The apartment was silent when she turned the key.
No crying. No wailing. No sound at all except the radiator's dry hiss and the distant hum of traffic through the window.
Sakura's bag slid from her shoulder, thudding against the genkan floor. She didn't bother picking it up. Her feet carried her through the narrow hallway, past the kitchen where a half-empty cup of cold coffee sat on the counter, past the bathroom where the light was off, to the doorway of the room that had become hers and Hikari's.
She stopped.
Hikari lay on Kazuki's chest, fast asleep, one tiny fist curled against his collarbone. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed pink, her breathing slow and even. She looked peaceful. She looked safe.
Kazuki sat against the headboard, phone in one hand, thumb scrolling lazily. His other hand rested flat on Hikari's back, steady and still. He didn't look up when Sakura appeared in the doorway.
"Your Ayamari poked her eye and wouldn't stop when she didn't see you. Take her."
The word landed like a blade between her ribs.
Ayamari.
Mistake.
He'd never called Hikari that before. He'd never called her anything—had refused to name her, refused to look at her, refused to acknowledge her existence beyond the mechanical provision of formula and diapers and a crib he'd assembled without meeting her eyes.
But now he had a word for her.
Ayamari.
Sakura's knees hit the floor before she knew she was falling. The impact shot through her kneecaps, sharp and real, grounding her in the moment she wanted to dissolve from. She pressed her forehead to the tatami, her hands flat on either side of her face, her body folding in on itself like a paper crane collapsing under its own weight.
The sob that tore out of her wasn't pretty. It was raw and animal, a sound that belonged in a throat that had been screaming for months without making noise.
"I'm sorry," she choked. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
Kazuki didn't move. His thumb kept scrolling. The phone's glow reflected off his face, hollow and blue.
"I'm so sorry, Kazuki, I'm so sorry, I never meant—I never wanted—I was sick, I was so sick, and I took everything from you, I took your—"
Her voice cracked. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to push the tears back in, but they kept coming, hot and relentless, soaking into the sleeves of her coat.
"I ruined your life. I ruined everything. You should hate me. You should have thrown me out. You should have—"
"I did throw you out."
His voice was flat. Not angry. Not sad. Just flat. Like he was reading a grocery list.
"You came back."
Sakura's breath hitched. She lifted her head just enough to see him—still scrolling, still not looking at her, his hand still resting on Hikari's back like she was a prop he'd been asked to hold.
"You could have let me die," she whispered. "In the hospital. You could have let me—"
"You would have died." He finally looked up. His hazel-green eyes met hers for the first time in weeks, and there was nothing in them. No warmth. No hatred. No recognition. Just the flat, exhausted gaze of someone who had run out of feelings to give. "And then I'd have to explain to Mom and Dad why their daughter bled out in a delivery room because I refused to sign a form. I didn't want that paperwork."
She flinched like he'd slapped her.
He went back to his phone.
She stayed on the floor. Her tears kept falling, but the sobs quieted, replaced by a trembling silence. She watched his hand on Hikari's back. The way his fingers curved around her tiny spine. The way his thumb moved in slow, absent circles—not soothing, just... existing. A habit his body had learned without his permission.
"She was good today," he said, still not looking up. "Didn't cry much. Just when she realized you weren't here. Poked herself in the eye with her own finger. Dramatic. She gets it from you."
Sakura let out something between a laugh and a sob. "She does."
"I fed her at noon. Changed her twice. She took a nap from two to four. Woke up, cried for ten minutes, then fell asleep on me." He finally put the phone down. "She's been asleep for an hour. I was going to wake her soon so she'd sleep tonight."
"You—" Sakura's voice broke. "You took care of her."
"I said I would."
"You said you hated her."
"I do."
The words hung in the air, stark and unadorned. He didn't soften them. Didn't take them back. He looked at Hikari's sleeping face, at the dark lashes fanned against her pale cheeks, at the tiny fingers curled against his shirt.
"I hate her," he repeated. "But she's a baby. She didn't ask to be born. She didn't ask for any of this." His jaw tightened. "I'm not going to let her suffer because I can't look at her without remembering what you did."
Sakura's hands trembled against the tatami. "Kazuki—"
"Don't." His voice sharpened for the first time. "Don't say my name like that. Don't look at me like I'm your brother. I'm not your brother anymore. I'm the guy who pays your rent and your tuition and your therapy because if I don't, you'll end up dead or on the street, and I can't live with that either."
He shifted, carefully lifting Hikari into a sitting position. The baby stirred, her tiny face scrunching, but she didn't wake. He held her out toward Sakura, his arms straight, his expression unreadable.
"Take her. I have homework."
Sakura scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking, and reached for her daughter. Her fingers brushed Kazuki's as she took Hikari, and she felt him flinch—a small, involuntary recoil, like she'd burned him.
