Ai’s Routine

A/N:- Not gonna upload any chapter for at least a week now, enjoy this extremely long chapter. 

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Ai tugged the brim of her baseball cap lower and adjusted the plain white mask over her face. Even on a quiet back street in Tokyo, she took no chances being recognized. Not today. A late-morning sun filtered through the thin clouds, casting gentle light over a small neighborhood park where she had agreed to meet him. It was their ritual now – the same bench by the rusted slide, once a month, every month for five years.

She spotted the private investigator already sitting there, a tired-looking man in his late thirties nursing a canned coffee. He wore a rumpled charcoal blazer despite the growing spring warmth. His shoulders slumped with a kind of perpetual exhaustion, but when he saw Ai approaching, he stood politely and offered a faint, respectful smile.

"Miss Hoshino," he greeted, voice gentle. He always used her real name here, in private. It jolted her, hearing it aloud – a reminder that in moments like this she wasn't the shimmering idol on stage or the cheerful young mother at the school gate. Here, she was just Ai, a woman desperate for answers.

"Morning, Hayashi-san," Ai replied softly, maintaining a casual distance. To any passerby, they looked like old acquaintances having a chat – which, in a sense, they were. Five years of conversations, however brief and stilted, could make strangers into something like friends.

Ai sat down on the green-painted bench, peeling at the edges, and for a moment they both watched a toddler waddle after pigeons near the sandbox. A cicada droned lazily from a camphor tree overhead, underscoring the summer hush. She realized her hands were knotted tightly in her lap and forced them to relax, smoothing her skirt as if that could iron out the tension in her body.

Hayashi cleared his throat. "I… looked into the lead you passed me last time," he began quietly. He didn't pull out a notebook – he'd long since learned to commit everything to memory, leaving no paper trail. "The hospital records in Osaka turned out to be a dead end. The Hiroshi Kobayashi admitted there wasn't our Hiroshi. Just a coincidence in name."

Ai felt her heart constrict, though she had schooled herself not to get too hopeful. "I see," she whispered. Under her mask, she bit her lip hard. She'd told herself this a thousand times: no expectations. But still, part of her had dared to imagine what if. She inhaled slowly, drawing in the faint scent of cut grass and the sweet, yeasty odor wafting from a nearby bakery. Grounding herself.

"I'm sorry," Hayashi said, and he truly sounded it. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair. "I've been through all the unofficial channels. The immigration logs you mentioned… no hits. And that old colleague of your—of Hiroshi's, the one in Fukuoka, he hasn't heard anything either."

Ai nodded stiffly. She didn't trust her voice not to crack yet. A small group of mothers strolled past on the walking path behind them, pushing strollers and chatting in gentle singsong to their babies. Ai kept her head down until they passed, pretending to pick at a loose thread on her sleeve. Her disguise was good – just an ordinary young mom in leggings and an oversized hoodie – but her instincts honed from years under spotlights told her never to draw attention.

Hayashi waited until the chatter of the mothers faded. He knew how to be patient in these meetings, how to navigate Ai's silences. In the distance, the little toddler squealed as a pigeon fluttered just out of reach, and a faint smile touched the investigator's lips before he continued. "I wish I had something more concrete. I know how much it means to you."

For a moment, neither spoke. Ai's eyes followed the toddler tottering back toward his mother, arms outstretched. There was a heaviness in her chest that never truly went away, a weight she carried every day, but it felt especially heavy at times like this. Five years heavy.

When she finally trusted herself to speak, her tone was steady, practiced. "So nothing new this month." It wasn't a question, really.

Hayashi lowered his gaze. "No. Nothing new." He hesitated, and from the corner of her eye Ai saw him turn the empty coffee can nervously in his hands. "Look… I could keep digging into the official missing person's database again, but we've combed it so many times. Interpol, the NGOs… even the morgues." He said the last word delicately, as if it might bruise her.

Ai's stomach clenched. She forced herself to breathe. Morgues. After five years, even he was suggesting—

"I won't stop until we're certain," Hayashi added quickly upon seeing her face. He straightened, adopting a determined air. "But I… I also don't want to give you false hope. I respect what you're doing, I really do, but…" He trailed off, searching for words that wouldn't wound. "Sometimes… people don't want to be found. Or can't be."

A breeze stirred, rattling the dry leaves in the gutter. Ai's jaw tightened. "Hiroshi's not 'people.'" The tremor in her voice slipped out before she could snatch it back. She turned to the investigator, eyes flashing with a sudden intensity. "He wouldn't just disappear on me. On us. If he's out there, he has a reason. Maybe he's in trouble or…" She stopped herself, aware that her words had come out too forcefully. She swallowed and added in a calmer whisper, "He's alive. I know it."

Hayashi held up a placating hand. "Alright. Understood." His face softened with sympathy. He'd heard this conviction from her before; every time he gently edged toward the possibility of an unhappy ending, she bristled and shut it down. He exhaled through his nose and gave a small bow of assent. "I'll keep at it. I promise."

