The snow followed them back to the pharmacy, clinging to their hair, their coats, their very skin as if it wanted to bury them under its silent weight. they stepped inside. The glass door closed behind them with a soft chime, sealing away the storm. Inside, the air was warmer, filled with the faint smell of herbs, smoke, and the electric hum of fluorescent lights. For a moment, Marina stood frozen, dripping snow onto the worn floorboards, staring at the familiar-unfamiliar pharmacy with its bottles, its counters, and the muffled laughter of lives not yet shattered.
"Sit," Akio urged softly. He led her to a small cushioned chair near the counter, pulling a wool blanket from the rack and draping it carefully around her trembling shoulders. Then he handed her a mug of steaming coffee, its scent rich, its heat soaking slowly into her palms. She clutched it like it was a lifeline, but even warmth had a way of failing her heart.
Across the room, Hikata leaned against a shelf, his shaggy black hair hanging in loose strands across his amused face. "Hey, you look like you've just fought a war with the snow itself," he teased, raising an eyebrow as he dug a hand into his pocket. His tone was light, easy, the kind of voice designed to ease tension. He grinned, pulling a silly face, crossing his eyes, and flicking snow from his shoulders dramatically.
Marina looked at him. For a heartbeat, she saw his body. Cold, lifeless, broken in her timeline. The Hikata who had died far too soon, who never got the chance to make another joke. The image stabbed at her like shards of ice, but the reality before her—the warmth in his grin, the playfulness in his voice—forced a tiny, fragile chuckle from her lips. It was quiet, like a whisper slipping free without permission.
Hikata paused. His grin softened, his eyes searching hers, as though he recognized that sound for what it was: not joy, but a plea. A momentary crack in walls too high to climb. His voice fell lower, less joking now, his tone almost careful. "There you are," he said quietly, not to mock, but as if finding her laugh was finding her pulse.
At the counter, Raka sat perched on a stool, cigarette smoke curling around her Gucci chains. She flexed absentmindedly, and gave Marina a smile—gentle for her, though still edged with the hardness of a being who had endured too much. In Marina's timeline, Raka had survived, yes—but Marina had never forgiven her for those moments she abandoned Akio, when he needed her most. That fracture was still alive in her heart, so even here, seeing her grin, seeing her alive and present, Marina's lips curved downward again. She couldn't let go.
And then her eyes found her. Rumane.
She was in the corner, seated casually on a stool, a cold bottle of Coca-Cola resting against her hand. Her hair was slightly tousled, her demeanor calm but sharp, a presence that demanded quiet respect. She was one of Akio's closest friends, closer than most ever managed to be—almost like family, like a tether to something deeper than just camaraderie. In Marina's world, Rumane was gone. She had died before Akio's wife.
Marina froze, the mug trembling faintly in her hands. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to cross the room and shake her, to tell her she had to live, that there were storms coming she couldn't see. But her lips remained sealed. Her shy, frightened heart chained her words before they could escape. Instead, she only stared, eyes wide with sorrow, as if by looking at her long enough, she could imprint her into her memory for the day she would lose her again.
Rumane noticed. She lifted his eyes to meet hers, confusion flickering in them. She didn't understand why this person—this stranger in disguise—looked at her with such mourning. She tilted her head slightly, her voice gentle but curious. "Something wrong?" She asked, her tone cautious, her gaze steady.
Her throat closed. She shook her head quickly, forcing herself to sip the coffee, though the taste burned against her tongue. "No... nothing," she whispered, though her eyes betrayed her, shimmering with tears she wouldn't allow to fall.
The pharmacy felt heavier then. Akio moved closer, crouching beside her, his hand resting lightly on her arm. "You don't have to hold it all in," he said softly, almost pleading. "You can tell me. Whatever it is, you're not alone as the friends we are."
But she couldn't. Not about the message. Not about the timelines. Not about the death of his wife that hadn't yet happened. Not about Rumane's grave in her world. Not about her secret longing for him, buried under layers of fear and shame. To speak those words would be to curse them, to make them real.
Instead, she swallowed the ache, her gaze flickering between them all: Hikata, joking but alive; Raka, strong and flawed but breathing; Rumane, sipping cola as though the weight of fate wasn't waiting at her back; and Akio, kneeling beside her, eyes burning with a kindness that only made the pain worse.
Her smile trembled as she looked at Rumane again. She frowned slightly, clearly unsettled by the sadness that radiated from her, but said nothing more. She wanted to tell her everything, to let her know she was cherished, that in another world, she had cried endlessly for her loss. But silence held her tongue.
And so she sat there—blanket wrapped tight, coffee mug trembling, surrounded by warmth she couldn't absorb. They tried to lift her spirits—Hikata with jokes, Raka with her grin, Akio with his quiet reassurances—but all she could see were ghosts. Ghosts of the lives they would lose, of the ones already gone, of the truths she would never have the strength to speak.
The snow outside pressed against the glass, relentless, a reflection of the storm inside her. And though the pharmacy glowed warm, Marina's heart remained cold, aching, and unbearably alone.
TO BE CONTINUED...