Part 2: Home and the Truth
Akari fell to her knees, staring at the wet patch he had left. "…You didn't have to specify it, you know," she murmured, voice tight.
Renjiro's eyes were dark with guilt. "I… I'm sorry. I couldn't lie anymore. I didn't want to tell him, not like this…"
Akari's gaze dropped to the grass, fingers brushing over the wetness. She froze. "…Something's not right."
She lifted her hand. A smear of blood clung to her palm.
Renjiro's eyes widened. "His left eye…"
Akari nodded, voice low and urgent. "We need to go. Now."
Without another word, they rose and ran down the same path Haruto had taken, their hearts pounding—not just from the chase, but from fear of what might happen if his body's warning went unchecked.
The slanted grass, the quiet shore, and the fading sunlight seemed indifferent—but for Akari and Renjiro, every second counted.
Haruto's legs pounded against the ground as he reached home. His chest heaved, and every step felt heavier than the last. He pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind him.
"I… I'm home," he muttered to himself, voice hollow, as if expecting no reply.
A soft voice echoed from the hallway. "Hey… Haruto… where were you?"
Haruto froze for a heartbeat. Then, stepping into the hall, he saw Ayame standing there. Her hair was slightly messy, and her uniform was crumpled as if she had just woken or been busy with something. She looked tired, eyes heavy, but she had noticed him.
He didn't answer.
Before she could say more, he ran forward and hugged her tightly, tears streaming freely. His body shook against hers.
"Hey… hey, what's wrong? Why are you crying?" Ayame murmured, gently, trying to steady him without letting go.
Haruto sobbed into her shoulder. "Aka… Brother Renjiro… they lied! Big brother… he never went on a mission… he… he simply didn't survive! Think about it… four years… and the mission… it's not over yet!"
Ayame's lips pressed into a thin line. She exhaled slowly, brushing her fingers through his hair, though her own fatigue showed in the slump of her shoulders.
"Haruto…" she said softly, her voice gentle but firm. "Did… did you talk to them?"
"Yes!" he shouted, pulling slightly back, face red and streaked with tears. "I… I asked! And they… they still lied to me!"
Ayame swallowed, her tired eyes meeting his. "Haruto… listen to me." She paused, taking a slow breath. "Your big brother… he… he didn't survive in the war. He's… he's gone."
Haruto's sobs choked into strangled gasps. He pressed his forehead against her chest, shaking, trying to make sense of the truth he had been running from.
Ayame held him firmly, letting him cry. "I know you've waited… hoped… but it's okay to let it out now. You can't hold it in forever."
He didn't respond with words. Only tears and shudders. The hall felt still, heavy with the weight of grief. And for the first time in years, the truth sat between them—not hidden, not half-told.
Ayame whispered into his hair, voice soft and steady despite her tiredness:
"You're not alone, Haruto. Not ever. We're still here. And we'll face this… together."
Haruto's crying faded slowly, his breath stuttering until exhaustion finally claimed him.
Ayame was sitting on the sofa, her back straight despite the fatigue weighing on her shoulders. Haruto lay curled beside her, his small body turned inward, his head resting on her lap. One of his hands was loosely gripping the fabric of her sleeve, as if letting go would mean losing something again.
She didn't move him.
Her fingers brushed gently through his hair—not to soothe him, but to keep him anchored. His lashes were still wet, a faint redness lingering around his left eye even in sleep.
Ayame stared ahead, unfocused.
"…So it's begun," she said quietly.
The house was silent. Too silent.
She adjusted her posture slightly so his neck wouldn't strain, then rested one hand against the edge of the sofa, grounding herself. The tiredness in her eyes remained, but beneath it was something sharper—measured, alert.
"Fear isn't the root," she murmured. "It's just the trigger."
Her gaze lowered to Haruto.
"What you're carrying was planted long before you could understand it."
She fell quiet for a few seconds, as if listening for something only she could hear.
"Everyone thinks hiding the truth protects you," she continued. "But truths don't disappear. They wait."
Her fingers paused near his temple—near the eye—but she pulled back before touching it.
"Too much pressure in one place," she whispered. "That's how things break."
Ayame leaned back slightly, eyes closing for a brief moment.
Then she spoke again—soft, deliberate, and not meant for anyone else.
"Haruto… you might have a promise with Father."
Her hand tightened gently, protectively, around his.
"But I won't let you walk this path alone."
Her eyes opened, steady now.
"Because I made a promise too," she said.
"…To Mother."
She looked down at him, expression unreadable.
"And unlike the others," she added under her breath,
"I'm not pretending anymore."
Haruto slept on, unaware that while his world had just cracked open,
the person holding him was already preparing for what came next—
not as a sister…
…but as someone who knew the cost of what he was becoming.
Haruto stirred in his sleep.
It was subtle—barely noticeable—but Ayame felt it immediately. His left eyelid twitched beneath her fingers, rapid and uneven, as if something inside him was struggling to surface.
She placed her hand gently over his eye.
"…You can sense it even while sleeping," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
His brow tightened. His fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve, gripping without waking.
Ayame's eyes lifted.
A sound echoed faintly from outside the house.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
Wrong.
Her jaw set. "You heard that too… didn't you?"
Haruto didn't answer—but his breathing changed, shallow and strained.
The next sound came closer.