She cradled Hikari against her chest, pressing her lips to the baby's forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of milk and baby powder and Kazuki's laundry detergent. Hikari made a soft sound, nestling closer, and Sakura felt something crack open in her chest.
Kazuki stood up. He walked past her without looking, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. He paused at the doorway.
"I have a midterm tomorrow. Don't leave her with me again."
"Kazuki—"
"I mean it, Sakura. I'll watch her if you're dying. I'll watch her if you're in the hospital. I'll watch her if the building is on fire and you're stuck in traffic. But I'm not her father. I'm not her babysitter. I'm not anything to her." He turned his head just enough that she could see the line of his jaw, hard and set. "I'm just the brother you raped, trying to survive the aftermath."
He left.
The door to his room clicked shut.
Sakura stood in the middle of the living room, Hikari warm and heavy in her arms, and listened to the silence. The radiator clicked. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside, a car honked, and someone laughed, and the world kept turning like nothing had happened.
She walked to the window and looked out at the city lights bleeding across the dark sky. Tokyo never slept. Neither did she, these days. She'd been running on coffee and guilt and the desperate, aching love she felt for the tiny person in her arms.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to Hikari. "I'm so sorry. I made you a mistake. I made you a weapon. I made you the thing that broke him."
Hikari stirred, her tiny hand reaching up, her fingers brushing Sakura's chin. Her eyes fluttered open—hazel-green, Kazuki's eyes, the same shade of forest and regret—and she made a soft questioning sound.
Sakura smiled. It hurt. Everything hurt.
"But you're not a mistake to me," she said, her voice cracking. "You're the only thing I did right. And I know that's selfish. I know I don't deserve you. I know I don't deserve him. But I'm going to try. Every day. For the rest of my life. I'm going to try to be the mother you deserve."
Hikari blinked at her, solemn and trusting, and Sakura pressed her daughter's head to her chest, feeling the baby's heartbeat against her own.
She didn't cry. She was too tired for that.
She just stood there, holding her daughter, watching the city blur through the window, and let herself feel grateful—for the exam she'd aced, for the roof over their heads, for the brother who hated her but still kept them alive.
For the tiny, terrible, beautiful mistake asleep in her arms.
Ayamari.
The word would haunt her forever. But maybe that was what she deserved.
She turned from the window and carried Hikari to their room, where she laid her in the crib and watched her settle into sleep. Then she sat on the floor, her back against the crib's wooden bars, and pulled out her textbook.
There was an exam tomorrow. There was always an exam. There was always something to survive.
She opened the book and started reading, her hand resting on the edge of the crib, her daughter's soft breathing filling the silence.
Through the wall, she heard Kazuki's desk chair creak. A page turn. The click of a keyboard.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them slept.
They just existed, separated by paper and drywall and a wound that would never fully heal, both pretending the other wasn't there.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Hikari was still asleep in the crib, her tiny chest rising and falling in the rhythm of dreams, and the early morning light filtered through the curtains in pale gray stripes across the floor.
Sakura sat cross-legged on the living room floor, a bottle warmer in one hand and a textbook open in her lap. She'd been up since four, studying for the anatomy practical, her eyes burning and her back aching from the hours she'd spent hunched over diagrams of the brachial plexus.
She heard footsteps.
Not the heavy, dragging shuffle of Kazuki coming home late from the library. Not the careful, deliberate steps he took when he was avoiding her. These were lighter. Quicker. Almost casual.
She looked up.
Kazuki emerged from the hallway, and Sakura's breath caught in her throat.
He was wearing a light blue fluffy sweater, the kind of soft, oversized thing that made him look like he'd just stepped out of a department store catalog. White baggy jeans hung loose on his long legs, and small white earrings glinted in his ears—simple studs, barely visible, but they caught the light when he moved.
He looked... good. He looked like the Kazuki from high school. The one who laughed with his friends. The one who smiled when he talked about his engineering projects. The one who hadn't been shattered by his sister's hands.
Sakura's throat tightened. She hadn't seen him dressed like this in almost two years. Not since before. Not since she'd drugged his tea and taken what wasn't hers to take.
He was putting on his shoes. White sneakers, clean and new. He bent to tie the laces, his movements efficient and practiced, and Sakura watched the way his shoulders moved under the soft fabric of the sweater. The way his hair fell across his forehead, still slightly damp from a shower she hadn't heard him take.
She wanted to ask. Where are you going? Who are you meeting? Are you okay?
But the words stuck in her throat, thick and useless. It wasn't her right to ask. She'd given up that right the night she'd poured sleeping pills into his tea and climbed on top of his unconscious body.
Still. She had to try.
"Kazuki." Her voice came out dry, cracked from hours of silence. She cleared her throat. "You look... nice."
He didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge her. His fingers continued working the laces, tying a perfect double knot, and then he stood, adjusting the hem of his sweater with a small, precise movement.
