Shinji's mother arrives at the garden three days after the fight.
She stands at the broken gate in the early morning rain, still wearing her cleaning company uniform, her hair plastered to her face. She doesn't call out. Just stands there like she's afraid to enter, afraid of what she'll find beyond the threshold.
Hakurage sees her first from the greenhouse window. He touches Shinji's shoulder—they've been sorting through damaged seed packets, salvaging what they can—and nods toward the gate.
"Someone's here." Shinji looks up, sees her, and his entire body goes rigid. Three days of carefully maintained calm fracturing in an instant. "I'll go talk to her," he says quietly. "Do you want me to come with you?" "No. This—I need to do this alone."
Shinji walks through the rain-soaked garden toward his mother, and with each step, he feels the weight of everything unsaid settling on his shoulders. She looks smaller than he remembers. Older. Like the last three days have aged her a decade.
They stand on opposite sides of the gate, neither crossing the threshold.
"Your father told me what happened," she says finally. Her voice is hoarse, like she's been crying for hours. "He showed me the blood on the floor. Told me about the bottle. About the other person—Hakurage."
"He tried to kill him, Mom. Slashed his arm open with broken glass."
"I know." She's crying now, silent tears mixing with rain. "I know. And I'm—I don't even know what to say. Sorry isn't enough. Sorry doesn't fix any of this." "No. It doesn't."
"Where have you been sleeping? Are you safe? Have you been eating?" "I'm staying here. At the garden. With Hakurage. And yes, I'm safe. Safer than I've been in years."
His mother flinches like the words are physical blows. "I failed you. As a mother. As a person. I saw what was happening and I—I told myself I was protecting you by staying. By keeping the family together. But I was just protecting myself from having to make hard choices."
"Why are you here?" Shinji asks. Not cruel, just exhausted. "What do you want?"
"To tell you I'm leaving him. For real this time. I found a small apartment near my work. It's not much—one room—but it's away from him. I signed the lease this morning." She reaches into her bag, pulls out a key. "This is yours. If you want it. If you want to come back to me."
Shinji stares at the key. It looks impossibly small in her work-roughened hand. "What about Dad?"
"He's staying in the old apartment. Alone. I told him if he ever contacts you, contacts us, I'll report everything. The years of torture. The bottle. All of it." Her voice steadies. "I should have done it years ago. But I'm doing it now. That has to count for something."
"Does it?" "I don't know." She steps closer to the gate. "Shinji, please. Let me try to make this right. Let me be the mother I should have been."
Shinji feels something strange in his heart. Anger and love and resentment and hope all tangled together in a knot he can't untie. "I need time," he says finally. "To think. To figure out what I want."
"How much time?" "I don't know. A week. Maybe more."
She nods, setting the key on top of the gate post. "Take all the time you need. The apartment will be there. I'll be there. Whenever you're ready." She pauses. "Can I—can I at least know you're eating? That you're going to school?"
"I'm eating. School is complicated." "Because of the absences?" "Because of everything."
His mother looks past him at the garden—the damaged pavilion, the winter flowers blooming impossibly, the greenhouse with its patched glass. Her eyes find Hakurage watching from the doorway, his bandaged arm visible even from this distance.
"Is he taking care of you?" she asks quietly. "We're taking care of each other." "Tell him—" She stops, voice breaking. "Tell him I'm sorry. For what my husband did. For all of it."
"Tell him yourself." Shinji picks up the key, holds it. "Come back in a week. We'll talk properly. All three of us." She nods, wiping her face. "I love you, Shinji. I know I haven't shown it. But I do. I always have."
"I know, Mom." And he does. That's what makes it so hard. "I love you too." She leaves, walking back into the rain, and Shinji stands holding the key to a future he isn't sure he wants.
Inside the greenhouse, Hakurage has made tea. They sit on overturned crates, warming their hands on chipped mugs, listening to rain drum against patched glass.
"What are you going to do?" Hakurage asks. "I don't know." Shinji turns the key over in his palm. "She means it this time. I can tell. She's really leaving him."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"Is it? She left me with him for years. Saw the bruises, heard the yelling, and chose to stay because it was easier than leaving. Now she wants credit for doing what she should have done when I was eight?"
"People are complicated," Hakurage says quietly. "They fail us and love us simultaneously. Your mother isn't evil. She's just—broken in different ways." "How can you defend her after what happened? After my father nearly killed you?"
"I'm not defending her. I'm just saying—forgiveness is complicated. Necessary sometimes, even when it's hard. Even when the person doesn't fully deserve it." Hakurage stares into his tea. "My parents died six years ago. I'd give anything to have one more conversation with them. Even a difficult one. Even one where I'm angry. Your mother is still here. Still trying. That's worth something."
Shinji is quiet for a long moment. "You sound like you've thought about this a lot."
"I have. Every day for six years." Hakurage sets down his mug. "There's something I need to tell you. About how my parents died. About your father. About all of it."
Something in his tone makes Shinji's stomach tighten. "What do you mean?"
Hakurage takes a deep breath, organizing thoughts he's carried alone for too long. "You know the facility went bankrupt. That there was embezzlement. That your father got blamed and fired."
"Yeah."
"What you don't know is what happened after. My parents—they tried to keep the research going. Took out personal loans, mortgaged everything. They were so close to a breakthrough. Just a few more months of funding and they could have published, secured grants, saved everything." His voice goes hollow. "But they ran out of time. Out of money. The bank was going to foreclose. They lost everything in three months."
