(Volume 2 - After the Ribbons...)
Chapter 1 - The First Customer
The morning sun slid across the frosted windows of Hukitaske Pharmacy in shy golden bands. Outside, the street was still waking up—bakers pulling up shutters, bicycles clattering over uneven tiles, the scent of red bean buns drifting faintly through the cold air. Inside, the air was still and too clean, the smell of antiseptic and new paint lingering like a guest who didn't know when to leave.
It had been three weeks since the ribbon-cutting ceremony. The red tape still hung in the backroom, folded neatly beside the scissors, like a trophy no one would ever see. The pharmacy was spotless. Every shelf gleamed under the soft white lights. The drawers were labeled with perfect handwriting—vitamins, blood pressure aids, herbal blends—and the cash register's receipt printer had yet to jam even once. Everything was calm. Everything was in its place.
Too much so.
Akio Hukitaske stood behind the counter, coat perfectly white, clipboard tucked against his heart. He was twenty again—by the world's clock, at least—but his eyes carried a weight the years couldn't hide. His reflection in the window looked professional enough, but inside, the silence was suffocating.
The hum of the fridge in the back was the only company he had. He tapped his pen against the clipboard and checked the inventory again. Still stocked. Still untouched.
The empty shop was a paradox. He had dreamt of this—his own pharmacy, a place that healed not just the body but the heart. He had imagined people walking in with hope in their hands and walking out lighter. But dreams, when realized, had a strange habit of feeling quieter than imagined.
"Guess that's what peace feels like," he murmured to himself. His voice echoed in the room.
He checked the clock. 9:53 a.m.
He reorganized the pamphlets for the third time—"Allergies and You!" and "Vitamin D: Sunshine in a Capsule"—then cleaned the counter with unnecessary diligence. Each circular wipe was a nervous tick.
You're not waiting for a customer, he told himself. You're waiting for purpose.
The door's glass caught his reflection again, and he frowned. He still wasn't used to his younger face. Sometimes he caught himself expecting to see lines that weren't there anymore, silver in the hair that wasn't yet grown.
And then—
The bell chimed.
A single ding that sliced through the silence like a soft miracle.
Akio nearly dropped the pen. His heart jumped, absurdly fast for something so simple.
The door creaked open, and in walked a person—a grandmother, perhaps in her late sixties, dressed in a plum cardigan and carrying a black purse tucked neatly under her arm. Her hair was wound into a bun so tight it looked sculpted, and her eyes, though kind, were cautious. She stepped into the shop as though testing if it were real.
"Good morning," Akio said, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.
Her gaze drifted to him, assessing. "You're new."
"Yes, ma'am. We just opened recently. Welcome to Hukitaske Pharmacy."
She nodded once, walking slowly to the counter. Her shoes squeaked against the linoleum. "Hukitaske," she repeated. "You look too young to own a place like this."
He smiled, though the comment pricked something old in him. "It's a long story."
She reached into her purse and unfolded a small prescription slip, creased at the corners. "The clinic down the street said you might not have these in stock yet. But I thought I'd try."
Akio took the paper carefully, his eyes scanning the neat doctor's handwriting—atorvastatin, naproxen. Straightforward. Nothing exotic, nothing dangerous. Relief flickered in his stomach.
"No problem at all. I'll get these ready for you."
As he turned toward the shelves, he noticed her gaze drifting toward the window. Her posture was stiff but not unfriendly. Just… lonely.
She touched the glass as if tracing something invisible there. Her fingers trembled.
"Are you alright?" Akio asked gently.
She hesitated, then said, voice soft as worn silk, "My husband passed away last winter. This is the first time I've come out for medicine without him."
Akio's hand froze on the pill bottle. The words landed like snow—quiet, but cold enough to burn.
He turned, prescription bag in hand, searching for something to say. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said finally. His voice came out rough, like a violin played too hard.
She gave a small smile, more a movement of memory than of joy. "He always picked things up for me. Said I worried too much about my health. Now I'm the one standing here."
Akio placed the bag gently on the counter and bowed slightly as he handed it to her with both hands. "You're taking care of yourself now. That matters. Sometimes… that's the bravest thing we can do."
She looked up at him, eyes glassy. "You sound older than you look, young person."
He laughed softly. "I get that a lot."
She lingered for a moment longer, then nodded. "Thank you."
The bell above the door chimed again as she left.
And just like that, the silence returned.
But it was different this time—warmer somehow, not empty. The air held something unseen, something real.
Akio exhaled and leaned against the counter. His hands, still young, trembled slightly. That's what this is about, he thought. Not the prescriptions. The people.
He turned to look at the framed quote hanging by the register. It read:
"To heal what we cannot fix. To mend what we cannot say."
