Tsumiki talked softly.
Megumi noticed that first.
Even when her mother slammed doors or complained loudly, Tsumiki's voice stayed small and careful, like she was afraid of breaking something that couldn't be fixed.
On her second day in the Fushiguro apartment, Megumi found her sitting at the edge of the hallway rug, legs tucked neatly underneath her as she unpacked her backpack.
A few hair clips.
A notebook with stickers peeling at the corners.
A pencil case with a cracked zipper.
A sweater that looked like it belonged to someone older.
Tsumiki glanced up when she noticed him watching and gave a tentative smile.
"You can sit," she said, patting the rug beside her. "If you want. I don't bite."
Megumi hesitated, then shuffled over and sat cross-legged next to her, hugging his stuffed bear loosely.
"What're you doing?" he asked.
"Unpacking." She folded the sweater carefully. "Mama said we're staying here for a while." Her smile dipped, then came back. "So… I guess this is home now."
Megumi stared at the small pile of things. "Is that everything you have?"
Tsumiki nodded. "Mama said we had to leave fast. So I brought the important stuff." She held up the folded picture from her notebook pocket. "My grandma. She used to take care of me."
Megumi leaned closer. The woman in the photo had kind eyes and a wide smile, hands resting on Tsumiki's small shoulders.
"Where is she?" he asked.
Tsumiki looked at the picture a long moment. "She got sick. We couldn't stay with her anymore." Her thumb rubbed the edge of the photo. "Mama said… we needed a new start."
Megumi didn't know what to say to that. It felt too close to something inside his own chest.
Tsumiki tucked the picture back into her notebook, sliding it into the backpack like it was the most valuable thing she owned. "What about you?" she asked. "Do you have important stuff?"
He hugged his bear a little tighter. "This."
Tsumiki giggled, covering her mouth with one hand. "He looks like a good bear."
"He's okay," Megumi muttered.
"He's lucky," she said quietly. "He gets to stay with you."
The bear had never seemed important before. Now, with Tsumiki smiling at it like it mattered, Megumi held it a little differently.
Later that afternoon, Megumi sat on the living room floor, staring at the dark space under the couch where he knew the shadows gathered when he was upset. Today, they felt restless, like they were listening.
Tsumiki came over with her notebook and sat beside him, tucking her legs under her again.
"Are you playing?" she asked.
"I'm not really playing."
"What are you doing then?"
He pointed at the dark patch under the couch. "Talking to them."
"The dogs?" she asked, remembering.
Megumi nodded.
Tsumiki tilted her head, eyes wide. "Can… can I see them again?"
"They only come out when I feel like it," he said.
"That's okay." She smiled. "Do you feel like it?"
Megumi frowned slightly, thinking. He placed his hand on the shadow by his knee. The room felt a fraction quieter, like it was holding its breath.
The darkness rippled.
Slowly, a small head formed, half-finished and hazy around the edges, like smoke struggling to keep a shape. Two dim eyes blinked up at them.
Tsumiki gasped softly, but she didn't flinch away. "Hi…"
The shadow dog tilted its head.
"They're so cute," she whispered.
Megumi blinked. "…Cute?"
"Yes. Like puppies!"
The dog's tail flickered, uncertain, then a bit more solid.
"This one comes out if I'm sad," Megumi said.
"Is it because it wants to make you feel better?" Tsumiki asked.
He shrugged. "It just does."
Tsumiki reached out, stopping her hand right before touching it. "Will it… get scared if I pet it?"
"I don't know."
"Can I try?"
Megumi nodded.
Her hand lowered slowly until her fingers passed through the shadow-dog's head.
Instead of breaking apart, the darkness vibrated under her touch, like something alive but shy.
"It's warm," she murmured. "Warmer than I thought."
Megumi watched her face, not the dog. "You're not scared."
"They're your dogs," she said simply. "Why would I be scared of them?"
He didn't have an answer for that.
The next morning, Toji left early, muttering something about work and bills. Tsumiki's mother slammed the bedroom door when he asked if she'd get Tsumiki to school.
"Make the kids walk. It's not that far," she snapped.
Tsumiki pretended not to hear.
In the tiny kitchen, Megumi watched Tsumiki spread a thin layer of jam on toast, humming under her breath. She placed one piece on his plate and kept the smaller one for herself.
He frowned. "That one's tiny."
"It's okay," she said cheerfully. "I'm not that hungry."
"You were hungry yesterday," Megumi pointed out. He remembered the way she'd stared at the empty pot when Toji miscalculated the rice.
Tsumiki laughed awkwardly. "I can eat at school. Sometimes they give out food if you ask."
Megumi stared at his toast, then at hers. He set his own slice down and swapped their plates.
"Megumi-"
"You can eat this one," he said. "It's okay."
Tsumiki's eyes widened. "Are you sure?"
He nodded.
She smiled softly, and this time, it reached all the way to her eyes. "Thank you."
"Sit next to me," he said. "So we can… share."
So they did.
One evening, Toji tried to cook pork cutlets.
Tried.
The smell of burning breadcrumbs filled the apartment, smoke wafting toward the ceiling. Megumi wrinkled his nose and opened a window.
In the living room, Tsumiki peeked into the kitchen. "Is… something on fire?"
Toji scowled at the pan. "It's fine."
Megumi tugged Tsumiki's sleeve, whispering, "He's really bad at this."
