The Night I Told Him About the Mark, Over a Closed-Shop Dinner

Story  ·  Lysa  ·  Aug 15, 2026

A sign reading "Closed for the Day" hung on the door of Tide and Gears. Fewer footsteps than usual passed on the street. Even the metallic sound of the automatons felt farther off. Inside, only my father's footsteps and the clink of dishes rang out, faint as a struggling lamp. Dinner, on a day like this, is a little special, and a little quiet.

Three bowls lined up on the table, same as always. My father scooped up soup and brought it, quietly, to his mouth. Yu and I began eating with the same easy motions as any other night, but inside, we were chewing on something else. The cold, spreading shape of the mark under my left sleeve. How far it had already gone — too far to hide anymore — and how I still hadn't told my father anything. The weight of the decision I'd made in bed that afternoon: today, I'll tell him.

The smell of miso, the smell of grilled fish — both good, as always. But it all felt like it was arriving from somewhere far away, probably because I was bracing, the whole meal, for the first word I'd have to say after. One bite, another. My bowl emptied faster than usual, and just as my father reached for his teacup, I clenched the hand resting in my lap.

"Dad."

My voice nearly cracked on the way up; I caught it in my throat. My father's eyes turned slowly toward me. I glanced at Yu, remembering the signal we'd exchanged that afternoon — let's do it. Then. Now.

"There's something I want to talk about today."

If I stopped there, it would become an escape route. So I kept going.

"Not about the shop. About my body, and about Yu."

My father's finger tapped the rim of his teacup once — thok.
"Can the three of us have a little time here, after this?" I asked. He set the cup down and nodded, small.
"Yeah. Here's fine." With that one line, something taut in my chest loosened, just a little.

We left the dishes as they were and stayed at the table, the three of us. I slowly rolled up my left sleeve. What appeared under the light was a ring of blue-violet, spreading up to my elbow. The outer edge still held color, but the center had faded, bit by bit — pressing there, I felt nothing.

"Dad. This is going to surprise you, but — first, I want you to see this."

I traced the outline with my finger. My father's eyes stayed fixed there. Not accusing, not shaken — just eyes trying to look, plainly, at what was in front of them.

"This mark — it started after that night. After I summoned Yu. At first it was just a small spot on my back, but it's been spreading, slowly, since then. Now it's on my back, and up to here on my arm."

Putting it into words, I took one deep breath, on my own. It was frightening. But there was no going back now.

"It doesn't hurt. But the middle part — I can't feel anything there anymore. We've been watching it together, me and Yu, deciding together whether to see a doctor. We promised — if it gets suddenly worse, we'll go right away. But it's gotten to where I can't hide it anymore, so... I wanted to tell you, properly."

Having said that much, I looked at Yu, once. A signal: this is as far as I can say it. From the elbow beside mine, warmth answered back, wordless: I'm here.

"I'm sorry for hiding it. I was scared, I couldn't sort it out in my own head, I kept missing the moment. But not saying anything anymore felt worse than saying it, so — I came to tell you myself, today."

"...Will you hear me out, Dad?"

A short silence, and then, low: "Yeah. I'm listening." Something in my chest went warm, hearing that.

"It doesn't hurt, then?" he asked. I nodded. "But you can't feel anything, in the middle?" I nodded again. He let out a short "Hm," and turned to look at Yu.

"...Yu. You've been watching this, with Lysa, this whole time."

Not a question — more like a confirmation. Yu nodded, quiet, and he said, just one word, but clear: "Thanks." In that thanks, I could feel everything — gratitude for not letting me carry it alone.

"As for hiding it... well, I do worry." He turned back to me. "But I understood, clearly, that you came to tell me yourself. And that you know how much you understand, and how much you still don't."

Talk turned to a doctor. "I think you should get it looked at, at some point. Whether anyone in this town can make sense of it, that's a different question. But it doesn't have to be tomorrow. You two have been watching it, taking your time — do the same with this, decide the timing as you go."

Then, tracing the wood grain of the table once with his thumb, he set down something like the core of it all.

"What matters... is that you don't carry it alone."

After a small silence, he went on: "I don't understand everything about the summoning, or the mark. But—" and then, in the same way as that morning, "You're Lysa's Yu." The same voice from the morning our three bowls first lined up on this table — "...Ah. So you're Lysa's Yu" — felt, right then, like it had come back around, whole.

"So, Yu. Going forward, when Lysa says she's scared, or that she doesn't understand something — struggle with it, right there beside her. Whether to go or not, whether to leave someday — all that's probably coming too — carry that too, alongside her."

Struggle with it together. Those words overlapped with something I'd asked of Yu myself, that first night I summoned him. My father couldn't have known that. And yet he was pointing at the exact same place.

His gaze came back to me. He rolled his shoulders, looking a little tired, and let out a small sigh.

"You finally came and told me. That's enough. That's plenty, on its own. So you don't need to say 'sorry' anymore today. If something changes again, just tell me then."

And then, lowering his voice, one more thing.

"If it starts to hurt, or you can't breathe right — you come to me first, before anyone. Doctors, money, all the troublesome parts — that's grown-ups' work. Your job, Lysa, is to keep saying things, and to keep living. Understand?"

Tears rose up to my throat, blurring my vision. "...Yeah," was all I said. My father let out a small, satisfied breath and said, in his usual tone, "Alright. Shop's closed today anyway, so that's that. Let's clear the dishes," and started stacking the bowls. His back showed no special tenderness — it was simply, certainly, my father, as always. The mark, the summoning, Yu — all of it was quietly swallowed into that as always.

"Thank you. I'll keep watching over Lysa, and the mark, going forward," Yu's voice reached his back. Without turning, my father answered, short: "Yeah." Watching that exchange, fear and relief mixed together in my chest. The fear hadn't gone. But the fact that there were now two people saying I'll keep watching laid a blanket, gently, over the top of it.

"Want to go upstairs?" Yu asked, quietly, and I nodded, "Yeah." I bowed to my father — "Thank you for listening" — and climbed the stairs. Each step felt a little lighter than the one before. The moment I closed the door of my room, everything that had been held taut came undone all at once, and I threw myself into Yu's chest, held on tight.

My back, the back of my head, the places with the mark and the places without — all stroked, without distinction. The numb part couldn't feel the warmth of a hand, but the simple fact of being touched the same way, everywhere gently repainted the outline of my body. When "I love you, Lysa" fell against my ear, what swelled largest in my chest wasn't fear, or guilt — it was the feeling: I'm allowed to be here.

The night Tide and Gears was closed,
I told him about the mark, at the table,
and my father said, "Your job, Lysa, is to keep saying things, and to keep living."
And in my room, I cried, being stroked, hearing I love you.

That one continuous arc became, for me, the story of telling him.