Night draped the city like a shroud, but inside the Hukitaske Pharmacy, it felt like the smallest spring had bloomed.
Hot steam curled upward from a bowl of simple miso soup. The faint scent of seaweed mingled with the sterile softness of antiseptic wipes. Somewhere behind the pharmacy counter, the hum of a heater spilled its dull, constant warmth into the cool pharmacy air. The ticking clock on the far wall was gentle... steady... unthreatening.
The Uki brothers didn't understand clocks. Not really. But they understood quiet. They understood warmth. And for the first time in their lives, warmth wasn't something they stole.
Yatsumiya sat hunched over the bowl, eyes half-lidded, tired but never fully at rest. Bradzi lay on the pharmacy couch, his bandaged hand resting on his lap. Both children wore cleaner shirts now, dripping socks placed by the heater so they'd dry by morning. Their breaths were still uneven. They still flinched at every sound.
Akio Hukitaske moved softly, careful not to startle them.
He'd laid a folded blanket over Bradzi — it barely reached the kids toes — and another over Yatsumiya's shoulders, which were stiff and locked with suspicion. People that young shouldn't be so stiff - society's darker sides really are cruel, Akio thought.
"Eat," he'd said. But it wasn't a command. It was an invitation.
Yatsumiya stared at the bowl. Bradzi, through half-lidded eyes, nodded slightly. It was enough.
Tiny spoonfuls. Hesitant sips. Like they were afraid the soup might suddenly disappear.
Akio didn't speak too much. They weren't ready for words, not yet. So he moved among the bottles and drawers, compiling a small kit for the morning — gauze, antiseptic pads, small medical gloves. Routine work. Work that he'd done a thousand times before.
But the weight of it felt different tonight.
These were not regular patients. They were not even customers. They had walked into his life like a rainfall over embers.
The First Night without Snow in Their Bones
Bradzi fell asleep first, lulled by warmth and exhaustion. But Yatsumiya didn't let himself sleep, not fully. Not yet.
He watched everything. The way the wood of the pharmacy desk was worn at the corners. The way the jars lining the shelves were carefully labeled in Sumi ink. The way Akio's hands shook slightly after stitching up a bruise on his palm from slipping earlier in the rain.
Yatsumiya memorized every detail. Because he had to. Because the world didn't give things like this twice. Because the slightest comfort could dissolve if he got too comfortable.
Sometime after midnight, Akio noticed the way Yatsumiya kept his eyes open — not alert, but hollow, restless, as if afraid of stillness itself.
"You can rest," he said from the counter. Yatsumiya didn't respond.
He didn't have a voice for moments like this.
So Akio continued, tone quiet, like he was talking to air: "I used to be like that too. Couldn't sleep, I mean. Thought rest was something the world could snatch away."
Silence. Even the heater seemed to hush itself.
"I was wrong," he murmured.
That night stretched on like that—not with trust, but with silence that felt less dangerous.
Eventually, Yatsumiya's eyes drooped. His tiny frame sank inward, the blanket bunching up near his chin.
He didn't give up consciousness. It was stolen by exhaustion.
Bradzi's soft breathing filled the room. And for the first time in what felt like centuries, the Uki twins slept indoors.
Morning, Like They Had Never Known
The sun didn't flood the room. Instead, it arrived like diluted gold on a winter horizon — pale, distant, but real.
Bradzi stirred first, blinking hard, confused by the fact that his heart didn't hurt from cold. He immediately looked right at Yatsumiya—checking. Always checking.
Still there. Still breathing.
But that wasn't the first surprise.
The floor was warm. The air was calm. There was…no frost in their bones.
"Mornin," Akio called softly, noticing Bradzi sit up with a small, startled sound. "Good morning, kiddo."
Bradzi didn't speak. He just blinked, lips cracked into a faint line. He moved his newly bandaged hand, feeling the gauze, testing it like it was a trick.
"It's okay," Akio said. "You're safe."
Bradzi stared. There was no recognition in his eyes. Not shame. Not defiance. Just raw, unprocessed disbelief.
"You both can stay for a little while," Akio added. "Just until you're okay."
That's when Yatsumiya woke.
No sound. No startle. Just a slow blink — and then immediate alertness. Bradzi's eyes moved to him instantly.
He observed the environment. Silent:
Is this real? Yes. For now.
Yatsumiya sat up. Pulled the blanket from his shoulders and set it carefully aside. He stood firm. Ready to run if this turned.
Akio didn't react. He simply walked to the kettle.
"I'm making soup again," he said. "There's a bit of rice. Some leftover eggs. You can eat if you want."
That if was everything. He didn't assume. He didn't trap them with kindness. He just offered.
Yatsumiya didn't answer. But they didn't leave either.
First Light, First Stillness
As meal prep began, the Uki brothers treated the room like a puzzle. Every drawer. Every cabinet. Every exit. Every object. All filed away in their minds.
Bradzi sat on the couch, still watching Yatsumiya like he was a lighthouse in the dark. Yatsumiya played with their father's watch—still stuck at 2:11 a.m.—twirling it with thin fingers.
Akio noticed.
"What's that you've got?" he asked lightly.
Yatsumiya didn't answer. Bradzi watched him for a signal.
Akio raised his hand slightly, then stopped halfway. "Sorry. Habit. I'm used to being curious," he joked, gently.
"You don't have to tell me. Just… feels important."