"The bottle warmer is on," Sakura said, her voice smaller now. "Hikari should wake up in about an hour. I left her milk in the fridge. There's formula in the cabinet if you need it."
Nothing. He reached for his jacket—a light denim one she'd never seen before—and shrugged it on, checking his phone with the same mechanical efficiency he brought to everything now.
"I have my exam until noon," she continued, the words tumbling out because the silence was unbearable. "Then I'll be back. I can pick up groceries on the way. We need more rice, and—"
"I know what we need."
His voice was flat. Not angry. Not cold. Just... empty. The voice of someone who had stopped caring about anything except getting through the day.
Sakura fell silent.
He picked up his keys from the hook by the door. A small keychain dangled from them—a tiny silver football, a gift from Ren years ago. She remembered when he'd put it on. Back when he still believed in things like gifts and gratitude and family.
"Have a good day," she whispered.
His hand paused on the doorknob. For a moment, she thought he might say something. Might turn around. Might look at her with something other than that dead, flat emptiness.
He didn't.
The door opened. He stepped through. It clicked shut behind him.
Sakura sat alone in the quiet apartment, the bottle warmer humming softly beside her, and pressed her hand to her chest where something small and fragile was breaking all over again.
She looked down at her textbook. The words blurred. She blinked hard, refusing to cry, and turned the page.
There was an exam at nine. She needed to be ready.
She studied for another forty-five minutes, her eyes moving over the diagrams without really seeing them, her mind stuck on the image of Kazuki in that light blue sweater, looking like the brother she'd destroyed.
When Hikari started to stir, Sakura set down the book and went to her daughter. She lifted the baby from the crib, cradling her against her chest, and felt the familiar warmth of small hands pressing against her collarbone.
"Good morning, Hikari," she murmured, pressing a kiss to the baby's forehead. "Did you sleep well?"
Hikari made a soft, contented sound, her hazel-green eyes blinking up at her mother with the unfocused trust of an infant who didn't know she was born from violence.
Sakura fed her, changed her, dressed her in a tiny yellow onesie with little ducks printed on it. She talked to her in a soft, steady stream—about the exam, about the weather, about nothing at all—because the sound of her own voice was better than the silence.
At eight-thirty, she heard the front door open.
Kazuki walked in. His hair was slightly windblown, his cheeks flushed from the cold, and he was carrying a paper bag from the convenience store down the street.
He didn't look at her. He walked to the kitchen, set the bag on the counter, and started unpacking: rice, eggs, vegetables, a carton of milk, a small package of baby snacks.
Sakura stared.
"I thought you had class," she said.
"I did." He opened the fridge, placed the milk inside, closed the door. "It got cancelled. Professor's sick."
"Oh."
He didn't elaborate. He just stood there, staring at the closed refrigerator door, his hands resting on the handle.
Sakura shifted Hikari to her other hip. "Thank you. For the groceries."
Nothing.
"Kazuki."
His shoulders tensed. A small, almost imperceptible movement, but she saw it. She always saw it now—the way he braced himself every time she said his name, like he was waiting for her to hurt him again.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you don't want to hear it. I know it doesn't matter. But I'm sorry."
He turned around. His face was unreadable, a mask of careful neutrality, but his eyes—those soft hazel-green eyes that used to crinkle when he laughed—were hollow.
"You're right," he said. "It doesn't matter."
He walked past her, down the hallway, and closed his bedroom door.
Sakura stood in the living room, Hikari warm in her arms, and listened to the familiar sounds of Kazuki's morning routine: the creak of his desk chair, the click of his keyboard, the soft shuffle of papers.
She looked down at her daughter. Hikari was staring at her, those hazel-green eyes so much like his, and Sakura felt something crack open in her chest.
"I don't know how to fix this," she whispered. "I don't know if I can."
Hikari gurgled, reaching up with a tiny hand, and Sakura pressed her lips to the baby's forehead, breathing in the scent of milk and baby powder and hope.
She had an exam in thirty minutes. She had a daughter to raise. She had a brother who hated her, a family she'd shattered, and a future that felt impossibly heavy.
But she was still here. Still trying. Still breathing.
She set Hikari down in the playpen, grabbed her bag, and left for the exam.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the apartment fell silent again.
In his room, Kazuki sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen without seeing it. His hands were still. His breathing was even. His heart was a dull, steady ache that never went away.
He'd bought the baby snacks because she'd been running low. He'd bought the rice because he'd noticed the bag was almost empty. He'd bought the milk because Hikari needed it, and Hikari was innocent, and Hikari didn't deserve to suffer for what her mother had done.
He didn't know why he'd bought the eggs.
He pressed his palms against his eyes and sat in the dark, waiting for the day to pass.
Waiting for something to change.
Waiting for the wound to heal, even though he knew—deep down, in the part of him that still remembered what hope felt like—that some wounds never did.