Ai managed a grateful nod. Guilt pricked at her – she knew he only wanted to help, and here she was snapping at him for voicing what everyone else already assumed. Hiroshi is dead. The banks thought so when they transferred the accounts. The government thought so when they quietly closed the missing persons case. Even her closest friends, like Ichigo and Miyako, tiptoed around the subject these days, worry lining their faces whenever she referred to Hiroshi in present tense. They were kind enough never to correct her, but she felt their pity like a spotlight. Only Hayashi never looked at her with pity – just gentle concern, the way a doctor might look at a patient who refuses treatment.

She stood, tucking a stray lock of her dark hair back under the cap. "Thank you," she murmured. "Same time next month?"

He rose as well and dipped his head. "Of course. I'll be in touch if anything arises sooner." A pause. "Take care of yourself, Miss Hoshino."

Ai offered him a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You too. And… thanks for not giving up." The words carried a weight beyond gratitude – it was as close as she could come to asking him please don't give up on him, on me.

Hayashi seemed to understand. He gave a tired but sincere smile and stepped away, crunching an early fallen leaf underfoot as he departed. Ai watched him go, that blazer of his disappearing around a corner. Then she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

The little park suddenly felt emptier. She heard the distant rush of traffic from the main road and realized the midday lull was ending; lunch break was over for most office workers. Checking the slim watch on her wrist, Ai saw it was nearly time to head back. The kindergarten would be finishing its half-day soon, and she needed to be there to pick up her children.

Her children. Their children. A familiar pang of longing – equal parts love and sadness – flickered through her. Hiroshi had never even gotten to hold them, to see their first steps or hear their voices. But they had his cleverness, his eyes. Four-year-olds with minds far too sharp for their age. Every day they reminded her of him. It made her heart ache; it kept her heart beating.

Ai pulled her mask a little higher and stepped out of the park, joining the thin stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk. The city felt louder now: the luncheon crowds returning to high-rises, delivery scooters whining as they weaved past, the electronic jingle of a nearby crosswalk signal counting down to green. She merged into a cluster of chatting young women in office attire to cross the street, keeping her head down. A gaudy billboard above the intersection flashed with an ad for a new soft drink, all neon bubble letters and a grinning mascot. Next to it stood a taller signpost cluttered with flyers – one peeling poster showed an anime boy band promoting their concert, another advertised English lessons. Tokyo was a cacophony of sights and sounds layered on top of each other, alive and oblivious to the quiet dramas unfolding in its midst.

As Ai waited on the sidewalk, her phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. Ai fished it out, glancing at the caller ID. Ichigo. She managed a tiny, bemused smile. Ichigo was nothing if not persistent. The moment she answered, his booming voice spilled out, loud enough that she had to hold the phone a little away from her ear.

The blast of Ichigo's voice nearly made her wince. "Ai! Finally! Listen, you won't believe the morning I've had," he boomed, already several sentences in before she could get out a greeting. She imagined him stomping around his cluttered office at Strawberry Productions, tie askew, phone jammed against his ear, coffee steaming in a chipped mug on the windowsill. She'd seen the scene a hundred times.

He barreled on, voice rising and falling with the sort of theatricality that would put half her director friends to shame. "I've been on the phone with five—no, six—different producers since dawn. They're practically tearing each other's hair out over this new film's protagonist role. All of them going crazy over this new script the brat wrote, Train to Osaka." He pronounced the title with all the gravity of a military campaign. "They all tried to either buy off the script or bribe me to pick their own damn lead actor first. This film's box office potential is huge—nationally, globally, you hear me? But I set my foot down. You are the protagonist or we shelf the script, period. Let them try to replicate it themselves. I dare them."

A dog barked as Ai passed a family walking a shiba on a neon leash. She ducked her head, shifting the phone to her other ear, and nearly tripped over a crooked bit of curb. "Really? That's… great?" Her voice came out cautious, unsure if she was supposed to be celebrating or apologizing. The last time Ichigo had been this wound up, she'd ended up doing a press junket in Osaka dressed as a literal train conductor. She braced herself for the next bombshell.

"It is great. It's beyond great," Ichigo declared, barely pausing for breath. "One of those idiots even tried to butter me up, asking for the mysterious screenwriter's contact info, as if I'd just hand over our secret weapon. Hah! I didn't budge an inch. And this lead role of course goes to you—this script was written for you, not some over-the-top actress with too much drama. The brat wrote it for you. I'm not going to let some parasite take away his love for you."

He stopped just long enough for a background sound—maybe his fist hitting the desk? Ai had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. There was something ridiculous and moving about the way Ichigo always referred to the anonymous writer as "the brat," even now, years after Hiroshi had vanished.

"Secret weapon? I thought we were talking about an actor, not a bomb," Ai deadpanned, keeping her voice dry and casual. The words slipped out before she could second-guess. It felt good to banter, to lean into the old rhythm.