He had written it the night before opening day, pen trembling, tears smudging the ink.
He thought of the person again—the way she had held herself together, the way her grief sat quietly beside her, invisible but undeniable.
He knew that feeling too well.
He'd once watched his own life fall apart from the waiting room of a hospital. He remembered the sterile light, the smell of iodine, the steady hum of machines that could not save what mattered most.
He blinked away the thought, forcing himself back to the present. He couldn't drown in the past. Not now.
A quiet knock on the glass startled him.
It was the old person again, standing outside, fumbling with her umbrella. Akio rushed to open the door.
"Did you forget something?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. I just wanted to tell you… thank you again. You remind me of my grandson. He's studying medicine overseas. You'd get along."
Akio smiled. "Then I'll consider that an honor."
She chuckled softly and walked off into the morning sun, her figure shrinking into the crowd.
When the bell jingled again behind her, Akio felt the air shift once more.
Something small, but important, had changed.
He sat at the counter, tapping the pen against his palm. "First customer," he whispered. "Finally."
He wrote the words in his notebook—his personal log, labeled "Journeys of Healing."
Entry #1:
An elderly person, first visit. Lost her husband last winter. Still finds courage to go on. Prescribed standard cholesterol and anti-inflammatory medication. But what she really needed… was someone to listen.
He closed the notebook carefully and tucked it beneath the counter.
For the rest of the morning, the pharmacy stayed quiet again. But the quiet wasn't sterile anymore—it was patient, like the breath between heartbeats.
He brewed tea in the backroom, the scent of roasted barley filling the air. As he stirred, he thought of Hikata and Riki. The two of them had come by for the opening, leaving a ridiculous gift basket filled with ramen packets and comic books.
Hikata had signed the note:
"For the grand opening of the most boring shop in Tokyo—may it become slightly less boring!"
Riki's note, scrawled beneath it:
"Don't mess this up, old gramps."
Akio smiled at the memory. Maybe he'd invite them over again soon. Hikata could liven up the place, and Riki could—well, Riki could intimidate the teenagers who came in for energy drinks instead of vitamins.
By noon, the sun climbed high and spilled golden light through the glass. Akio stepped outside to stretch, the bell jingling softly behind him.
The street was alive now—children with ice creams, office workers on their lunch break, a delivery person unloading boxes of flowers across the road. The smell of the bakery grew stronger.
Akio breathed it all in. The world had rhythm again.
He noticed something new—a small chalkboard sign propped beside the doorway, written by one of the neighborhood kids he'd hired to help with cleaning.
"WELCOME! FIRST CUSTOMER TODAY!" it read, with a shaky smiley face drawn underneath.
He chuckled. "Guess it's official now."
Inside, the bell chimed again.
Akio turned quickly, heart skipping. A new customer—this time, a young mother holding a toddler. The child clutched a stuffed cat in one hand and waved at Akio with the other.
"Hi there," Akio said, kneeling slightly to the toddler's level. "And who might you be?"
The kid grinned. "Tomo!"
"Nice to meet you, Tomo. What brings you two in today?"
The mother smiled tiredly. "Just some vitamins and cold syrup. We live around the corner. My husband said the new pharmacy was open, so we thought we'd check it out."
Akio prepared the medicine with practiced precision, but his mind drifted again. The kids small laugh, the way he tugged at his mother's sleeve—it stirred something deep, an echo from another lifetime.
When they left, Tomo waved again. "Bye-bye, doctor!"
Akio waved back. "See you soon, Tomo."
The door closed, and the sunlight dimmed a little as clouds passed overhead.
He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his stomach. It hurt—but in a good way. The kind of ache that meant something inside him was waking up.
He glanced at the counter again, at the stack of untouched pamphlets, and smiled. Maybe, soon, he wouldn't have to wait anymore. Maybe the world would find him again.
For now, though, he was content with this: one kind old person, one cheerful child, one tired mother.
Three lives that brushed against his own in a single morning.
It wasn't much. But it was real.
And real was enough.
He looked around his small, sunlit pharmacy and thought of all the empty chairs that would one day be filled—with laughter, tears, stories.
Healing wasn't loud. It was quiet, like this.
He picked up his pen and wrote in his log again:
Entry #2: A kid named Tomo. Smiled like the sun. His mother looked exhausted. Gave her extra Vitamin D samples. She smiled back. For one second, she looked lighter. Maybe that's how it starts.
Akio closed the notebook, sipped his tea, and stared at the bell above the door, waiting for it to ring again.
When it finally did, he smiled before even looking up.
This time, he was ready.
The story of Hukitaske Pharmacy had finally begun—one heart, one medicine, one moment at a time.
[Next: Chapter 2 — Rain in the Waiting Room]