Kazuki sat on the edge of his bed, the small silver stud pinched between his thumb and forefinger, staring at it like it was a puzzle he hadn't asked to solve.
His therapist had said—calmly, carefully, in that voice that never judged—that his physical markers were excellent. Blood pressure normal. Anxiety scores down. Sleep quality improving. "You're doing well, Kazuki," she'd said, and he'd felt nothing when she said it. "I think you're ready for the next step."
The next step was this: take care of your appearance. Socialize. Reconnect with the parts of yourself that aren't survival.
He'd bought the earring three days ago. A simple silver stud, nothing flashy. He'd stood in front of the store display for twenty minutes before walking in, and the cashier had smiled at him like he was a normal twenty-year-old buying normal jewelry for a normal reason.
He wasn't.
He pressed the stud against his earlobe, trying to find the hole. His fingers felt thick, clumsy. The metal slipped, pinched his skin, and he hissed a quiet curse.
"Fucking—"
He dropped it. It bounced on the carpet, rolled under his desk, and disappeared into the shadows where the baseboard met the floor.
Kazuki stared at the empty space where it had vanished. His hands hung between his knees, palms open, fingers loose. The therapist said his hands were always clenched. She'd noticed it in session three. "You hold tension in your jaw and your hands," she'd said. "Try to notice when you're doing it. Breathe into the release."
He noticed now. His hands were open.
He got on his knees, reached under the desk, and found the stud wedged against the wall. He sat back up, held it to the light, and tried again.
This time, the post slid through. He fumbled the backing, nearly dropped it twice, but eventually—after what felt like a small war—the earring was in. He touched it. The metal was cool against his fingertip.
He looked at his reflection in the dark window. It looked… strange. Not bad. Just strange. Like someone had photoshopped a detail onto a photograph he'd memorized years ago.
He'd been going out more. Meeting his friends for drinks, sitting in crowded bars where the noise was loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. Daichi had clapped him on the back and said, "Bro, you look like shit, but also—you look better than you have in months. What changed?"
Nothing, Kazuki had wanted to say. Nothing changed. I just got tired of sitting in my room.
He'd worn a fitted black sweater that night. Daichi had whistled. "Look at you, actually wearing clothes that fit. Who are you and what did you do with Kazuki?"
Kazuki had laughed. It sounded almost real.
Nobody knew. Nobody could know. The rape, the baby, the sister he shared a wall with—those were locked in a room inside him that he never opened. His friends saw the old Kazuki, the golden boy, the responsible eldest son. He gave them exactly that. A performance. A mask.
The mask was getting easier to wear.
He looked down at his hands again. Rings on his fingers now—a simple silver band on his thumb, a thin black ring on his middle finger. He'd never worn jewelry before. It felt like armor. Like he was becoming someone else, someone who hadn't been broken, someone who could walk into a room without flinching.
He flexed his fingers. The rings caught the light.
His phone buzzed. Daichi, asking if he was coming to the study session tonight. Kazuki typed back: *Yeah, I'll be there. Bring the notes from Tuesday's lecture.*
Daichi replied with a thumbs-up and a string of emojis that made no sense.
Kazuki set the phone down. He touched the earring again. Then he stood, adjusted his collar, and walked to the kitchen.
The apartment was quiet. It was always quiet now. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, that made every footstep sound too loud, every breath a confession.
He opened the fridge. Leftover rice, vegetables, a partial block of tofu. He moved methodically, pulling ingredients out, setting them on the counter. The knife was sharp. The cutting board was clean. The rhythm of cooking was the only thing that still felt normal.
He made two portions. One for himself. One for her.
He didn't think about why he still did this. He just did it. The way he bought the groceries. The way he left the prenatal vitamins outside her door even though she didn't need them anymore. The way he made sure there was always milk in the fridge, always rice in the bin, always enough for both of them.
The baby food was separate. He'd bought a variety pack—sweet potato, carrot, apple purée—and stacked them in the cabinet next to the bowls. He didn't look at them when he grabbed one. He just reached, pulled, set it on the tray.
He arranged the bowls on the tray: rice, vegetables, tofu, the small jar of baby food. A glass of water. Chopsticks. A spoon.
He carried it to her door. Knocked twice. Waited.
The door opened a crack. Her face appeared—pale, tired, those wide brown eyes that used to look at him like he was the safest person in the world. Now they looked at him like he was a stranger she was terrified of disappointing.
"I made food," he said. Flat. Neutral. The same voice he used when ordering coffee.
She reached for the tray. Her fingers brushed his. He pulled back immediately, like he'd been burned.
"Thank you," she said. Soft. Always soft now. Like she was afraid of breaking the air between them.
He didn't respond. He was already turning away when he stopped. His hand hovered at his side. He didn't look at her.