"Don't get smart with me," Ichigo huffed, but there was a smile in his tone. "Point is, I got you the lead role. The part's basically yours. But—" He pivoted, his voice sharpening with all the weight of a manager about to deliver homework. "This isn't some walk in the park like that sappy romance, Tokyo Story, you did last year. This new script is intense. Dark. Action. Drama—the whole package. You're going to have to work your butt off, Ai. No slacking just because everyone's fawning over you, got it?"

Ai dodged a cyclist who blew through a red light, heart skipping with annoyance at the near miss. "Got it," she replied, more earnest than sarcastic. "I'll do my best, promise." She pictured Ichigo's skeptical frown, the way he'd squint at her over his glasses, and almost grinned. "No slacking, even if I'm a 'national treasure' now."

"You keep calling yourself that and I'll make you sweep the studio," he retorted, but it was pure affection now, a familiar gruffness meant to hide just how much he cared. "Anyway, listen. I'm serious about this. Directors want to schedule a table read next week. I need you sharp, Ai—not up all night playing games with the kids or getting roped into those idol reunion specials. Focus, okay?"

"Ichigo-san, you make it sound like I'm the one holding secret poker games at two a.m.," Ai said, letting a bit of mock-wounded drama into her tone. "Besides, Aqua's bedtime is strictly enforced these days. Ruby keeps us both in line." The mention of her twins' names softened her. For a moment, the city faded and she saw their faces: Aqua, serious-eyed, already plotting ways to outsmart his teacher; Ruby, wild and bright, forever challenging the world.

Ichigo snorted. "I'm glad someone's keeping you on schedule, even if it's a four-year-old. But listen: the press is already sniffing around. They want to know why you're so attached to this project. They want to know who wrote it. They want to know who you're dating, what you had for lunch, and how many hairs you lost in the shower this morning. Ignore them. Let me handle the circus."

"Okay," Ai replied quietly. She adjusted her hat, ducking behind a group of high schoolers at a crosswalk. "Thanks, Ichigo-san. I… I mean it." It was easy to forget, sometimes, how much Ichigo shielded her. Not just from producers and journalists, but from the memories that threatened to pull her under when she let her guard drop.

He must have heard the tiredness in her voice, because his tone softened a fraction. "Hey. You sound… off. You sure you're alright?" For all his bluster, Ichigo's concern was always there, simmering just beneath the surface.

"I'm okay," Ai lied, gently. "Just a long week. You know how it is." She glanced up, squinting against the sudden burst of sunlight as she rounded the corner near the elementary school. The scent of chalk and warm asphalt drifted on the breeze. "I'm headed to pick up Ruby and Aqua. They had a field trip today—something about bug catching. Aqua swore he was going to find a stag beetle 'bigger than my head.' I think Ruby was more excited about the snack."

Ichigo chuckled. "Those kids… I swear, every time I talk to you about them, I feel like I'm getting old. Time flies." There was a wistful note in his voice. "Well, give them both a hug from Uncle Ichigo, alright?"

"Will do," Ai promised, warmth bubbling up inside her. The world felt a little lighter when she imagined the twins' faces.

He grunted, clearing his throat. "Alright, enough mushy talk. I emailed you the script. Read it, Ai. Don't just skim like you did last time."

"I won't skim, I promise," she replied, drawing out the word with playful innocence. She could almost hear his eyebrows raise in suspicion.

"You better not," he muttered. Then, more quietly: "And take care of yourself, Ai-chan. Really. You sound… tired."

Ai paused, the crowd flowing around her. Tired. The word sat heavy in her chest, heavier than the shopping bags she sometimes carried home from late-night runs for diapers and instant curry. "I will," she whispered. "Thank you, Ichigo-san."

A silence hung between them for a moment—an island of quiet in the noise of the city.

He ended the call the way he always did: abrupt, practical, almost gruff. "Yeah, yeah. Go get those kids. And if you need anything—anything—call me. Don't be stubborn."

She smiled, even as the call clicked off and the dial tone bled into her ear. "I won't," she said to the empty line, already missing the comfort of his voice.

The city seemed brighter, somehow, as Ai tucked her phone away and continued toward the kindergarten. She passed a ramen shop she and Hiroshi had once visited during a rainstorm—he'd insisted on ordering the spiciest bowl, then spent the whole meal coughing and blaming the chef. She laughed softly to herself at the memory, pressing a hand to her lips.

She was about to cross the street towards the kindergarten when something across the road caught her eye. A cluster of teenagers tumbled out of an arcade center, their laughter and excited chatter carrying through the air. Neon lights from the arcade's sign flashed in playful colors, reflecting off the glossy evening pavement. Ai slowed her steps. There was a tug inside her chest—nostalgia, sudden and bittersweet.

For a moment, she could see it: two ghosts from her past slipping out of that very arcade. A twelve-year-old girl with long dark pigtails and a shy smile, and a thirteen-year-old boy with unruly hair and a mischievous glint in his eyes. Her and Hiroshi, years and years ago. Ai blinked, and the vivid image sharpened. It was as if she were standing right there again, peeking into a memory.

