The door clicked shut behind Ayaka and Akihiko, leaving a heavy silence in the hospital room.
Makoto stood still for a moment, letting the stillness settle like dust.
Then he walked over to the bedside, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished linoleum.
His voice was gentle, familiar, threaded with a quiet affection.
"I know you're awake, Mom. You used to do that every time I visited—pretend to sleep until I started talking."
There was a pause.
Then, with a small sigh and a resigned shift, Junko sat upright on the bed, arms crossed and her expression unreadable.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
The silence wasn't cold—it was loaded.
With memories.
With unspoken wounds.
With all the years they had spent on different shores of the same ocean, watching each other drift further and further away.
Makoto opened his mouth to speak, but Junko beat him to it.
"That girl..." she said, nodding toward the door where Ayaka had left. "Is she your girlfriend?"
Makoto let out a breath and gave a small shake of his head. "We're just friends. She… she doesn't like me that way."
Junko's eyes narrowed slightly, but her tone remained casual. "But she's the main character in one of your books, isn't she?"
Makoto blinked. "How did you know that?"
Junko shrugged, her expression unreadable. "A mother's instinct."
"Really, huh?" he said with a soft snort, not entirely convinced.
"The heroine in your book His Melody." Junko continued. "She stood up for the male lead just like that girl did for you earlier. It's too similar to a coincidence."
"You read His Melody?" he asked, surprise coloring his voice.
"I've read all your books." Junko said quietly, turning away.
Makoto's breath caught. "I thought you hated them."
Junko looked down at her hands, fingers curling slightly. "I never said I hated them."
She reached out, almost shyly, and took Makoto's hand in hers.
Her fingers were thinner than he remembered, colder.
Fragile.
"You're a good writer, Makoto." she said at last. "It's just… I've had a hard time accepting it. I was afraid."
Makoto frowned. "Afraid of what?"
She met his eyes now.
Her own were glassy, lined with old pain. "Afraid you'd become like your father. A man who charmed with words but left behind nothing but heartbreak. I didn't want to watch you follow that path. I didn't want you to end up playing with people's feelings for the sake of a story."
Makoto's grip tightened on her hand, gentle but firm. "Mom. I'm nothing like him."
"I know that now." she whispered.
"I've loved that girl—Ayaka—for years. Quietly. Steadily. I wrote a whole book about her, for her. I've stood beside her during the hardest moments of her life. I've waited, hoping, hurting. But I think…" He chuckled dryly. "I think I was too late."
Junko's eyes softened. "You saw the way she looked at the doctor."
"Yeah." Makoto replied, the smile on his face both tender and aching. "We never had that connection."
He looked down, shoulders sagging a little. "I know she's going to turn me down eventually. But I'll still be there. I'll still cheer her on. If she's happy, that's enough."
A tear escaped Junko's eye, and she wiped it away before it could fall too far. "I guess I raised a good man… the kind who keeps his head high, even in defeat."
Makoto smiled faintly. "You did. You raised me well, even when dad left. Even when we had nothing. You were everything."
There was a pause, heavy and sacred.
"Mom..." he said slowly. "If you agree to do the surgery… I promise I'll move back in. I'll take care of you. I'll be here for everything."
Junko looked at him, startled.
"And if… if you want me to stop writing…" His voice caught. "I will."
Her eyes widened. "Makoto—"
"I just want more time with you. Real time. Not regret. Not silence."
Junko shook her head slowly. "You don't need to stop writing."
Makoto blinked.
"This time..." she said, brushing his hair back like she used to when he was little, "I'll support you. Wholeheartedly."
His throat tightened, and for the first time in years, he felt something inside him break free.
"Does that mean you'll do the surgery?" he asked.
She nodded with a small smile. "I will."
Makoto jumped up from the bed, laughing, a hand flying to his eyes. "I'll go find Dr. Nakamura and tell him the news! I'll be back, okay?"
As he rushed out the door, the echo of his footsteps was accompanied by something warm and unfamiliar in Junko's chest.
Hope.
------
Meanwhile, in Akihiko's office…
The light was dim, filtered through the blinds.
The warm hum of the city outside was softened by the thick walls.
Ayaka lay sprawled on the couch, fingers turning over a small skull figure from Akihiko's collection.
"Do you think Makoto convinced his mom?" she asked aloud, gazing up at the ceiling.
Then slowly, she sat up waiting for his answer.
Akihiko, who had just pulled off his white coat, didn't answer right away.
Instead, he walked over, then without a word, gently lowered himself down until his head rested in her lap.
Startled, Ayaka blinked. "Huh?"
"I'm sure he did." Akihiko murmured, closing his eyes. "Miura's a fighter. You can tell by the way he stands even when he's hurting."
Ayaka glanced down at him, her fingers naturally drifting into his silver hair, brushing it gently.
"But I'm still in a bad mood." he added gruffly.
"Oh?" she said teasingly, "And why is that, Your Grumpiness?"
He cracked one eye open, gazing up at her with mock seriousness. "Because I want to spend more time with you today. And now I've got surgery in forty minutes since the nurse sent me a message that Miura could not find me to tell personally that his mother is willing to undergo the surgery."
Ayaka chuckled, fingers still playing with his hair. "Then I'll wait here. It's not like I have anywhere better to be."
"You're the only person I know who'd babysit a moody surgeon like this." Akihiko muttered.