"Do you mind if I bring a friend over?"
The silence stretched. He could feel her staring at him, could feel the weight of her confusion, her hope, her fear—all of it pressing against the back of his neck.
"A male friend," he clarified. "We'll stay in my room for the most part. Just for projects."
He still didn't look at her. He couldn't. Looking at her meant seeing the girl who'd held his hand when they crossed the street as children. The girl who'd cried on his shoulder when their childhood cat died. The girl who'd drugged him and climbed on top of him while he was unconscious.
He hated her. He hated her so much it was a physical weight in his chest, a stone he carried everywhere, every second of every day.
But she was still his sister. And she was still alive. And he couldn't bear the thought of her dead.
"I—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "Yes. That's fine. I'll keep Hikari in my room."
He nodded once. Turned. Walked back to the kitchen.
Behind him, the door clicked shut. He heard her set the tray down, heard the soft coo of the baby, heard her whisper something he couldn't make out.
He leaned against the counter, palms flat against the cool laminate, and closed his eyes.
The therapist said he was doing well. Good blood pressure. Less anxiety. Healthy coping mechanisms.
The therapist didn't know that every time he looked at his sister, he saw two versions of her at once—the one he'd loved and the one who'd destroyed him—and that the war between them was tearing him apart from the inside.
He opened his eyes. Straightened. Touched the earring again.
He had a study session in two hours. He needed to shower, change, put on the mask.
The mask was getting so much easier to wear.
He just didn't know if that was a good thing or the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Kazuki stood in front of the bathroom mirror, running the brush through his hair one last time. The motion was steady, practiced. He tilted his head left, then right. Not bad. The dark circles under his eyes had faded to a faint shadow instead of the deep bruises they'd been months ago. His skin had cleared up too — the stress breakouts gone, replaced by an even tone that caught the bathroom light.
He'd been eating properly. Sleeping six hours a night instead of four. Going to therapy twice a week. Taking the medication the psychiatrist had prescribed without missing a single dose.
He looked healthy.
The thought sat strange in his chest. Like wearing a shirt that didn't fit quite right.
He pulled on the green hoodie — the one his friends had gotten him for his birthday, the one that matched his eyes almost perfectly. Loose pants. Clean socks. He didn't look in the mirror again.
The doorbell rang.
He walked through the apartment, past Sakura's closed door, past the faint sound of Hikari cooing, and pulled the door open.
Daichi stood there with a grin so wide it looked like it hurt. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and plastic bags hanging from both hands, the handles digging into his dark skin. "Fucking finallyyyyyy man. It's been... like MONTHS since we've hung out properly."
He shoved a bag into Kazuki's chest. Kazuki caught it automatically. Snacks. Chips, chocolate, some fancy crackers Daichi always bought in bulk.
"Look at youuuu..." Daichi stepped back, looking him up and down with exaggerated approval. "Straight posture and all. We should go to an amusement park with the others once we get done with midterms." He laughed, stepping inside, shutting the door with his heel. His shoulders were broader than Kazuki remembered. He'd definitely been hitting the gym harder.
"Quiet." Kazuki's voice dropped to a whisper. "My sister's here. She lives with me, remember?"
Daichi's grin faltered for half a second, then recovered. "Oh. Right. Yeah, sorry, man." He lowered his voice, matching Kazuki's tone. "Lead the way."
Kazuki turned and walked toward his room, Daichi following. They passed the closed door. Daichi didn't ask. Kazuki didn't explain.
The study session was normal. They spread textbooks across Kazuki's desk, pulled up chairs, worked through problem sets in comfortable silence broken by occasional questions. Daichi made jokes about their professor's terrible handwriting. Kazuki laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of him. It felt foreign in his throat.
Two hours passed. Daichi had demolished half the snacks. Kazuki had solved three problems he'd been stuck on for days.
"I'm gonna grab some water," Daichi said, standing and stretching. His back cracked audibly. "You want anything?"
"I'll get it. Stay."
"Nah, nah, I got it. You keep working. I know where the kitchen is."
Before Kazuki could argue, Daichi was already out the door, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Kazuki's hand tightened on his pen. He stared at the open textbook. The equations blurred.
He heard Daichi's footsteps stop. Heard a soft gasp. Heard his own name, whispered in surprise.
Then Daichi's voice, full volume: "AHHH! HEYYYYY!!!"
Kazuki was out of his chair before he realized he'd moved.
He found them in the hallway. Daichi stood frozen, staring at Sakura, who was coming out of the kitchen with Hikari balanced on her hip, a small jar of baby food in her other hand. She'd stopped mid-step, her wide brown eyes darting between Daichi and the baby, her mouth slightly open.
"Oh my godddd..." Daichi's voice dropped into something softer, almost reverent. "I haven't seen your sister since middle school—" He paused. His eyes drifted to Hikari. The baby was wearing a tiny pink sweater, a bow clipped to her fine black hair. She was staring at Daichi with the wide, unblinking curiosity that only babies had.