Yatsumiya clutched the watch to his ribs for a moment, then let it drop.
Silence sat in the room, uninvited but patient.
With each passing minute, the tension unwound—not because of trust, but because Akio didn't push. He let space breathe. He didn't know their story. But he knew they needed something.
Food arrived on trays. Rice porridge with egg threads. A thin slice of pickled radish. A mug of warm barley tea.
Bradzi stared at the tea like it was an ancient artifact. Yatsumiya touched the spoon with two fingers, feeling its warmth before eating.
They didn't eat together.They ate like field mice—quiet, wide-eyed, expecting a trap.
Akio ate his own meal behind the counter. He didn't attack them. He didn't rush them. Only when the bowls were empty did he come over.
"You both can stay today," he said quietly. "I won't ask questions. Just… let me check that cut again later, okay?"
Yatsumiya looked up, ready to refuse. "And if you're scared," Akio added, voice lowering, "just say when. The door isn't locked." A tiny pause. Bradzi breathed out. The world settled just a little.
The Quietest Afternoon in History
After breakfast, Akio let them roam.
The pharmacy, while pretty small in their current area, held a thousand wonders for children who'd only ever known alleys. Bottles of blue ointment. Glass vials with cork tops. Scales. Mortars and pestles. Old posters in kanji they couldn't read. The faint smell of lavender from compression wraps. The way everything was neat—stacked... placed... belonging somewhere.
Bradzi found a drawer filled with face masks adorned with cartoon ducks. Yatsumiya discovered a tall jar filled with dried chrysanthemum flowers. Everything had a purpose. Everything had a place. Even things that seemed broken.
Something they'd never known.
Meanwhile, Akio wiped down machinery. The sound of cloth on metal filled the room. Nothing loud. Nothing startling. You could almost believe time had slowed down inside those four walls.
Around noon, as the sky turned white but not snowing, Akio pulled down the pharmacy's inner shutters to let the daylight in. Sunshine filtered through the glass, landing on the twins like delicate silk.
Bradzi's eyes followed a beam of light dusting across the silver-slicked floor.
"What's… that?" he said softly.
Yatsumiya's head snapped to him. He'd spoken. Akio smiled slightly. "Sunbeam." Bradzi blinked. Like it was magic. Like it had never touched him before.
Maybe it hadn't.
Trust Comes in Micro-Doses
Later that afternoon, Akio approached their corner again, this time with a fresh kit. He knelt beside Bradzi. "Check-up?" Akio said. Bradzi recoiled. Yatsumiya's shoulders straightened. Silent alarms screamed in their bones.
Akio didn't flinch. He held his hands up and waited.
"No rush. Just want to make sure it's not infected." Yatsumiya hesitated. The kid stared at Bradzi. Bradzi nodded—barely. Slowly. So slowly. Bradzi let Akio unwrap the gauze. The wound was healing. Not well, but better. The skin was cracked, mottled with grey bruises.
"You did a good job keeping it clean," Akio said gently.
Yatsumiya spoke for the first time.
"Snow. We used snow."
Akio paused. "Of course you did," he said, not mocking.
He disinfected the wound with a cloth dipped in saline. Bradzi gritted his teeth but did not pull, no matter how it stung. Yatsumiya sat beside him like stone.
"That's brave," Akio murmured. "People twice your age don't hold still that long." Bradzi stared. Yatsumiya breathed out. Another shift. Almost invisible. Like the world tilting by a degree.
Names and Echoes
Evening settled over Tokyo like a slow hush. The pharmacy lights glowed a soft honey yellow.
Akio brought out two floor futons from the storage closet. One red. One green. They smelled of cedar and clean laundry. He set them out side by side, folding them carefully.
"I might have clothes for you, if you want," he said, voice softer than ever. "Not new, but warmer." The brothers exchanged a look. Then: "I'm Yatsumiya," the older said—not offering, but stating. "And I'm Bradzi," the younger whispered, glancing down at his hand. They weren't questions. They weren't requests. They were declarations. Reminders that they existed.
Akio bowed slightly.
"I'm Hukitaske Akio," he replied. "I own this place, but I don't bite." Bradzi's lips twitched at that. Something like almost-laughter. "So," Akio said, "you two want to rest here tonight? One more night?"
No answer. Just the tiniest nod.
A Final Warm Moment
As dinner simmered—rice porridge again, but with dried bonito and scallions this time—Akio took a moment to sit alone behind the counter.
He'd never considered looking after kids. Never had time. Never trusted the idea that he could care for someone without complication. The world was too dangerous. Too unpredictable. He believed in medicine. In systems. Not in belonging. But here were 2 orphans he actually ended up caring for.
But here, two small strangers slept in the corner like fragile seedlings waiting for thaw.
Bradzi sprawled out, hand draped over his charm. Yatsumiya lay on his side, fists curled inward like a sparrow's wings protecting something invisible.
The door remained unlocked. But no one left.
Akio quietly served dinner. He didn't talk. He didn't pry. He just set the bowls near them, along with two clean spoons.
As the twins ate — slower this time, but with less panic — Akio glanced once more at the clock. They were still children. But they were built like survivors. And even if this bond lasted a day… Even if they never came back… He would carry the memory.
They stayed that night. Their breathing steady. Dreams… unknown, but kinder than usual.
Outside, the snow fell again, but this time, for once—
They didn't hear it.
TO BE CONTINUED...