Part 1: A World of Frosted Memories
Snow fell relentlessly. Thick, heavy flakes blanketed the streets, drifting lazily down to settle on rooftops, sidewalks, and lamp posts. The city wore white like a mourning veil, cold and silent, muffling the usual hum of life beneath its frozen weight. Marina Hukitaske, now calling herself Mihana Sujiwako, stepped carefully through the fresh snow, boots crunching softly with every step, her coat pulled tight, scarf wrapped around her face.
December had arrived in full force, and the winter air cut through every layer of fabric. The snowflakes clung to her hair, her eyelashes, and the edges of her gloves. It was beautiful—and it made her ache all the more. The world was alive with movement: people rushed along, umbrellas swaying under the falling snow, shop windows glowing with warmth and light—but Marina moved like a shadow. A ghost passing through a world that was not hers.
She held a small package tightly to herself. Inside was a letter, written in the trembling, painstaking script in her own hands. Words of truth, of memory, of love and warning, meant for Akio Hukitaske. But she had never delivered it. She had rehearsed it a thousand times, imagined his hands taking the paper, his eyes softening with recognition. And yet, every time she approached the pharmacy, every time she crossed the threshold, her courage crumbled. She could not. She would not. Fear and grief tied her tongue and froze her hands.
Now she walked past the familiar street corner, past the pharmacy itself, windows frosted over with condensation and snow. In this world, it was a lively place, bustling with people and warm light. The door chimed as patrons entered and exited, the smell of antiseptic and medicine spilling faintly into the street. Marina felt her heart tighten. She had imagined this moment countless times—the chance to tell him the truth, to reveal herself, after bridgeing worlds. And yet here she was... frozen in her own indecision, watching from the edge of the street like an outsider.
She ducked into an alley to shake off the first wave of snowstorm. Her gloves were wet, her scarf damp, and her breath came in ragged clouds. Every flake that landed on her eyelashes felt like a reminder of the time she had lost, the opportunities she had let slip through her fingers. The December snow was relentless, just as relentless as her grief.
With a heavy sigh, she stepped into a small café across from the pharmacy, pulling her hood low and trying to become invisible among the warmth of other humans. She watched from the window as the pharmacy continued its business as usual. People smiled, exchanged greetings, and went about their day. And there he was—or at least, someone who bore his face in this timeline. The Akio of this world: unaware, kind, ordinary. Not her Akio, not the one who had saved her in another life. And she felt the old wound tear open again.
She clutched the package tighter and whispered into her scarf, barely audible over the snowfall and the muffled café chatter:
"I... I need to tell you. I need to... but I can't."
Her own words hit her like ice shards. She could not. She would not. Her fear of shattering this reality—or herself—was too great. And so she waited, silently, in the snowy shadows, watching as life carried on without her.
Hours passed. She eventually moved, trudging through the knee-deep snow, her coat dusted with frost, gloves stiff and damp. Each step was heavy, weighted by the grief she carried. Every time she approached the pharmacy, she debated crossing the threshold. She could wear her disguise—a delivery uniform, a cap, sunglasses—but even then, her voice trembled, her heart pounded. The letters stayed in her pocket, crushing her heart, untouched, unread, unsent.
Inside the pharmacy, the lights were warm, the air humming with the faint scent of disinfectant and paper. She imagined placing the letters on the counter, imagining the moment he might see them. But her hand remained at her side, gripping the letters as though they were a lifeline and a noose at once. The snow outside beat against the windows in relentless percussion, mirroring the storm raging in her heart.
She recalled the moments of her life with her Akio—the warmth, the safety, the fleeting hope. And every memory clashed violently against the stark reality of this world. She had tried once, in the guise of Mihana Sujiwako, to deliver a message meant to save him, meant to bridge the distance between their realities. She had rehearsed it in the frozen nights, spoken aloud in empty alleys, whispered into the December wind. And yet, each time she had failed.
Tonight, the snow fell harder than ever. The world seemed suspended in an endless December, as if the universe itself had frozen in anticipation of her next failure. Marina sat on the steps outside the pharmacy, wet hair plastered to her face, frost clinging to her coat. She rested her knees to herself, wrapped her arms around them, and let the weight of years, realities, and failures crush her.
"Why can't I do it?" she whispered to the snow. Her breath came out in clouds that mingled with the storm, fading into the white. "Why can't I reach him? Why can't I... save anything?"
The snow continued to fall, relentless and silent, and Marina realized the cruel truth of her existence in this world: she was trapped between memory and reality, between the Akio she loved and the Akio she could never reach. Every attempt to cross that distance ended in silence. Every delivery of the letter ended in failure. And every failure dug her deeper into despair.