"Okay." Daichi's voice cracked. "That's the cutest thing ever."
He glanced at Kazuki, a question in his golden eyes. Can I?
Kazuki looked away. His jaw tightened. He didn't say no.
Daichi took that as permission. He rushed over to Sakura, his movements suddenly careful, deliberate. "Hey, hey... can I hold her? Please? I promise I'm good with kids. I've got like... seven cousins. I'm basically a professional."
Sakura blinked. Her throat moved as she swallowed. She hadn't spoken to anyone outside her therapist, Hana, and Kazuki in months. Hadn't had a normal conversation. Hadn't had anyone look at her without knowing what she'd done.
Daichi didn't know. Daichi had no idea.
She looked at Kazuki. He wasn't looking at her.
Her hands moved before her brain caught up. She shifted Hikari carefully, gently, and held her out toward Daichi.
"Oh my god..." Daichi took the baby like she was made of glass, one hand supporting her head, the other cradling her bottom. He brought her up to his chest, and Hikari grabbed his finger with her tiny hand. "Oh my GOD. Look at that grip. She's gonna be a soccer player. Or a rock climber. Or—" He looked up at Sakura, his grin bright and genuine. "What's her name?"
Sakura's lips parted. Her voice came out hoarse, unused. "Hikari."
"Hikari," Daichi repeated, testing the name. "Light. That's beautiful." He looked down at the baby, bouncing her gently. "Hi, Hikari. I'm Daichi. I'm your uncle's best friend. Which makes me basically your uncle too, so you're stuck with me."
Hikari gurgled. Daichi laughed.
Sakura stood there, hands hanging at her sides, watching this stranger hold her daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world. Her eyes burned. She blinked rapidly.
Kazuki watched from the hallway, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"How old is she?" Daichi asked, looking at Sakura.
"S-Seven months."
"Seven months! That's the best age. They're just little potatoes that smile at you." He lifted Hikari slightly, pretending to whisper to her. "Don't worry, potato. You'll grow legs soon. Then the real fun starts."
Hikari grabbed his nose. Daichi's eyes went wide. "She got me. She got me good."
Sakura's lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
Daichi looked at her properly for the first time. Really looked. She saw him register the dark circles, the red-rimmed eyes, the way her hands were clasped together so tight her knuckles were white. He didn't say anything. His smile softened, just a fraction.
"You're doing a good job," he said quietly. "She's healthy. Happy. That's all that matters."
Sakura's throat closed. She couldn't speak. She just nodded.
Daichi looked at Kazuki. "I'm stealing her for five minutes. We're gonna go look at the plants in the living room. She seems like she'd be a plant person."
He carried Hikari into the living room, leaving Sakura and Kazuki alone in the hallway.
The silence stretched. The radiator clicked. Somewhere outside, a car honked.
Sakura's hands were still clasped. She stared at the floor. "He seems nice."
"He is."
"Does he... know? About..." She couldn't finish the sentence.
"No." Kazuki's voice was flat. "And he's not going to."
She nodded. A small, jerky motion. "Okay."
He turned and walked back to his room. His footsteps were steady. Measured. The same rhythm he used for everything now.
Sakura stood in the hallway, listening to Daichi's laughter drift from the living room, listening to Hikari's happy squeal. She pressed her palm against her mouth and breathed.
In the living room, Daichi held Hikari up to the window, pointing at the trees outside. "See that? That's a maple. In the fall, the leaves turn red. Really pretty. Your mom should take you to see them."
Hikari kicked her legs, reaching for the glass.
"Yeah, I know. The world's big and you wanna touch it. That's a good instinct. Don't lose it."
Sakura leaned against the wall, just out of sight, and listened to a stranger talk to her daughter like she was a person worth speaking to. Her eyes burned again. She pressed harder against her mouth.
Daichi didn't know. He didn't know what she'd done. He didn't know Hikari was conceived in violence. He didn't know Kazuki called her Ayamari when he thought no one was listening.
He just saw a baby. And he thought she was beautiful.
Sakura slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest. She didn't cry. She was too tired for that. She just sat there, listening, letting someone else's kindness wash over her like rain she didn't deserve.
Daichi's voice floated through the house, easy and warm. "You know what, Hikari? I think we're gonna be best friends. I'm gonna teach you how to do a bicycle kick. Your mom's gonna hate me. It's gonna be great."
Hikari laughed — that bright, bubbling baby laugh that made everything stop.
Daichi laughed with her.
And in his room, Kazuki sat at his desk, pen in hand, staring at a blank page. He could hear them through the walls. The laughter. The cooing. The sound of someone holding his sister's child like she was a gift instead of a wound.
He pressed the heel of his palm into his eye socket. Hard. Until he saw stars.
