A loud silence

The man tilted his hat downward with a slight motion of his right hand before slipping his fingers into his shirt pocket. A sleek black business card emerged, its surface adorned with intricate golden patterns that shimmered against the dark background.

Handing it to Kikyo, he spoke in a composed, gentlemanly tone.

"This has my contact information. As for the bar's location..." He paused, blinking once before continuing. "I'll take you there tomorrow. You'll start working right away. The express stream train departs at three in the afternoon—be ready to leave."

Kikyo listened attentively, but a sudden thought struck her. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "C-can I bring my children with me?" Her voice wavered, the words stumbling over themselves.

Worry etched itself across her face, unmistakable and raw.

The man met her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, in a wry tone, he said, "Unfortunately, we cannot have children there. You wouldn't want to bring kids to a bar, would you?"

A shadow of conflict passed over Kikyo's face. Her concern for her children was evident, her emotions laid bare. The man's sharp eyes studied her intently, as if peeling away the layers of her thoughts. It was almost unnatural—his ability to read her so effortlessly.

Nearby, Shin and Miyu stood in silence, observing the exchange.

Shin remained cautious. Though nothing in their conversation seemed particularly alarming, he couldn't shake the brief, inexplicable pressure he had felt a moment ago.

Miyu, however, was different. Sharp and perceptive, she listened intently, hanging onto every word her mother spoke.

Kikyo sensed that something was off—subtly wrong in a way she couldn't quite grasp. A feeling of unease crept over her, elusive yet undeniable.

The man shifted his gaze toward Shin and Miyu before returning his attention to her. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against her ear as he whispered,

"You don't need to worry about your children, do you?"

A familiar pressure descended upon her, the same suffocating force from before—but just as quickly as it came, it vanished.

Her vision dulled, her pupils darkening into abyssal voids. The pressure was replaced by the warmth of his voice—illusory and deep, wrapping around her thoughts like an unseen force. His words blurred at the edges of her mind, dissolving into something intangible, something consuming.

Her body slackened, surrendering to the weight of his whispers.

"Just imagine," he murmured, his voice curling around her like a phantom's embrace. "Once you start working at the bar, saving up little by little, you'll finally have enough to free your children from the miserable fate you brought upon them."

"A house of your own. As much food as you want. Clothes without limit," his voice deepened, sinking into her consciousness like a melody only she could hear.

Then, his final words came like the final stroke of a painter completing a masterpiece.

"Right now... you just need to do as you're told."

The words reverberated in her mind, lingering like an echo from the abyss. She stood motionless, trapped in their ghostly grip.

Then, just as smoothly as he had invaded her thoughts, the man leaned back, his expression returning to its composed elegance. He straightened his posture and offered a polite nod.

"That settles our deal, then. I shall take my leave."

With practiced grace, he turned and stepped through the gaping hole in the ruined wall. The snowstorm swallowed him almost instantly, 

his silhouette flickering like a dying ember before vanishing into the white abyss. The wind howled, carrying away the last traces of his presence, as if he had never been there at all.

Shin and Miyu stared at his retreating figure, their expressions frozen in stunned silence. Kikyo, however, remained utterly still—a statue carved from the cold itself.

She slowly lowered her gaze to the black card in her trembling hand. Her lips parted as she read the name etched in sleek, silver letters.

"...Kaitou Kurozawa."

Shin and Miyu rushed to their mother. Miyu opened her mouth to speak, but Kikyo remained frozen, her eyes locked on the card in her trembling hands.

"...Mom? What happened?" Miyu's puzzled voice broke the silence.

For a few seconds, Kikyo didn't respond. Then, with a sharp inhale, she snapped out of her trance. "Oh, nothing. I was j-just thinking about the offer. That's all," she stammered, her voice unsteady.

Shin's gaze hardened. "Are you going to leave us?" His tone was firm, but beneath it, lay a fragile mix of fear and sorrow. Miyu turned to her mother, the same unspoken question reflected in her wide eyes.

Kikyo's face paled. She looked from her children to the card once more before shoving it away. "Of course not." Dropping to her knees, she wrapped her arms around them, pulling them close. Tears welled in her eyes as she whispered, "How could I ever leave my precious children?"

Her voice was warm, reassuring—yet Shin heard something else beneath it. A crack in her certainty. A hesitation.

Doubt.

…

Later that night

Shin and Miyu lay on a pile of old, tattered rags, their rough fabric doing little to soften the cold, hard floor beneath them. A stack of crumpled newspapers served as their pillow, rustling slightly with every breath. 

The ink had long faded, but the faint scent of damp paper and dust clung to them. The thin blanket barely covered their shivering frame, offering little protection against the night's chill.

Kikyo remained awake, sitting on the cold floor beside her children, her back pressed against the rough brick wall. The weight of the day's events bore down on her, her mind clouded with thoughts she couldn't escape. No matter how hard she tried, the man's words lingered, echoing in the depths of her conscience.

Why can't I forget him? His offer was absurd from the start. How could I ever leave Shin and Miyu alone in this place? How would they survive without me?

Yet, a treacherous thought crept in. If I left… could I truly free them from this life? Would this be our only chance to escape poverty? To finally live a normal life?

If only she could guarantee their safety. This opportunity—if lost—might never come again. Would that mean my children would be trapped in this misery forever?

Guilt twisted in her chest. I've never been able to do anything for them. It's all my fault. If only I had resisted that day… Her mind spiraled further. We could have had a warm, bright home. A different life. I failed them.

Tears welled in her eyes, her soul weighed down by regret, until—

"It's not your fault."

Shin's voice cut through the silence.

Shin got up, walked toward his mother and sat beside her, lowering his head as he spoke.

"I know what you're thinking… but, Mom, it's not your fault. You've done everything you could for us."

His voice was steady, but there was a deep understanding behind it.

"Me and Sis… we know how harsh the world is. And raising two kids—alone, with no husband, no money—it's nearly impossible."

He clenched his fists.

"If it were anyone else, they would've abandoned us a long time ago. But you didn't. You never gave up on us… and I can't tell you how much that means."

Shin turned to look at his mother, his eyes filled with something between sorrow and resolve.

"I know you're thinking about what that man said. And honestly… his offer could change our lives." He hesitated before continuing, his voice softer now. "But it comes at the cost of us being apart."

He took a deep breath.

"I want you to do what your heart tells you. Whatever you decide—whether to stay or leave—we'll respect your choice."

Shin forced a small, reassuring smile.

"And if you do decide to go… don't worry about us. We'll manage somehow. When you get your first pay, you can send some for us, and that way, we won't have to worry about food anymore."

His voice wavered, but he pressed on.

"Who knows? Maybe Sis and I can even get an education… build a future for ourselves."

Kikyo listened to Shin without saying a word. She was astonished—when had he grown so much? For a moment, the image of Shin as a one-year-old flashed through her mind.

She couldn't hold back anymore. Pulling him into her arms, she broke down, her tears spilling freely.

Shin, who had been holding himself together until now, finally let go. He buried his face in his mother's shoulder, crying silently along with her.

Kikyo couldn't find the words to speak. She just wept, her body trembling. Perhaps she held back her sobs for Miyu's sake, afraid of waking her.

But what she didn't realize was that Miyu had been awake the whole time.

Lying with her back turned, Miyu had silently listened to every word. And when she heard her mother's muffled sobs, she couldn't hold back either.

She clenched her teeth, her small body shaking as silent tears slid down her cheeks, soaking into the dry newspaper beneath her head.

The room remained quiet, but the weight of their sorrow was deafening.