The city was blanketed under a thick December snowfall. Streetlights glimmered weakly through the white haze, their glow reflecting off the icy pavement like fragments of forgotten memories. Marina—Mihana now, as she insisted for her job—walked slowly through the streets, her coat pulled tight, scarf covering her face, boots crunching against the frozen snow. She hadn't gone near the pharmacy all day. Hours had passed since she left, after whispering her goodbye, and now the weight of her failure pressed against her acheing heart like the snow on the rooftops above.
She told herself it was for him. This world's Akio didn't know her truth; he didn't need to be caught in the shadow of her mistakes. She remembered all too clearly the fight with her Akio—the one from her own timeline—how a misunderstanding and a lapse in judgment had almost torn them apart. The memory haunted her like the bitter wind cutting through the city tonight. She could never let that happen again. She could never hurt this Akio, the one who cared for her despite never knowing her fully.
Hours stretched like frozen hours in the cold. And inside the pharmacy, Akio noticed. He'd been waiting for her, expecting her to return, but the hours dragged past, and her absence gnawed at him. Her words that morning—"goodbye forever"—had echoed in his mind, each syllable twisting painfully in his stomach. What did she mean? Was she leaving him? Was she safe? Panic rose, a clenching, heavy thing that made his breath sharp and fast.
He couldn't wait. He couldn't stand idle while she wandered out there, lost in her own storm. Throwing on his winter coat, wrapping a scarf around his face, he dashed into the night, boots pounding through fresh snow, exhaling clouds of frosted breath with every step. Each stride brought him closer to the streets where he had last seen her, closer to the risk that she might vanish completely from his life if he didn't act.
Back in the pharmacy, the two twin brothers were wreaking small havoc. Raka had confiscated their little collection of glass bottles—playful, dangerous, sparkling things they had insisted were their "chemistry toys." Their protests filled the cold interior of the lab-like pharmacy: cries, begging, and small whimpers. "We just want them back! Please!" one of the twins shouted. Raka, leaning against the counter with a puffing cigarette, eyes narrowed behind her designer shades, shook her massive shoulders, chains clinking around her neck. "No," she said, voice low but firm, the smoke curling like a warning in the winter air. "You're not touching these. Not tonight." The twins lowered their heads, sniffling, toy dreams crushed under the muscle-bound grace of their caretaker for tonight, but Raka softened slightly, giving them a small nod, "You get to play tomorrow—but tonight, you learn patience."
Marina passed the pharmacy, glimpsing the warm glow through frosted windows. Inside, the figures of Akio and the twins blurred behind the glass. Something twisted in her heart. She wanted to go in, to speak, to hand over the message she had carried for so long—but fear clenched her throat like a vice. What if her words caused confusion? What if she hurt him, emotionally, as she almost hurt the other Akio? Her hands trembled against her chest. She turned, walking down a side street, her boots leaving small impressions in the heavy snow, each step echoing her grief and doubt.
Akio's shadow passed over the light inside the pharmacy for a brief moment before he dashed out being back at the pharmacy after a failed search for Marina the first time, his eyes scanning, frantic. He ran through snow-laden streets, past lampposts and closed shopfronts, until he caught sight of her—a solitary figure, hunched under the weight of invisible burdens. The snow whipped around them both, frost clinging to eyelashes, to scarves, to coats. He slowed, breath ragged, voice trembling, but she didn't look back.
"Marina!" he called, but the words were carried off by the storm. He reached her side, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. She flinched, fighting tears she had not allowed herself to shed in hours. "Please," he whispered, "don't run from me. You're not alone."
She opened her mouth, wanting to tell him everything—the message, the timelines, the sorrow—but she couldn't. The truth was too heavy, too dangerous for him to bear. Instead, she let herself collapse slightly into the warmth of his presence, leaning against him as snowflakes landed on her hair. He knelt beside her, putting a steady hand on her head, hugging her tight. "It's okay," he murmured. "Everything will be alright. I promise."
Outside, snow continued to fall, thick and merciless, blanketing the world in silence. And in that silence, Marina felt a fragile thread of hope—one that might never speak of truths, but one that, for this moment, allowed her to simply breathe.
Inside the pharmacy, the twins peered out the frosted windows, eyes wide at the scene outside. Raka, exhaling a stream of smoke, smiled faintly under her chains, understanding that some battles were fought not with fists or flasks, but with presence, with care, and with the quiet, enduring warmth of connection—even in the deepest winter.
TO BE CONTINUED...