Chapter 5 - An Old Photo, A Silent Cry
The morning began with the kind of hush that only exists after a night of heavy rain — when the air feels rinsed, and everything holds its breath. Hukitaske Pharmacy was still. Dust motes drifted lazily through beams of pale light sneaking through the blinds, and the faint tick of the clock was the only sound marking the passage of time.
Akio sat at his desk in the back office, surrounded by a fortress of paper — invoices, order forms, and insurance slips that refused to organize themselves. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, searching for staples that were never where he left them. When he reached behind a stack of files, his fingers brushed something hard and thin, wedged between the drawers.
He tugged it loose.
A photo.
The paper was brittle with age, edges curled like dried leaves. The color had faded, but the memory hadn't. It showed a high school hallway — fluorescent lights overhead, scuffed floors underfoot. Two figures stood in the center of the frame. One was him, years younger, smiling with the awkward pride of a new teacher. The other…
A kid, laughing, her fingers flashing a peace sign toward the camera.
Akio's breath caught. His heart forgot how to beat.
It was his daughter.
He hadn't seen that photo in years — maybe never, not quite like this. She looked older than he remembered her, maybe twelve, maybe thirteen. In his mind, she had never aged past eight.
The smile in the picture was one she'd never grown old enough to give.
He turned it over, half-expecting a note, a date, something. The back was blank.
Had someone made this for him? A digital fantasy sent by a friend who'd wanted to ease his grief? Or had he done it himself, once, in some fevered night of denial — photoshopping an impossible future, trying to glimpse the being she might have become?
His hands trembled.
He sat down slowly in the creaking desk chair. The photo wavered between his fingers as though it were alive — a small, fragile echo of a life that never finished its song.
The sounds of the pharmacy blurred — the hum of the fridge, Misaki's sneakers squeaking across the tile, the faint rattle of the wind outside. They all faded into something distant and hollow.
His voice broke through the silence, uninvited. "I'm still here," he whispered, "but without you."
No answer came.
Only the hollow patience of the world continuing, uncaring.
He didn't move for a long time. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. The light shifted across the floor, and the photo caught it like a ghost's reflection.
Then there was a gentle knock. "Akio?" Rumane's voice was careful. "Do you need help with the invoices?"
He flinched slightly, blinking the moment away. "No," he said, too quickly. "I'm fine."
He tucked the photo into his pocket, like a secret.
He wasn't fine. But he would be. Or so he told himself — because what else could he do?
The Fracture
By noon, the quiet had turned brittle.
A delayed shipment. A missing signature. A single misplaced box of antibiotics — enough to crack the day apart.
"Did you sign off on the confirmation last week?" Misaki asked, her tone clipped.
"I did," Rumane said, not looking up from her clipboard. "Maybe you forgot to submit it."
Misaki bristled. "I don't forget things."
Hikata, sensing the storm, tried to laugh it off. "Let's all just blame the delivery guy and go get ramen—"
"No one's going anywhere," Yasahute interrupted, his voice firm.
And that was the spark.
Old frustrations began to surface — small, invisible cuts that had been ignored too long.
"Maybe if someone actually restocked the ointments instead of making coffee breaks every hour—" Misaki snapped.
"Maybe if people learned to communicate instead of gossiping about customers—" Rumane shot back.
"Whoa, whoa—" Hikata started, but his grin faltered when neither looked at him.
The words escalated, their rhythm sharp as broken glass.
"You think I don't care about this place?"
"You care about being right!"
"Enough," Yasahute muttered — but no one heard him.
Even Akio's calm cracked at the edges. "Stop," he said, voice tight. "All of you. This isn't—"
But they were past hearing. The argument had momentum now, dragging everyone down its slope.
Accusations. Shouting. Silence.
Then Misaki turned, eyes bright with tears she refused to show. "I'm done for today." She walked out without slamming the door — which somehow felt worse.
Rumane set down her clipboard and followed.
Hikata gave a nervous laugh that broke halfway through. "Guess we're... taking five." He grabbed his jacket and vanished into the drizzle outside.
Yasahute lingered the longest. His voice, when it came, was soft. "Sometimes silence is safer than saying what hurts." Then he, too, left.
Akio stood there alone, surrounded by the sterile smell of antiseptic and the sound of rain against glass.