She had tried to survive in this reality. She had tried to hide, to become Mihana Sujiwako, to wear a mask, to blend into the snowy streets and forget the weight of her own heart. But the truth was unavoidable: she could not forget. She could not let go. And so she wandered, endlessly circling the pharmacy, endlessly delivering packages that contained nothing of her true self as she actually ended up getting that as an actual job for living expanses in this timline, endlessly freezing in the snow, endlessly failing herself, over and over...
The snow fell heavier now, and Marina pressed her face into her scarf, tears mixing with the flakes. She was alone. And yet she could not leave. Because in every flake that landed on her sleeve, every chill that cut through her coat, she felt the echo of something vital, something unbearable: hope.
A hope that she could never grasp. A hope that the Akio of this world, somehow, might understand.
But for now... she sat in the snow, numb, trembling, a phantom beneath the December sky, and the storm inside her raged louder than the storm outside.
Somewhere beneath the layers of frost and fear, she whispered again:
"Tomorrow... I'll try again."
And the snow whispered back, cold, unyielding, and eternal.
Part 2: Fractured Reflections
The snow had not stopped. It fell in thick, relentless sheets, covering the streets and rooftops in a silent white blanket. Marina—Mihana Sujiwako—moved through the streets with her head bowed, boots crunching softly in the snow. Every step felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the frost and by her heart.
The pharmacy loomed ahead, warm light spilling from its windows. She hesitated, then pushed the door open, letting the bell chime above her. Inside, the scent of medicine and cleanliness enveloped her. Volunteers and staff moved quietly, focused, but their chatter and footsteps seemed distant to her ears. She was a stranger here, and yet, her heart pulled her forward.
And there he was. Akio. Not her Akio, not the one from the reality she had left behind. But the face, the gentle eyes, the faint crease of a smile—it all drew her in.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to speak. She wanted to deliver her message, to reveal everything, to explain the years of longing, the timeline she had traversed from, the letter she had carried and could never give. But the words would not form.
Instead, she let herself speak in fragments, in shadows of her true suffering:
"I... I've been... walking for so long," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Through snow, through cold... through days I can't even count. I... I don't know why I keep trying. And... and every time... I fail."
Akio paused, his head tilted slightly, but said nothing. The subtle confusion in his eyes betrayed that he didn't fully understand, and perhaps he never could.
"I... I thought... maybe this time, maybe I could... I don't know... maybe I could fix something. Or... or just... feel like I'm... enough," she murmured, tears brimming. Her hands shook as they rested on the counter, snowflakes still clinging to her coat.
Akio looked at her quietly, his expression calm, almost serene. He didn't press, didn't question, didn't probe. Instead, he slowly lowered himself onto the counter beside her, close enough to share the warmth but not so close as to demand answers.
The snow continued to fall outside, thick and blinding against the windows, muffling the world beyond. Inside, there was only the quiet hum of the pharmacy, the gentle glow of the lamps, and Marina's trembling breaths.
Akio reached out. His hand rested softly on her head, brushing damp hair from her face. He didn't speak at first. He simply stayed there, letting the weight of his presence ground her, let her feel she was not entirely alone. Still confused of why she walked in and started feeling upset but didn't mind.
Finally, he pulled her into a gentle hug.
"Everything will be alright," he murmured softly, his voice calm and steady, unshakable in the face of her storm. "You're not alone. Not here. Not ever."
Marina leaned into him, sobs breaking free. She let herself collapse in the safety of the moment, letting the snow outside and the silence inside witness the torrent of years of fear, guilt, and sorrow that had pressed upon her heart.
She did not tell him the truth of the letter, of the other world, of the countless times she had tried and failed. She did not explain the fragments of her heart that existed only for another Akio. But she allowed herself to exist in her grief, and that was enough for now.
Akio did not ask questions. He did not try to pry. He simply hugged her, hand resting lightly on her head. The snow outside painted the world in cold white, but inside the pharmacy, there was a fragile warmth, a small ember of solace in the midst of relentless winter.
"I... I don't know if I can... keep going," Marina whispered into his coat.
"You will," he said quietly. "Because you're here. That's enough for now. That's more than enough."
The snowstorm raged outside, sheets of white hammering the city, but inside the pharmacy, Marina felt a small, fragile peace. She leaned against him, hugged by the one figure who could offer comfort, even if he could not understand the full depths of her sorrow.
And for the first time in what felt like years, she allowed herself to breathe, to feel something other than guilt and despair, even if only for a moment.
The snow fell, endless and unrelenting, but within the warmth of his embrace, Marina felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps she would never fully deliver her message. Perhaps the truths she carried would remain buried.
But for now... she could survive. She could exist. And she was not alone.
The pharmacy lights glowed softly against the storm outside, warm and inviting. And Marina, silent and broken, let herself rest—just for a moment—in the arms of a world that didn't demand she be anything other than herself.
TO BE CONTINUED...