm. Then the screen door slid open, and Alluka poked her head in, eyes wide. "Number seven is done," she said. "What's number eight?" Killua looked at her, at the hope in her face, and felt something crack open in his chest—not painfully, but like ice breaking in spring. "Number eight," he said, reaching for a small notebook from his bag, "is about a cave full of fireflies."