He didn't go after them. He didn't even sit.
He just stood, as if stillness might glue the world back together.
That night, the pharmacy lights burned longer than usual, but the building felt hollow — like an instrument missing its strings.
Almost Quitting
The next morning, Akio came in before dawn. The sky was a dull slate gray, heavy with clouds.
He opened the shutters. Swept the floor. Restocked the shelves.
Each task was mechanical — a defense against thought.
The laughter that used to fill the mornings was gone. No Hikata humming anime themes. No Misaki debating whether cats could have allergies. No Rumane's quiet reminders that he'd forgotten to eat breakfast again.
The silence pressed against him like water around a sinking ship.
He smiled for every customer, polite and professional. Efficiency replaced warmth. Precision replaced presence.
When an old lady offered him a caramel candy and asked, "You alright, dear?" he smiled and lied. "Just tired."
But inside, something was cracking — small fractures spidering through the walls he'd built.
Three days passed like that.
By the third evening, he couldn't stand it anymore.
He closed up alone. Locked the register. Turned off the lights.
Then he stood at the back door, staring into the alleyway. The city was slick with rain again — soft, silver, endless. The puddles shimmered with neon reflections.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the drizzle. The air smelled of wet concrete and peppermint from the bakery next door.
The sound of rain filled his head like static.
Just walk, he thought. No one's here. No one's waiting.
His hands slipped into his pockets. His fingers brushed the photo.
He stopped walking.
A sound — faint, like the whisper of an old bell. Footsteps. The soft creak of the pharmacy's floorboards.
He turned.
We're Still Here
They were all there.
Misaki, hair damp from the rain, holding a steaming thermos close to her heart. Rumane, with her first-aid kit clutched like a shield. Yasahute, tall and quiet, his expression steady but eyes heavy with guilt. And in the middle — Hikata.
Dressed as a clown.
Not a subtle one, either — red nose, polka-dot jumpsuit, painted smile that looked both absurd and heartbreakingly sincere.
Akio blinked. "...What in the world are you wearing?"
"I thought maybe... comic relief?" Hikata said, voice small. "Didn't really think it through."
No one laughed.
Misaki took a hesitant step forward. "We're sorry," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "For walking away. For making you carry everything when it wasn't fair."
Rumane nodded. "We forgot you're human, Akio. You always hold the walls up — we got used to that. And then we treated it like they'd never fall."
Akio's reply came out sharper than he intended. "You didn't forget. You just gave up."
The words hung in the air like thunder that hadn't found lightning yet.
"I was alone," he said, quieter now. "I needed you. All of you. And you left."
Misaki flinched. Hikata's painted smile seemed to wilt. Yasahute finally spoke, barely above a whisper. "You're right. We failed you. And we failed ourselves."
The rain pattered harder against the windows. No one moved. Then Hikata, in full clown paint, sighed. "We're idiots."
Akio let out a short, broken laugh that surprised everyone — himself most of all.
Rumane's shoulders relaxed just slightly. Misaki held out the thermos. "It's tea," she murmured. "You need warmth."
He took it, hands trembling.
Rumane reached out instinctively, pressing her fingers against his wrist to check his pulse. "Still here," she said softly, almost to herself.
Hikata honked his clown nose once, the sound cutting through the tension like a child's apology. "Mission… halfway accomplished?"
For the first time in days, Akio smiled.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't need to. The silence between them had changed — no longer heavy, but full.
Yasahute placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "We'll start again. Together this time."
And just like that, the fracture began to heal.
They stayed there, all five of them, long after dawn broke.
The pharmacy didn't open on time that morning. Customers waited outside, peering in curiously at the lights still off.
When the doors finally unlocked, the staff greeted everyone with laughter in their eyes and tired smiles on their faces.
The air inside felt lighter. Alive again.
Not because they had fixed everything — far from it. But because they had chosen to try.
Together.
Later that night, Akio sat at his desk again. The photo of his daughter lay beside a cup of cold tea. He traced her outline with his thumb.
"I'm still here," he whispered again. "But now... so are they."
Outside, the city lights shimmered like a pulse — bright, fragile, endless.
And somewhere, in that soft hum of life, Akio found the faint sound of her laughter again.
He didn't cry this time.
He smiled.
[Next: Chapter 6 — The Apprenticeship of Misaki]