"I can tell," she whispered back, eyes bright with amusement.
Toji turned off the stove with a groan. "We'll just order out."
Tsumiki pressed her hands together. "We can still eat it," she said. "I don't mind crispy."
Toji squinted at the pan. "…It's charcoal."
She giggled. "Charcoal's just… extra crispy."
Megumi stared between them. He'd almost forgotten what the apartment sounded like with someone laughing in it.
Later, when Toji sat at the table waiting for delivery, Tsumiki leaned in close to Megumi and whispered, "Your dad's funny."
Megumi blinked. "He is?"
"He's trying," she said, glancing at Toji's slumped shoulders, at the way his hand rubbed tiredly over his face. "That's kind of funny. And… nice."
Megumi watched his father wipe the pan again, stubbornly trying to scrape it clean even though they'd already decided not to eat what was in it.
"I never thought about him trying," Megumi murmured.
"Adults don't always know what they're doing," Tsumiki said. "My grandma said that once. She said grown-ups pretend a lot."
"Dad pretends?"
"Maybe he pretends he's not sad," she said quietly.
Megumi's throat tightened.
He looked at Toji again.
And for the first time, instead of seeing just a distant, tired man who kept disappearing, he saw someone standing in a kitchen he didn't know how to be in, trying to cook food he didn't know how to make, for two kids he didn't know how to keep.
Something in Megumi's chest shifted.
On a stormy night, thunder rattled the windows and rain hammered the roof so hard it made the walls hum. Megumi sat on the floor by his bed, knees up, arms wrapped around them, listening to the steady boom-boom-boom.
He wasn't exactly afraid. Just… tense.
The door creaked open.
"Megumi?" Tsumiki's voice was small.
"Yeah."
She stepped inside, clutching her pillow to her chest. "Can I stay here? Just until it's over?"
He scooted aside without answering directly. She sat beside him, back against the bed frame, hugging the pillow.
"Thunder's loud," she admitted.
Megumi nodded. "The dogs don't like it either."
As if on cue, the shadows under the bed wavered. A snout emerged first, then a full head, then a wobbly body. A small shadow-dog padded closer, pressing its nose against Tsumiki's leg.
She jumped a little, then giggled, brushing her fingers through its inky fur. "They're scared too?"
"They don't like noise," Megumi said.
"Me neither," Tsumiki replied. She placed her hand gently on the dog's back. "It's okay. We're here."
Megumi leaned his shoulder against hers, not quite touching at first.
"We're here," he echoed.
The dog circled once and lay down, half on Megumi's foot and half on Tsumiki's foot.
Outside, the thunder rolled. Inside, the shadows pressed closer.
They didn't talk much more that night.
They didn't need to.
A few days later, while Toji was out, Tsumiki sat on the living room floor with her notebook open, drawing circles and flowers in the margins.
Megumi lay on his stomach beside her, chin resting on his arms.
"Do you miss your mom?" she asked suddenly, pencil pausing.
Megumi's fingers tightened in the carpet. He stared at the fibers between his nails.
"Yeah."
Tsumiki nodded, eyes staying on the page. "I miss my grandma."
He turned his head slightly. "What was she like?"
"She made good food," Tsumiki said, smiling a little. "She told me stories. She'd brush my hair every morning so it wouldn't tangle. And… she listened to me."
Megumi thought of his mother's hands, the way they smelled like soap and flour.
"My mom… sang," he said. "Badly. But I liked it."
"What did she sing?"
"I don't remember the words," he admitted. "Just that… it felt warm."
Tsumiki swallowed. "I used to sleep next to my grandma's bed when she got sick. I didn't want her to be alone."
Megumi was quiet for a moment. "I didn't get to say goodbye."
"Me neither," Tsumiki whispered.
They sat in silence, the kind that didn't feel awkward, just heavy.
Then Tsumiki turned her head and gave him a small, brave smile.
"Maybe… we can miss them together," she said.
Megumi's throat tightened. He nodded. "…Okay."
The shadows under the table stretched toward them, forming a dog at their side, resting its head on both their knees like it agreed with the idea.
Tsumiki giggled softly. "They like me."
"Yeah," Megumi said. "They do."
"I like you too."
He blinked. "…Why?"
"You're quiet," she said, as if that were a good thing. "But you're nice to me."
No one had ever said that about him before.
"…You're nice too," he said.
She brightened. "Then we're both lucky."
That evening, when Toji came home smelling like rain and metal, he stopped in the hallway.
Megumi and Tsumiki sat side by side on the floor, legs stretched out, notebooks and pencils scattered between them. A small shadow-dog had curled around their ankles like a living blanket.
They were laughing quietly at something, heads tilted close.
Toji watched, unseen.
His expression flickered, tired lines softening, eyes not quite as distant. He rested his hand lightly against the doorframe, then knocked on it even though it was already open.
"I'm back," he said.
Tsumiki looked up first. "Welcome home!"
Megumi turned too. "Hey, Dad."
The words were simple, but something in Toji's face eased. Just a fraction.
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
For the first time in a long while, it didn't slam.
Megumi didn't see the fleeting warmth in his father's eyes.
But Tsumiki did.
And she smiled, hugging her notebook to her chest.
For now, even with all its cracks and noise and shadows, this place was home.
Because they were in it together.
Hopefully, it would last.