For a moment, she saw ghosts: twelve-year-old Ai, hair in pigtails, being dragged inside by a brash, impossibly self-assured thirteen-year-old Hiroshi. "What do you mean you've never played Street Fighter?" he'd teased, shoving a handful of coins into her palm. "Come on, even airheads need to learn to Hadouken." He'd spent an hour teaching her every button, every secret move, never once letting her win—at least, not obviously. When she finally beat him, he accused her of cheating, then grinned and bought her a melon soda from the vending machine.

The memory played out in Ai's mind like a scene from a film. She could almost feel the sticky summer heat of that night years ago, hear the jingles and beeps of arcade machines, smell the buttered popcorn and cheap candy on Hiroshi's breath as he leaned in close to demonstrate a trick on the claw machine. "You've never even won a plushie before? What kind of childhood did you have?" he had laughed, his voice bright and carefree in a way Ai hadn't heard in so long.

Little Ai had stuck out her tongue. "Some of us were busy practicing our singing, you know. We can't all spend hours playing games!" She had tried to sound indignant, but her giggles gave her away. With Hiroshi, she always ended up laughing—he had that effect on her.

Ai stood at the curb, eyes unfocused, fully lost in the mirage of the past. She watched as her younger self finally gave in, grabbing the joystick of the claw machine with determination. Hiroshi hovered over her shoulder, practically bouncing on his toes with excitement. "There you go, a little to the left... Now drop it! Yes, yes—"

The claw descended, clamped shakily around a gaudy yellow Pikachu plush, and hauled it upwards. Twelve-year-old Ai gasped in delight. "Is it—did I—?"

"You got it!" Hiroshi whooped, throwing his arms around her in a jubilant hug as the plush fell into the prize chute. Ai remembered how safe she'd felt right then, wrapped in that hug, her cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt, his heart thudding as fast as hers.

A car horn blared nearby, snapping Ai back to the present with a jolt. She realized she'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the arcade's entrance. The teenagers were long gone now, and the only reflection in the arcade's glass doors was her own—a lone woman with a downcast face, hiding behind sunglasses. The ghosts of her memory had vanished into thin air. Ai let out a shaky breath. That tiny adventure in the arcade had happened over a decade ago, yet it felt as real as yesterday. Hiroshi's laughter still echoed in her ears.

Swallowing hard, Ai forced her legs to move again. She crossed the street, though her pace had slowed. Just ahead, a large billboard loomed over the intersection, illuminated by spotlights in the gathering dusk. It was an advertisement featuring smiling college students and bold letters: "University of Tokyo – Open Campus This Weekend!" The words "University of Tokyo" — Todai — made Ai's heart lurch, and suddenly another wave of memory crashed over her, more intense than the last.

She was sixteen, bubbling with adrenaline and exhaustion as she stepped off the train after a three-day regional idol tour. It was nearly night by the time she hurried through the quiet residential streets to the house she called home. The old two-story Western-style house always reminded her of something from a ghost story with its creaky iron gate and overgrown front garden, but to Ai it was the warmest, brightest place in the world. It was Hiroshi and Inori-san's house — no, her house too, ever since they had taken her in. She had practically flown up the path, her suitcase thumping against her leg, eager to share every detail of the concert with her family.

"Hiroshi! Okaachan! I'm back!" Ai had called as she kicked off her shoes in the entryway. Normally, Inori (or "Okaachan," as Ai affectionately called Hiroshi's mother) would rush to greet her, enveloping her in a hug and fussing over how tired she must be. And Hiroshi—if he wasn't hiding to jump out and scare her—would wander in with that lazy grin, asking how the "airhead idol's" shows went this time.

But that evening, the house was unsettlingly quiet. Ai's voice echoed back to her from the high ceilings. She wheeled her suitcase into the living room, the anticipation of sharing her triumph deflating into confusion. "Hello? Hiro? okaachan?" she called again, softer.

No answer. The only sound was the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

Ai set down her luggage, trying not to let worry creep in. Maybe they stepped out for groceries or went for a walk. It was unusual for them not to tell her, but not impossible. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she'd skipped dinner on the train. So she headed to the kitchen to reheat some leftovers and wait. She was sure they'd be back any minute.

In the kitchen, Ai flicked on the light and opened the refrigerator. Sure enough, Inori-san had left a covered plate of curry for her. Ai smiled—Okaachan was always so thoughtful. As she set the plate in the microwave, something on the dining table caught her eye. A pile of documents and envelopes lay there, looking important and a little messy, as if hastily assembled.

Ai drifted over, curiosity piqued. On top of the pile lay a large envelope embossed with the University of Tokyo seal. With a thrill, she realized it was likely Hiroshi's college admission results. Her heart skipped as she tore the envelope open, hands trembling in excitement. She scanned the official letter inside: "...pleased to inform you of your acceptance... Faculty of Economics, Business Program..."

