The corridor outside the room was unnaturally quiet, the kind of silence padded by thick carpets and closed doors, where even footsteps seemed to lose their purpose before reaching the end of the hall. Behind the glass wall of the private room, a nine-year-old boy lay propped against pale pillows, dressed in a soft blue patient’s outfit that hung loosely on his slight frame, as though it did not quite belong to him.
It was already eleven.
Kitahara Himari was often misunderstood at first glance.
Quiet. Calm. Forgettable.
That was the impression she gave — and the one most people accepted without question.
But Himari was observant.
She always had been.
Disowned by the Tsukimori family for marrying against their wishes, Hajime Tsukimori builds a modest life with his wife, Nozomi, and their four children. Their fragile stability collapses when the youngest, Fuyuki, is diagnosed with complex single-ventricle congenital heart disease, a condition that can only be corrected through a high-risk operation performed by a surgeon far beyond their reach.
Because of the partnership between the two companies, the Fujita and Kitahara families continued to meet — sometimes formally, sometimes not.
There were corporate events, such as product launches and anniversary preparations. There were dinners arranged for convenience that gradually became familiar. Occasionally, there were private outings that had nothing to do with work at all.
Yuma did not attend all of them.
The room was dark.
A man lay on the floor beside the bed, his body curled in on itself. Silent groans escaped his clenched teeth as pain tore through him. A crimson tattoo bloomed across his face and down his arm, its jagged patterns pulsing faintly beneath his skin. Sweat drenched him, soaking through his clothes and pooling against the cold floor.
As the pain intensified, the markings glowed brighter, as though something beneath his flesh was awakening.
The picnic was meant to be simple.
A short drive away from the city, the waterfall provided a constant backdrop of rushing water and cool mist. It was a familiar place, chosen more for convenience than sentiment — somewhere the parents could talk freely while the children occupied themselves.
The Kitahara and Sasaki parents settled into easy conversation almost immediately. Years of separation dissolved into shared laughter and overlapping memories, their voices blending with the sound of the water.
Six months into working life, Yuma had settled into routine.
His days were predictable: morning trains, the soft hum of computers, datasets that demanded precision and patience. As a junior data analyst, his work required long hours of focus — numbers, patterns, projections. He worked independently most of the time, communicating through reports rather than conversations.
It suited him.
Not because he enjoyed solitude, but because solitude was familiar.