"You're the only moody surgeon who's also a clingy grumpy cat." she said, smirking.
Akihiko suddenly sat up, and before she could react, leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.
"Meow." he whispered playfully, pulling back just enough to see her stunned expression.
Ayaka gawked. "Th-that's so not cute."
"Maybe." he said, eyes twinkling. "But you liked it."
Before she could form a comeback, he kissed her again.
This time it was slower.
Deeper.
The kind of kiss that wasn't just about touch—it was about things left unsaid, about feelings unspoken, about time slipping through fingers that didn't want to let go.
When they broke apart, Ayaka was breathless, her face flushed.
"You keep doing that..." she murmured. "And I'll start forgetting we still have a contract."
Akihiko rested his forehead against hers. "Yeah the contract that lasts forever."
Her heart stuttered.
But before she could answer, he sighed and stood up, brushing himself off with reluctance.
"I really do have to go prep." he muttered. "But don't move. I want to see you here when I come back."
Ayaka nodded wordlessly, still dazed, fingers brushing her lips where the taste of him lingered.
As the door shut behind him, she laid back down, eyes wide, heart pounding like it had grown wings.
-----
The clock ticked in steady beats, a metronome counting down the minutes until the first incision.
Akihiko stood in the surgical prep room, surrounded by sterile white light.
The chill of the air-conditioned space clung to his skin, yet he didn't shiver.
This silence was thick, clinical—designed to push out everything unrelated to the patient lying unconscious in the operating room just beyond the doors.
Gone was his white coat. In its place, navy scrubs clung neatly to his tall frame, crisp and sharp.
He reached for a disposable cap, tugging it down over his silver hair with practice ease.
Then came the mask—light blue, sterile, and faintly cool from the metal strip he pressed over the bridge of his nose.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Sharp blue eyes. Impassive expression.
But something flickered in the reflection.
Not the surgeon.
The man.
He remembered the weight of Ayaka's laughter, how she'd played with his hair so easily just minutes ago.
The warmth of her fingers.
The surprise in her eyes when he kissed her—soft, teasing, tender.
And that laugh that spilled from her like music.
He exhaled, shaking it off.
He couldn't let that part of himself bleed into this one.
Not now.
"Dr. Nakamura." came a soft voice behind him.
He turned.
One of the surgical nurses stood in the doorway, holding a clipboard to her chest.
Her eyes were hesitant, curious.
"The anesthesia team is ready. The patient—Junko Miura—has been moved into OR 2. Your team is standing by."
Akihiko gave a curt nod, the mask already flattening the sharpness of his features. "Vitals stable?"
"Stable." she confirmed.
Then, with a glance down at her notes, she hesitated. "Sorry, Doctor. Just… curiosity."
He looked up sharply, waiting.
"Is this Junko Miura the mother of Makoto Miura?" the nurse asked cautiously. "The author, Moonlight Sonata?"
Akihiko's brow furrowed faintly. He hadn't expected that question.
"Yes." he replied, neutral. "Why?"
The nurse's lips parted, as if to explain, but then she stopped. "No reason, really. Just… I've read all his books. It's strange seeing the names connected to real people."
Akihiko didn't answer.
He turned back to the sink.
He had no room for starstruck readers—not right now.
Not when a mother's life depended on his focus.
The water hissed to life, scalding hot.
He scrubbed in with mechanical precision, years of surgical muscle memory guiding every circle of the sponge.
Elbow to wrist.
Palm to palm.
Fingertips.
Thumb.
Over and over, until the sting of antiseptic laced his skin like a second layer.
He let the noise fade.
The world narrowed down to his hands.
His breath.
His pulse.
No Ayaka.
No warmth.
No couch.
Just steel.
Just control.
A nurse assisted him into his gown.
Latex gloves were snapped on next—one over the other, tight and sealed.
The final layer.
His mask was already in place, but something shifted behind it as he glanced at the tray of instruments beside him.
Scalpels gleamed under harsh white light.
Trocars, graspers, laparoscopic scissors arranged like notes on a page.
He stepped toward them, reviewing the layout silently.
"Dr. Nakamura." came the assistant surgeon's voice as he entered. "Junko Miura is fully under. Anesthesia is holding steady. No signs of hypotension. We're clear to begin."
Akihiko nodded. "Good. Maintain conservative fluids. Be ready for blood pressure dips—her stress markers were high."
"Copy that."
He picked up the patient's chart for one last glance. Junko Miura. 59.
The scans were burned into his mind already.
She was stable enough for the procedure, but her body had clearly endured years of untreated strain.
He closed the folder.
'Miura.'
'I will not fail you.'
The swinging double doors to the OR loomed ahead.
He moved toward them, the pressurized air whispering out as they opened.
Inside, it was colder.
Brighter.
The lights were surgical halos fixed directly over the table where Junko Miura lay.
She looked smaller somehow, lying still beneath the blue surgical drapes, her face relaxed in unconsciousness.
A pulse monitor beats steadily in the background—beep… beep… beep.
Akihiko stepped into position like a conductor walking to the podium.
But his orchestra wasn't instruments.
It was breath, blood, and blade.
Everything was ready.
He turned to the nurse.
"Scalpel."
It was placed into his gloved hand without hesitation.
He stared down at Junko for a second longer.
And then, slowly, precisely—
He made the first incision.