"He did it," Ai whispered, a grin breaking across her face. "Oh my god, he did it!" Her voice rang out in the empty house. She clutched the letter to her chest, pride and joy welling up. Hiroshi had been accepted into Todai's business program — one of the toughest universities in the country. Of course he had; he was brilliant.

She could already imagine his sheepish shrug when she'd inevitably shower him with praise. And Inori-san's gentle smile, perhaps a few tears of joy in her eyes at her son's achievement. Ai practically bounced on her toes, wanting to share this moment with them right now.

But where were they? It wasn't like them to miss greeting her after a trip, especially one of her first big tours. Ai pulled out her phone and shot off a quick text to Hiroshi: I'M HOME!! Where are you?? I have amazing news! And I think you do too, Mr. Todai!!! Call me! She added a flurry of celebratory emojis and hit send.

Setting her phone down, Ai tried to be patient. The microwave beeped and she retrieved her curry, sitting at the small kitchen table to eat. The house still felt too silent. The curry tasted delicious but she barely noticed the flavors, her mind running through possibilities of where they could be. Perhaps they had gone out to celebrate his acceptance? But wouldn't they wait for her? Hiroshi knew she'd be back tonight. Maybe there was an emergency? Ai's grip on her spoon tightened. She checked her phone: no reply yet, and the message hadn't even been marked as read.

After a few bites, her gaze drifted back to the stack of documents. The Todai acceptance letter wasn't the only thing there. Ai pushed aside the university envelope to examine the rest. There was a smaller sealed envelope with her own name scribbled on it — Ai Hoshino — in Hiroshi's handwriting. Strange. She set it aside for a moment, heart beginning to pound inexplicably. Beneath it lay several official-looking papers. The first one was a property title transfer. Ai skimmed it, eyes widening as she recognized the address. This house — the one they lived in — was listed, and so was her own name as the new owner.

"What...?" she murmured. Sure enough, it was a deed, legally transferring ownership of the house from Hiroshi to Ai. His signature was scrawled at the bottom, dated just yesterday . Ai's mouth went dry. Why would he do this now without even telling her?

Hands unsteady, she leafed through the next document. It was a printout of bank account information — two accounts, one for Inori Kobayashi and one for Hiroshi Kobayashi. Each account was accompanied by passwords, PIN codes, security details, even a note about how to access them online. These were all of Hiroshi and okaachan's savings, laid out neatly for her.

Ai's breathing turned shallow. It felt like the walls of the kitchen were suddenly closing in. This was the kind of information someone left behind when... when they weren't planning to be around to use it. Like a will, whispered a panicked voice in her mind. No. No, that's crazy.

She grabbed her phone again and dialed Hiroshi's number, heart thudding. It rang. And rang. Usually he answered by the second ring, always joking that he had a sixth sense for when she was calling. But now, it rang through to voicemail. She hung up and tried again immediately, hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped the phone. Still no answer.

Ai's fingers felt numb as she tapped on Inori-san's contact next. The call barely had a chance to connect before she heard a familiar tune chiming faintly from the living room. Ai froze, then rose slowly from the kitchen chair. She followed the sound with dread pooling in her stomach, each step toward the living room heavy like wading through water.

There, on the sofa's armrest, lay Inori's cell phone vibrating against the fabric and playing its cheerful ringtone. Okaachan never went anywhere without her phone—she was as attached to it as any modern adult. Ai's pulse pounded in her ears. Something was very, very wrong.

She snatched up Inori's phone, as if it might contain answers, but the lock screen just showed Ai's missed call. No clues, no messages. Ai stood in the silent living room, the sinking sun casting long shadows through the lace curtains. Her mind raced, grasping at any reasonable explanation, but coming up empty. People don't just leave behind their wallets and phones and important documents neatly arranged... unless...

Unless they don't expect to come back.

"No," Ai whispered aloud, her voice trembling in the empty room. "Don't you dare, Hiroshi... This isn't funny." Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as panic set in. She noticed then that the sealed envelope with her name on it—which she'd set aside—was now resting on top of the pile in her hands. As if demanding to be opened.

With a whimper of dread, Ai tore open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper covered in Hiroshi's handwriting. The normally neat characters were hurried, slanting across the page. A few ink smudges stained the margins; had his hand been shaking as badly as hers was now? Ai pressed a hand over her mouth, trying to steady herself, and began to read:

(A/N: Wrote this letter when listening to Kamin. Do that if you want to get emotional and make the letter truly hit you)

To Ai-chan, my airhead, my brightest light—

If you're reading this, it means I'm gone. I wish there was a way to start this that didn't sound so damn final, but I never was any good at writing letters, was I? It's not like I ever planned on being the sort of man who left things unsaid, let alone in ink. I always thought I'd be the one annoying you by living too long—hogging the blankets and the remote, eating the last of your favorite pudding, yelling at you for not taking your vitamins, getting scolded by Okaa-san for leaving dirty socks everywhere. I wanted to be that guy, growing old and cranky with you and with her, surrounded by a pile of laundry and empty snack wrappers and all the mess we made together. If you're reading this, it means I don't get to be that man. I'm sorry.

