By the time they reached home, it was already past midnight.
No one quite remembered how they had managed the journey back. The roads blurred together, the familiar turns taken on instinct rather than awareness. Ever since Himari’s words had settled into the room like a suffocating fog, their sense of balance had been thrown off, their routine fractured in a way none of them had anticipated.
They were not panicked. They were not arguing.
They were simply… disoriented.
When the front door closed behind them, the house greeted them with a silence that felt heavier than usual. The lights in Yuma’s room were off. His work shoes were not by the entrance.
Overtime again, they thought, almost automatically.
No one said it out loud.
They removed their coats, set down their bags, and one by one excused themselves, retreating into separate rooms. There were no goodnights exchanged, no lingering glances — only faces drawn tight with unspoken thoughts, eyes unfocused, movements mechanical.
Sasaki entered her reading room and closed the door quietly behind her.
A small sofa sat by the window, a low table beside it. This room had always been her refuge, a place she associated with calm evenings and familiar comfort. Along the far wall stood a large brown shelf — heavy, sturdy — where their family’s memories had been stored for years in the form of neatly arranged photo albums.
She reached for one on the first shelf.
Celebrations — 2015.
Ten years ago.
Yuma and Haruma had been fifteen.
She flipped through the pages slowly, then faster. Birthday parties. Seasonal festivals. School milestones. Every photograph told the same story — Haruma at the centre, smiling brightly, surrounded by laughter.
And Yuma.
Always at the side.
Sometimes close enough to touch shoulders. Sometimes standing just a little apart. In every photo, Haruma beamed, radiant and open, while Yuma wore the same expression — a small smile, restrained, quiet, as though careful not to take up too much space.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for another album.
Daily Life.
There were photographs from Haruma’s recovery — hospital rooms, rehabilitation sessions. Yuma appeared in those too, always seated beside him, always attentive. There were pictures of Arisa and Kotarou baking together in the kitchen, flour-dusted and laughing as they prepared samples for their school festival bakery stall.
Sasaki searched the pages for Yuma’s daily life.
She found very little.
And what she did find revolved around the others.
Yuma watching Haruma. Yuma accompanying Arisa. Yuma standing still while life moved around him.
In every picture, he was present — yet somehow absent.
She flipped through album after album and realised something that made her chest tighten painfully: Yuma wore the same smile in almost every photograph. The same small, polite curve of the lips. Reserved. Unchanging.
Unlike the rest of them — their wide grins, their candid laughter, their moments captured without restraint.
How had she never noticed?
Shuuji did not go to the bedroom.
Instead, he entered his office and stood before the bookshelf, staring at it longer than necessary. His eyes eventually settled on a familiar file case.
Certificates.
There were five folders in total. One shared between him and Sasaki. Four others — one for each child.
He reached for the thickest.
Yuma Fujita.
He opened it.
The contents spilled out in careful order.
Shuuji stared at the pages, one after another, his grip tightening.
How had he not known?
These were not small achievements. There should have been celebrations — dinners, words of praise, moments of pride.
Yet the only celebration he could recall was Yuma’s birthday.
And even that had always been shared.
Because Haruma liked strawberries.
Arisa collapsed onto her bed and unlocked her phone.
She opened her chat with Yuma.
The last message was from two weeks ago.
She scrolled upward slowly.
Her replies sat beneath them — short, dismissive.
Nothing more.
Her chest tightened as she continued scrolling.
How had she never thought to ask?
Kotarou lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling as Himari’s questions echoed relentlessly in his mind.
He turned his head toward the glass cabinet across the room.
Inside were his prized crystal animal figurines.
At the top sat the limited editions — a hummingbird, a koi fish, a dragon.
Rare pieces.
He had only managed to acquire a few on his own.
The rest—
Yuma.
They were difficult to find.
How had Yuma managed it?
How much effort had it taken?
A dull heaviness settled in Kotarou’s chest.
Yuma had known exactly what he liked.
And him?
All he had ever given Yuma were practical things — sports shoes, a watch, a backpack. Items chosen for usefulness, not meaning. Things he thought were sufficient.
He had never once considered what Yuma might truly want.
Haruma sat motionless at his desk, elbows resting on the surface, fingers interlaced.
Was it his fault?
Was he the reason everyone’s attention had always fallen on him?
His gaze drifted to a book resting on the table.
He remembered talking endlessly to Yuma about it — about the characters, the themes, the passages he loved. Yuma had always listened, always asked questions, always encouraged him to continue.
Every time Haruma finished a new book, Yuma was there.
Listening.
Now that he thought about it — had he ever listened to Yuma the same way?
When Haruma was frightened, Yuma held his hand and stayed by his side. When his nightmares returned, Yuma was the one who grounded him.
There must have been moments when Yuma was afraid too.
But Haruma could not recall a single time he had done the same.
Chocolate.
He hadn’t known Yuma liked chocolate.
Every birthday, he asked for strawberry cake.
Yuma never objected.
Never asked for something different.
He simply nodded and smiled.
Haruma swallowed hard.
Why hadn’t he complained?
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