Chapter 6: Beneath the Surface
The next few days passed like a slow-burning wick. Kazuki returned to work, Ayaka went to school, and their evenings settled into a rhythm that neither dared disturb.
It was the kind of routine that, to outsiders, might look like peace—but beneath it, tension pooled like water behind a dam.
Every time the mail slot clicked, Kazuki's chest tightened.
Ayaka, too, had grown quieter, though not withdrawn. Her silences were different now—not the silence of someone shutting the world out, but the silence of someone weighing every breath.
"If they separate us," she said one night while stirring instant ramen on the stove, "do you think things would just... go back to how they were before?"
Kazuki looked up from the book he wasn't reading.
"No."
"Why not?"
He closed the book. "Because you changed me."
The ramen hissed as it boiled over. Ayaka turned off the stove too late and let out a frustrated sigh.
Kazuki stood and gently took the pot from her hands. "It's okay. I like it a little overcooked."
She didn't smile, but her shoulders relaxed.
They ate in silence. Outside, the wind scratched at the windows like a stray cat trying to be let in.
Later, Ayaka curled up on the futon with a notebook in her lap.
"What are you writing?" Kazuki asked.
"Trying to remember some things," she murmured.
"Like what?"
"My mom's voice. The smell of my old room. What the sun looked like through my school window in the spring."
He nodded, not pressing further. He understood the impulse. Memory was fragile—like glass in the dark. One wrong move and it shattered.
She paused, pen hovering above the page. "You ever write anything down?"
"I used to draw more. That's my version of writing, I guess."
"Show me something new soon?"
"I will."
On Sunday, the letter arrived.
Kazuki found it in the mailbox, tucked behind a catalog of winter jackets and a free neighborhood newspaper. The envelope was marked with the emblem of the City Welfare Department.
He stared at it for a long time before bringing it upstairs.
Ayaka was trimming her bangs in front of the bathroom mirror, the tiny scissors in her hand trembling slightly.
"We got a response," Kazuki said, holding up the envelope.
She froze, then carefully set the scissors down.
"Open it."
He did. Slowly.
The letter was brief.
Following the interview conducted on November 20th, and upon review of your current circumstances, it has been determined that no immediate relocation will be enforced. However, your situation will remain under periodic review. Any changes in employment, education status, or living arrangement must be reported within ten business days. Further support options will be discussed in a follow-up meeting on December 12th.
Kazuki read it twice before handing it to Ayaka.
She read it. Then again.
Then she dropped it onto the table, exhaled deeply, and whispered, "We're safe."
Kazuki didn't realize how tense he'd been until that moment.
Safe. For now. But still fragile.
That night, they celebrated with takeout sushi from a corner shop Kazuki rarely indulged in. Ayaka's eyes lit up as she picked up each piece carefully with chopsticks, marveling at the colors.
"It feels weird," she said halfway through, "to be happy and scared at the same time."
Kazuki nodded. "That's how you know it matters."
Later, while Ayaka washed dishes, Kazuki retrieved his sketchbook.
He flipped to a clean page and began drawing without thinking. It started with soft lines—a window, some light, the curve of a shoulder. Then hair, longer than his own. Then eyes, thoughtful and slightly distant.
He didn't stop until the page whispered her name.
Ayaka.
The next day, the sky offered the first hints of snow.
As Kazuki walked home from the café, the air smelled like winter. Sharp and clean. It made him nostalgic in a way he couldn't name.
He passed a convenience store and saw a kid crying in front of a gacha machine. His mother was scolding him, but the boy only wailed louder.
Kazuki hesitated, then bought a capsule from the machine. He walked up and knelt beside the kid.
"Here. Want this one?"
The boy blinked, surprised. He reached out, took the capsule with wide eyes, then glanced at his mother, who looked startled but not angry.
"Say thank you," she prompted gently.
"Thank you," the boy mumbled.
Kazuki nodded and walked away. For the first time in days, he smiled to himself.
That evening, Ayaka was already home. She'd made a pot of miso soup and laid out rice and grilled mackerel.
"Where'd you learn to cook like this?" Kazuki asked.
"My grandma. Before she got too sick."
They ate in companionable silence.
Afterward, Ayaka pulled out her notebook again.
"Can I read you something?"
He looked up. "Sure."
She opened to a page and cleared her throat. Then she read:
"Some people bloom when the light hits them just right. Others learn to glow even in the dark. I think I'm learning to glow. Slowly. Like embers."
Kazuki stared at her.
"That's beautiful."
She shrugged, but he saw the faint blush in her cheeks.
"I think," he said, "that's what you've been doing this whole time."
The next few days brought more small moments—Ayaka humming while doing laundry, Kazuki sketching while she braided her hair absentmindedly. They shared stories, music, silences that meant something.
One evening, as snow finally began to fall, Ayaka stood by the window.
"Can we go outside?"
"Now?"
She nodded. "I want to feel it."
So they did. They walked out into the soft hush of falling snow, the world around them blanketed in white and quiet.
Ayaka reached out her hand. A flake landed on her palm and melted instantly.
"It's softer than I remember."
"You've seen snow before?"
"Once. When I was little. It didn't stick."
They walked down the block, no destination in mind. Everything was transformed—the streetlamps glowed warmer, the cars looked like toys, the city seemed gentler.
"Do you think," Ayaka said, voice hushed, "that we can stay like this? Just... keep going?"
Kazuki looked at her. She had snow in her hair and hope in her eyes.
"We can try."
She smiled. Then did something that caught him completely off guard—she took his hand.
It was warm.
"You're shaking," she said.
"It's cold."
"Liar."
But she didn't let go.
They returned home with red noses and numb fingers.
Kazuki made hot chocolate. Ayaka added way too many marshmallows. They sat on the floor, sharing a blanket.
And in that moment—simple, quiet, real—Kazuki thought maybe, just maybe, they were building something that could last.
Even if the world tried to tear it apart.