God, I don't even know where to start. You know I always joked that words were your thing, not mine. I always let you talk when things got hard and hid behind my grumpy act. But there are things I owe you. Things you always wanted to know. You used to stare at those scars on my arms and back, run your fingers over them at night, and you'd ask, "Where did you get these, Hiroshi?" I'd make some dumb joke. Say I fell out of a tree, or got into a fight with a particularly vicious Shiba Inu, or that Okaa-san chased me around with a broom when I stole her last onigiri. And you'd just shake your head and roll your eyes and call me a liar. You always saw through me, even then.

But I never told you. Not really. I never could. You wanted to know about my scars, about Okaa-san and me, about where we came from and why the nightmares kept waking me up screaming at 3 a.m. You wanted to know why I hated hospitals, why loud bangs made me flinch, why sometimes I'd go so quiet it felt like I disappeared from the room even when I was sitting right there beside you.

I'm going to tell you everything now. It's the least I can do, since I can't tell you in person, since I'm leaving you with this damn letter instead of a goodbye you deserve.

You know the story, the one I half-told you over and over? The "escaped from bad people in a war zone" version? That wasn't a story, Ai. That was my whole life. I was five—maybe six, I'm not even sure anymore—when those people came for me. Scientists, soldiers, monsters in white coats, people with money and no souls. They took me and other kids—hundreds of us, Ai. Kids with nothing. Orphans, runaways, street rats, children whose parents sold them for a handful of bills or a promise. We were numbers on a clipboard to them, just raw material.

They put us in cells, cold and empty. They strapped us to beds and pumped us full of things—drugs, chemicals, things I still taste in the back of my throat sometimes when I wake up sweating at night. They cut us open, Ai. They put things in us—tracking chips, wires, who the hell knows what else. Some of it was just… pain. "Testing limits," they called it. I was a project, not a person.

I don't remember everything. Sometimes that's a blessing. But there are things I'll never forget: the taste of metal, the cold, the screaming—mine and others'. The smell of burning plastic and ammonia. The scientists who took notes while we cried, the guards who laughed, the ones who looked away and pretended not to see. There were good people too. There always are. Okaa-san was one of them. She was a researcher—brilliant, gentle, broken. She couldn't save everyone, but she saved me. She and others like her risked everything to get us out. Some of them died for it. My "siblings" weren't really siblings—Riya, who named me Hiroshi, was just the girl in the cell beside mine, but she was family in all the ways that matter. She didn't make it out. Most didn't.

The day we escaped was chaos. Alarms, gunfire, the stink of blood and panic. I ran. Okaa-san grabbed my hand and never let go. I didn't look back. I never looked back.

We spent years hiding. New names, new cities, forged papers. Okaa-san became my mother in every way that matters, even if she was only ten years older than me, still a girl herself. She gave me her family name—Kobayashi. I wore it with pride. She was always a little cold, a little distant, but she tried to give me a life. I owe her everything.

Six years ago, we came to Japan—Okaasan's home country. We finally landed in Tokyo. This big old house, as you know, belonged to Okaasan; it was her family home, and with everyone else gone, it became just the two of us.

Then you barged into my life. God, I still remember that day—you caught me scolding Okaasan, who was still wearing her damn lab coat after coming straight from her night shift at the clinic. You wandered in, saw the "maid wanted" sign on our haunted house with the overgrown garden that everyone else avoided, and decided to start working for us—and living with us.

You sang off-key in the shower, broke my precious gaming console (and made me teach you how to fix it), and you stole all the best snacks from the fridge, always blaming Okaasan. You called me "grumpy old man" even though I'm barely older than you. But you made me laugh, Ai. You made me feel like a person again.

You always said I saved you, that I taught you what love was. But you never realized you were saving me right back. You dragged me into your world, into the sunshine, out of the darkness. For the first time, I wasn't just a survivor—I was alive. I got to be a stupid teenager, to love, to fight, to make mistakes, to learn. I got to have my first real friend, my first real love, my first family.

And the day you finally met Pikachu—do you remember how terrified you were of him at first? And Daisy, that tiny Ralts who clung to you like a shadow? Our little "family," as weird as it was.

It was borrowed time. I always knew it couldn't last. People like me don't get happy endings, Ai. But I wanted to believe. I wanted to build a future with you, even if I was just lying to myself. I wanted to see you at Tokyo Dome, waving to thousands of fans. I wanted to see you act in movies, write your own music, maybe—someday—start a family with you. I wanted to be there for every milestone, every heartbreak, every silly fight over what anime to watch or whose turn it was to cook dinner. I wanted to grow old, Ai. With you.

