The snow never stopped.
It fell like it had been waiting, blanketing the small city, the pharmacy, the streets, and the memories of everything Marina had endured since she crossed into this world. December pressed against the glass of her life, leaving frost at every corner of her heart.
For years, she had worn the mask of Mihana Sujiwako. She had played the role of delivery worker, the stranger, the ghost hovering on the edge of Akio Hukitaske's life. She had wanted to tell him the truth, to deliver the message her Akio had given her—but her fear and grief had chained her voice. Instead, she stayed near, suffering in silence.
But time, stubborn as snow, moved on.
One night, years into her quiet masquerade, she shed the disguise. She whispered her real name into the pharmacy's air as if confessing to the walls before she dared say it to him. And when Akio looked at her, not as "Mihana" but as Marina Higikata, she felt something shift inside. No longer a stranger. No longer a ghost.
For the first time, she let him see her. And he did not turn her away.
It happened one evening, long after closing hours. The storm outside screamed against the shutters, but inside, only the soft hum of the heater filled the space. Marina sat at the counter, her hands curled around a mug she didn't drink from. Akio leaned nearby, his coat draped over a chair, his tired eyes focused only on bottles.
"Why do you always look like you're carrying the weight of the whole world?" he asked gently.
Her lips trembled. She wanted to say because I am. Because she knew his despair was waiting, because she had lived through it once already, because fate was crueler than any snowstorm. But instead, she breathed out words that shook.
"My name," she whispered, voice breaking, "is Marina. Marina Higikata."
The silence that followed felt like eternity. Her heart threatened to stop under the fear of castaway, of confusion, of him walking away. But Akio didn't move. He only stared at her—long, quiet, as though searching the fragments of her soul through her eyes.
Finally, he smiled, small but real. "Then Marina it is."
Her tears fell, cold and unstoppable. And for the first time, she didn't wipe them away.
Years later after Akio's wifes death and him falling into despair but Rumane helping him heal, they grew close—not suddenly, not explosively, but over-time. Like warmth creeping into frozen bones. Marina was always hesitant, always haunted by the echoes of another Akio's despair. But this Akio... he had patience. He never pressed for truths she couldn't share. He never demanded more than she could give. He simply sat with her when the snow fell heavy, offered her mugs of coffee, blankets, silence.
And eventually Kairo Hukitaske was born.
A kid with eyes like the endless sky, laughter like bells in snow, and a spirit that carried both of his parents' strength. He became Marina's light, Akio adored him—every stumble, every question, every burst of childish wonder. The pharmacy echoed with more laughter than grief, at least for a while.
But fate never forgot.
The day came when Akio fell ill. Too suddenly, too violently. Marina tried everything—medicine, treatments, prayers whispered into the snow—but it was as though destiny itself had drawn its hand across his life. His body weakened, his breaths grew shallow, and the human she had come to love a second time began to fade.
In his final moments, he held her hand.
"Marina," he rasped, voice fragile but certain, "I never understood why you carried so much sorrow. But I'm glad... that you stayed!". His eyes flicked to the small kid asleep at the foot of the bed. "Take care of him. Tell him who I was. Not the burden, not the mistakes—tell him... I tried."
Her tears fell freely as she clutched him. "Thank you Akio," she whispered, words torn from a soul that had carried them for too long.
And with a faint smile, Akio closed his eyes for the last time.
The snow was heavy on the day of the burial.
Marina stood before the headstone, her coat pulled tightly around her, her body shaking not from cold but from grief. Beside her, younger Kairo—barely four years old—gripped her hand, his fingers trembling in hers. He didn't understand death, not fully, but he understood loss in the way people do: through silence, through the absence of laughter.
The grave read:
Akio Hukitaske — Beloved Father, Friend, Healer.
"May his light rest eternal."
Marina knelt, her knees sinking into the snow, and placed her hand against the cold stone. She felt nothing in the granite, nothing in the frozen earth below, yet her soul ached as if she could still hear his heartbeat there.
"Kairo," she whispered, her voice breaking, "this is where your father rests. He loved you. More than anything. He loved you."
The kid looked at her, his big blue eyes brimming with tears he didn't quite understand. "Mama... is Daddy sleeping?"
Her throat closed. She pulled him into her arms, holding him into a hug as the snow fell harder, burying the world in white. "Yes," she choked. "He's sleeping. And we'll let him rest in peace."
They stood there together—as family, bound by love, loss, and legacy—while the snow fell endlessly, carrying with it the quiet weight of memory.
And though Akio was gone, his presence lingered in every flake, in every breath of winter, in every heartbeat that carried his name forward.
The story ended not with triumph, but with remembrance.
And in the silence of the snow, Marina whispered her final promise:
"I'll carry you. Always."
The End?...