The therapist said he was doing well. Good blood pressure. Less anxiety. Healthy coping mechanisms.
The therapist didn't know that every time his sister's baby laughed, it sounded like an accusation.
The therapist didn't know that he'd bought the pink sweater himself. Picked it out. Paid for it. Left it on the counter without a note.
The therapist didn't know that he'd held Hikari once — just once — when Sakura was in the bathroom and the baby wouldn't stop crying. He'd held her against his chest and she'd quieted immediately, those hazel eyes staring up at him, and for one second he'd felt something so huge and terrible he'd had to set her down and walk away.
He didn't know if that feeling was love or hatred. He didn't want to find out.
Daichi's voice drifted closer. "Okay, I'm bringing her back. She needs a diaper change, I think. I'm not qualified for that."
Sakura scrambled to her feet, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She met Daichi at the entrance to the living room, taking Hikari from him carefully.
"She's amazing," Daichi said, and he meant it. "Seriously. You're doing great."
Sakura's voice cracked. "Thank you."
Daichi smiled. It was a good smile. Warm. Real. "Anytime. I'm always down for baby duty." He glanced toward Kazuki's room, then back at her. "Take care of yourself, okay?"
She nodded, clutching Hikari close.
Daichi walked back to Kazuki's room, knocking once before pushing the door open. "Alright, nerd. Break's over. I still have to explain why your calculus is wrong."
Kazuki looked up. His eyes were slightly red. He blinked. "My calculus isn't wrong."
"It's adorable that you believe that."
The door clicked shut.
Sakura stood in the living room, Hikari warm and heavy in her arms, the baby's small hand reaching up to grab a strand of her hair. She pressed a kiss to Hikari's forehead.
"He's nice," she whispered. "I think... I think he's a good person."
Hikari grabbed her nose.
Sakura laughed. It was a small sound, rusty from disuse, but it was real.
She carried Hikari back to her room, closed the door, and sat on the floor with her back against the bed. The baby settled against her chest, warm and trusting. Sakura closed her eyes.
Through the wall, she could hear Daichi's laughter, Kazuki's dry responses, the normal rhythm of two friends existing together. It sounded like a life she used to know. Like a world she'd been exiled from.
But Hikari was warm in her arms. And Daichi had called her beautiful. And for one moment, in a stranger's eyes, she wasn't a rapist or a monster or a mistake.
She was just a mother.
And that was enough to keep breathing.
Daichi's voice carried through the apartment, casual and warm, the kind of voice that filled empty spaces without trying. "Soooo... Whose is she?"
Sakura froze in the hallway, Hikari balanced on her hip, the baby's small fingers tangled in her hair. She pressed herself against the wall, heart hammering — no. She forced herself to breathe. The word heart hammering was already spent. She pressed her palm flat against the plaster instead, felt the cool surface against her skin, counted the seconds.
"My sister has a boyfriend." Kazuki's voice came from the living room, light, almost bored. "Stupid mistakes, y'know?"
The lie slid out of him like it had been waiting there all along. Sakura's throat tightened. He'd always been good at this. The golden child. The one who could smile through anything. She wondered how many lies he'd told about her. How many versions of this story existed now, polished and ready.
Daichi hummed. "Hhhmmm... Love is love. Can't blame teenagers wanting to do things as soon as they reach of age." A pause, the rustle of fabric — probably that shrug he did, the one that made his gold chain catch the light. "Your sister is as quiet as I remember. Shy too. An introvert like you." A chuckle, warm and easy. "Where's the.... Ehem..."
Sakura heard the gesture in the silence. The vague hand wave. The unasked question about the father.
"Her boyfriend is out of city. So she's taking care of him alone. He's taking responsibility. Don't worry." Kazuki's voice didn't waver. Not once.
Sakura closed her eyes. Taking responsibility. The words felt like glass in her mouth, even though she hadn't spoken them. He didn't know. Nobody would never know. The baby in her arms was fathered by her brother, conceived through rape, and the only man taking responsibility was the one she'd hurt most.
Hikari gurgled, a soft, content sound. Sakura pressed a kiss to her forehead, tasting salt and baby powder.
More words drifted from the living room — Daichi's laughter, Kazuki's dry responses, the rhythm of two friends existing in the same space. Sakura stayed in the hallway, listening. It sounded like a life she'd been exiled from. Like music played behind a closed door.
Then footsteps. The front door opened and closed. The lock clicked.
Silence settled over the apartment like dust.
Sakura waited. One breath. Two. She heard Kazuki's footsteps move toward his room, heard his door open, heard it close. The lock clicked into place.
She stood in the hallway, Hikari warm against her chest, and felt the absence of Daichi's sunshine like a physical weight. The apartment was quiet again. The way it always was. The way it had been for months.