But the past always finds you. I was a fool to think I'd escaped. They found us, Ai. I don't know how—maybe we got sloppy, maybe someone we trusted sold us out, maybe we were just unlucky. All I know is, one day Okaa-san didn't come home. She didn't call. Her phone was left on the couch. I knew, right away, something was wrong. When I tried to reach my contacts, they were gone—disappeared, dead, or scared silent.

Then the message came. "Come back or she dies." That simple. No threats, no demands. They took her to lure me out. And it worked.

I'm sorry, Ai. I'm so sorry. I know this isn't fair to you. I know I promised I'd never leave you. But I can't let Okaa-san die because of me. I can't live with another person's blood on my hands. Not again. I have to go. I have to finish what I started. I have to destroy them from the inside, whatever it takes. Maybe this time, I won't make it back. Maybe I don't deserve to.

I wish I could say goodbye in person. I wish I could see your face one more time, hold you, tell you how much I love you. But I can't. If I say goodbye, I won't be able to leave. I'm not strong enough. So I'm doing this the coward's way, with a letter. You always teased me for being old-fashioned.

Everything I own is yours now. The house is in your name—there's a copy of the deed in this envelope. The accounts are all yours, too—details and PINs are in the folder. Any royalties or contracts I ever signed, you get them all. Use them for yourself, or for your career, or just to keep the fridge full of snacks. I don't care. Just… don't waste your life chasing ghosts.

And if anyone asks about us—about Pokémon, about me, about Okaa-san—tell them nothing. Tell them you were just a roommate, that you barely knew us. Most of the people asking won't really be working for the government. They're not trying to help you. They're trying to find me, or worse, trying to use you as bait. Don't trust anyone, Ai. Not even the ones with badges. Not even investigators. The world is full of masks.

And about Pikachu and Daisy—I'm sorry, Ai. They tried to protect Okaa-san. They're gone too. Don't ask after them. If you ever see someone with a Pokémon that looks familiar, run. I wish I could promise you safety, but I can't. All I can do is ask you to hide.

I love you, Ai. I love you more than words can ever say, more than I ever said in person. I love how you steal the blankets, how you sing terrible renditions of love songs at 2 a.m., how you make faces at the TV and always cry at that one stupid anime with the dog. I love how you yell at Okaa-san for forgetting her umbrella, how you still can't make rice without burning it, how you always mess up the lyrics and never admit it. I love your real self and your airhead idol act, the girl who could be both a genius and an absolute ditz in the span of five minutes. I love the way you blush when you get embarrassed, how you ramble when you're nervous, how you chase your dreams with a stubbornness that would make a bull jealous.

If I could have one more day, I'd spend it holding you close, listening to you complain about how crowded Shibuya Station was, or how the manager yelled at you for being five minutes late, or how you wish I'd cook more often instead of living on convenience store bento. I'd tell you every secret I never told, every regret I have, every hope I ever dared to hold for us. But I can't. So I'll say it here, one last time: I love you, Ai. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.

Please, please, move on. Don't waste your life waiting for a dead man. Don't put your dreams on hold for me. Be happy, Ai. That's all I want for you. Find someone who makes you laugh, who sings along with your terrible karaoke, who buys you flowers when you're sad. Find someone who looks at you and sees the world's brightest star, because you are. You always were.

Don't cry for me. I don't want that. I want you to live. I want you to shine so bright that even I can see it from wherever I end up. I want you to become the actress and singer you're meant to be. I want you to fill Tokyo Dome and every theater after that. Remember those scripts I hid in my upper cabinet? I wrote them for you. Ambitious stuff, stuff that would terrify producers if you pitched them now. But when you have the clout, when the world's finally ready to see how brilliant you are, take them and run. Make them your own.

And please—watch out for your stalkers. I never trusted those creeps who hung around outside your shows. Transition your career, Ai. You're so much more than the "airhead idol." You have a gift, a voice, a fire. Use it. For yourself. For the world. For us.

As for Okaa-san—don't mourn her yet. I promised her I'd get her back. And I will. Even if I have to burn down the world to do it. She's your family, too. She always loved you, even if she showed it in weird ways. When I find her, I'll send her back to you on the next flight. I swear. Take care of her for me.

When you look up at the night sky, think of me. I'll be looking back at you, I promise. If there's another life, I'll find you again, Ai-chan. Maybe next time we'll have more time. Maybe next time we'll get our happy ending.

Don't forget me—but don't wait for me either. Live.

I love you, brat.

Your Hiroshi

P.S. Change the locks. And for the love of god, stop leaving your key under the doormat. Even a brain-dead stalker could figure that out.

P.P.S. If you find any embarrassing manga in my closet, you're forbidden to read it. I mean it. Burn it.

P.P.P.S. …But not before you read the ending. It's pretty good, I promise.

Each line of Hiroshi's letter drove a nail deeper into Ai's heart. By the time she reached the end, her whole body was trembling. Tears streamed freely down her face, blurring the ink on the page. "No... no, no, no," she gasped, clutching the letter to her chest as if trying to hug a part of him one last time. A wail of anguish built in her throat and escaped, echoing in the empty house. "Hiroshi!"

