As Yukimura stood there, that's all he thought. Of how much it hurt. A hollow ache was growing in his chest as tears were brought forth, salty droplets that bore all of the agonizing sadness that was accumulating terribly fast in the new space.
He was silent, for he had nothing to say. He wouldn't beg. He wouldn't yell out in a surprised rage. He would, though, cry quietly as his body kept in a stiff, locked position. He couldn't move—but he didn't want to. He wanted to be left there, standing in a panel of light cast by the sun; the only thing that would see his tears.
The thing that had had driven a knife into his soul had already turned and walked away, saying nothing else. Not even a goodbye.