She carried Hikari to her room, laid her in the bassinet, and watched her sleep for a long moment. The baby's chest rose and fell. Her tiny fingers curled and uncurled. She looked so peaceful. So innocent. So unaware that she'd been called a mistake by the only man who should have loved her without condition.
Sakura's hand drifted to her own stomach. Flat now. Empty. She pressed her palm against the fabric of her shirt and felt nothing but the memory of movement, of life, of the weight that had made her feel real for the first time in years.
She left the door cracked and walked to the kitchen. She filled a glass of water. Drank it. Stared at the wall.
Through the wall, she could hear Kazuki's bed creak as he lay down. She imagined him staring at the ceiling. She imagined the lock on his door. She imagined him checking it, the way she'd seen him check it every night since she'd moved back in — a quick twist of the knob, a confirmation that she couldn't reach him in his sleep.
She set the glass down. Her hands were steady. That was new. Therapy had given her steady hands. It hadn't given her forgiveness.
She walked to his door. Stopped. Stood there.
The wood was cheap, painted white, the kind of door that came with student apartments. She could see the faint line of light beneath it. He was awake.
She raised her hand to knock. Stopped. Let it fall.
What would she say? I'm sorry had lost its meaning somewhere between the hundredth and thousandth time. I'm trying felt like an excuse. I love you was a weapon she'd already used.
She stood there, hand at her side, breathing.
Inside the room, Kazuki lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The light from his desk lamp cast long shadows across the walls. His textbook was open, untouched, the pages blank and meaningless.
He pressed his palm against his chest. Felt his heartbeat. Steady. Normal. The therapist said that was good.
The therapist didn't know about the dreams.
The ones where faceless hands reached for him in the dark. The ones where Sakura's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, soft and pleading, please, Kazuki, please, I need it, I need you. The ones where he woke up hard and sick and wanted to peel his own skin off.
He breathed. In. Out. The way he'd been taught.
"I wish the baby was dead."
The words came out in a whisper, barely audible, hanging in the stale air of his room. He heard them and felt the weight of them settle in his chest like a stone.
He knew it was wrong. He knew, intellectually, that a baby couldn't be guilty of the circumstances of her conception. That Hikari was innocent. That wishing death on an infant was the kind of thought that made you a monster.
But he couldn't stop it. The thought came, unbidden, every time he heard her cry. Every time he saw Sakura hold her with that desperate, aching love. Every time he caught himself looking at the pink sweater he'd bought — the one he'd left on the counter without a note, the one he'd picked out because it had little rabbits on it and he'd thought, for one terrible second, that it was cute.
He wished the baby was dead.
And then he wished he was dead, for wishing it.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind his lids. The pressure helped. Pain helped. Pain was honest.
He thought about Daichi's easy laughter. Daichi, who didn't know. Daichi, who had held Hikari like she was precious, who had called her beautiful, who had looked at Sakura with kindness instead of accusation. Daichi, who existed in a world where things made sense, where sisters had boyfriends and babies were happy accidents and the worst thing that happened in a day was a bad grade.
Kazuki hated him, a little. For being able to live in that world.
He hated himself more, for hating Daichi.
He turned onto his side, facing the wall. The lock on his door was a small comfort. A thin barrier. A promise that tonight, at least, no one would touch him while he slept.
He closed his eyes. The therapist said he should try to think of something pleasant before sleep. A beach. A forest. A memory that didn't hurt.
He tried to think of the beach. He saw Sakura's face instead. He tried to think of a forest. He heard her voice. Please, Kazuki, please.
He opened his eyes. Stared at the wall.
Through the wall, he heard a soft sound. Movement. Breathing. The creak of floorboards.
She was outside his door.
He knew it the way he knew the sound of his own heartbeat. The weight of her footsteps. The rhythm of her breathing. He'd learned them over months of shared silence, the way prisoners learn the sounds of their cellmates.
He waited for the knock. His body tensed, ready for it. Ready to ignore it. Ready to scream.
The knock didn't come.
After a long moment, the footsteps retreated. Her door opened and closed. The apartment settled back into silence.
Kazuki let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the mattress and forced them still.
"I wish the baby was dead," he whispered again, and this time the words felt like confession. Like prayer. Like the only honest thing he'd said all day.
He didn't know what he wanted. He didn't know if he wanted forgiveness or punishment or simply for the sun to stop rising every morning, forcing him to live through another day of this. He didn't know if he wanted Sakura to disappear or stay or try harder or give up. He didn't know if he wanted Hikari to live or die or simply stop looking at him with those hazel eyes that were his own eyes, reflected back at him in miniature.
He didn't know anything except that he was tired. So tired. The kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix, that stretched into the marrow of his bones and made everything feel heavy and far away.
He closed his eyes. The therapist said he should try to think of something pleasant.
He couldn't think of anything.
So he lay there, staring at the inside of his eyelids, and waited for morning to come.