Ai sank to her knees on the living room floor, sobbing uncontrollably. She felt like a child again, abandoned and helpless. How could he do this? How could he just decide to throw his life away? How could he tell her to move on as if five years of loving him could be turned off like a switch? It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

She didn't know how long she sat there on the hardwood, crying into the silence. Eventually, when her tears were spent and only ragged whimpers remained, Ai forced herself to read the letter again, and again, hoping each time the words might change. But they never did.

He was gone. He had walked out of this house knowing he might never return, and he hadn't even said goodbye in person. Because he knew she would try to stop him. He knew she would have dropped everything to run after him, maybe even to fight alongside him. That's why he timed it for when she was away on tour — to save her the choice, to ensure she couldn't follow.

Ai's hands curled into fists, crumpling the edges of the letter. "You liar," she whispered brokenly into the empty room. "You will come back. You have to." She looked around desperately, as if expecting him to appear in the doorway and prove this was all some cruel prank. But only her own distorted reflection in the darkened TV screen stared back at her: a pale girl on the floor with hope and heartbreak warring in her eyes.

Standing under the glow of the Todai billboard, Ai realized her cheeks were wet. She quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand. The day's last light had faded into a deep blue twilight. She was late. Ruby and Aqua would be waiting for her, wondering where their mother was.

Ai drew in a long, shaky breath and steadied herself. First and foremost, she had to live her life — for her children, and for herself. My kids. Ours. Her chest swelled, pride and love cutting through the sadness like a thin beam of sunlight. Hers and Hiroshi's children: Ruby, with her galaxy eyes and mischievous smile, and Aqua, already too clever for his own good. Both had inherited Hiroshi's hair—the exact same shade, silver-bright and impossible to miss in a crowd. It almost made her laugh sometimes. "Can't believe you passed on your hair and your scary IQ, but left me to handle all the chaos, you jerk," she muttered, lips quirking in the faintest smile.

But she kept going. One foot in front of the other. That was all she could do. Keep acting—on stage, on set, at home—keep raising her kids, keep smiling even on the days when her whole body wanted to curl up and give up. But she'd also learned to keep her eyes open, scanning every crowd, every street, every festival for some trace of him. Every so often, she'd hear a laugh or see a glimpse of that silvery hair and her heart would leap—just for a second—before logic caught up. "If you're hiding out there, you'd better have a good excuse, Hiroshi," she said softly to the wind, "because I am not done yelling at you yet."

"Five years... and I'm not giving up," Ai murmured, voice firmer now. It felt like a vow. "You hear that, you stubborn idiot? I'll see you again. I don't care how long it takes… I'll be right here. Waiting. Watching. You can run, but you can't hide from me forever."

She let herself picture it—how she'd track him down and slap him first ("for being an ass and making me cry like this"), then pull him into the biggest, messiest hug of her life. "And you better believe, Hiroshi Kobayashi, I'm marrying you the moment I find you." She sniffled, but her mouth curled into a mischievous grin. "Just wait till I spring the surprise that you're already a dad—twins, by the way, not just one. Four years old. I can't wait to see your face, you disaster man. You'll probably faint. 'How did I make you pregnant at sixteen?! We used protection. I will sue the damn company for selling faulty products'—I can already hear you yelling that."

Her laughter bubbled up, a little unsteady, but real. "Serves you right, you absolute menace. See what happens when you disappear on me."

The wind picked up, cold and a little too sharp for April, tugging at her hair and coat. Ai shivered, pulled her jacket tight around herself, and squared her shoulders. She started walking again, shoes scuffing quietly on the pavement. There was a world to live, and she refused to miss any more of it than she had to. "Ruby, Aqua… Mama's coming. Sorry I'm late." Her heart thudded with the familiar ache and joy of motherhood—the sweet weight that kept her grounded, even when the rest of her life felt like it was spinning apart.

As she passed a bakery, she imagined Okaa-san's burnt miso soup, the taste both awful and perfect, and Hiroshi fussing in the kitchen, grumbling about "saving the meal" while secretly loving every minute of it. "You still owe me a home-cooked dinner," Ai whispered. "And I still owe you a scolding. Okaa-san too, when she gets back. We're not done yet. You promised, remember?"

Maybe he couldn't hear her. Maybe all of this was talking to empty air, to memories, to the hope she refused to let die. But it didn't matter. She would keep hoping. She would keep living. She would keep loving him, openly and stubbornly, as long as it took.

He's out there somewhere, Ai told herself once more as she hurried into the Tokyo night. He's out there. And I'll be here when he comes home. Okaa-san hasn't come home yet, so his promise isn't fulfilled. He always keeps his promises—no matter how long it takes.

Someday, she'd have all of them back, eating miso soup that was a little burnt, maybe laughing in a too-big house that finally felt full again. And until then, she'd live enough for all of them.