"Haku—"
"That night. The storm. I was nine. It was late—past midnight. I woke up scared. Thunder. Lightning. The kind of storm that makes a kid think the world is ending. I called them. They were at a conference in Yokohama, supposed to stay overnight. But I was crying. Begging them to come home. So they left. Drove through the storm to get back to me."
Shinji's hands have gone numb. He knows where this is going.
"The roads were flooded. Visibility was almost zero. A truck hydroplaned. Hit them head-on." Hakurage's voice is perfectly flat, reciting facts to keep emotion at bay. "They died instantly. Both of them. And I—I sat in our house waiting for them to arrive, not knowing they never would."
"That's not your fault—"
"I know. Logically, I know. But logic doesn't stop the guilt." Hakurage finally looks at Shinji. "Your father found out the next morning. He came to the house. Found me alone, still waiting. He's the one who told me. He's the one who stayed with me until social services arrived. He held me while I cried. Called your mother. Made sure I wasn't alone. He was just that kind before. Of course people change anyways."
Shinji feels his understanding of everything shifting. "My father did that?"
"He was different then. Still grieving his own losses, but functional. Human. He made sure I had food. Helped coordinate the funeral. When I refused to go into foster care, refused to leave the garden—he helped make it happen. Convinced the distant aunt to take guardianship on paper so I could stay in my parents garden. Set up monthly deliveries of supplies."
"What?"
"For six years, Shinji. Every month, a delivery shows up. Groceries. Cleaning supplies. School materials even though I don't attend. Money orders to keep utilities on. No name attached. Just—appearing. Like magic." Hakurage's voice breaks. "I always knew it was him. Recognized the handwriting on the first package. He's been keeping me alive from a distance. Never visiting. Never asking for thanks. Just—making sure I don't starve or freeze. Making sure his best friends' son survives."
Shinji's mind is reeling. "My father has been supporting you? For six years? While beating me at home?"
"People are complicated," Hakurage repeats. "He loved my parents. Loved this place. Maybe some part of him—the part that hasn't completely broken—still remembers who he used to be. Still honors the friendship he lost."
"That doesn't excuse what he's done to me. To you with the bottle—"
"No. It doesn't. Nothing excuses that. But it explains some things. Why he recognized me instantly. Why he looked so devastated after cutting me. Why he told you to go without fighting back." Hakurage touches his bandaged arm. "He saw me and you together again. Like we used to be. Like when our families were whole. And I think—I think it broke something in him. Reminded him of everything he's lost. Everything he destroyed through drinking and anger and giving up. And I'm pretty sure he only gave up on you because of my parents deaths affecting him. And the money being spent on his sons best friend."
Shinji stands, pacing the small greenhouse. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because you needed to be angry. Needed to protect yourself with that anger. If you'd known he was still capable of kindness, still remembered how to care—it would have made leaving harder. Would have made you feel guilty for protecting yourself." Hakurage stands too. "I'm sorry. For keeping it secret. But I didn't want you making excuses for him. Didn't want you thinking you had to forgive him because he's been helping me."
"I don't know what to think anymore." Shinji's voice is raw. "Everything is too complicated. Too tangled. How am I supposed to hate him when he's been keeping you alive? How am I supposed to forgive him when my ribs still ache from his boot?"
"You don't have to choose right now. Hate and forgiveness aren't opposites. They can exist together. You can be angry at what he's done while acknowledging he's not completely lost." Hakurage moves closer. "But that's a choice you make for yourself. Not for him. Not for me. For you."
They stand in the greenhouse, surrounded by plants that survive impossible conditions, and Shinji feels the weight of knowing too much pressing down on him.
"Did he know?" Shinji asks quietly. "When he was hitting me. Did he know he was hurting his dead best friend's son's only family?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe that made it worse somehow. Maybe he hated himself more every time but couldn't stop because the drinking and depression were stronger than his memories of the old days."
"That's not an excuse." "No. It's not. It's just—context. Understanding doesn't mean forgiving. It just means seeing the whole picture." Shinji sits back down, suddenly exhausted. "Why are people like this? Why is everything so broken?"
"Because life is hard. Because pain compounds. Because sometimes good people make terrible choices and terrible people remember how to make good ones. Because nothing is simple." Hakurage sits beside him. "My parents were brilliant, kind people who died senselessly. Your father was a good person who broke under pressure and hurt the people he should have protected. Your mother loved you but couldn't find the strength to leave. We were children who lost everything and somehow survived anyway. All of it is true. All of it exists simultaneously. And we're forced to live through those painful moments."
"I hate that." "Me too."
They sit in silence, letting the complexity settle. Outside, rain continues falling, washing the garden, washing Tokyo, washing nothing away because some stains go too deep for water to reach.
"I need to see him," Shinji says finally. "Your father?"
"Yeah. I need to—I don't know. Understand. Maybe. Or just look at him and figure out what I feel now that I know everything." "That's a bad idea. He's dangerous—"
"You'll come with me. We'll go together. In public. Somewhere safe." Shinji looks at Hakurage. "I need to do this. Need to see if there's anything left of the person he used to be. The one who helped a person through grief. The one who's been sending youthings for six years. I need to know if that person still exists somewhere under the monster."
Hakurage is quiet for a long moment. Then: "Okay. But we're careful. And if it gets dangerous, we leave. No heroics." "No heroics," Shinji agrees. They shake on it, and the rain continues drumming overhead, witness to promises and plans that might heal or might destroy everything.
Three days later, they meet Shinji's father at a public park near the garden.
It's neutral territory—open space, witnesses everywhere, nowhere for violence to hide. Shinji's father sits on a bench under a large tree, hunched over like he's trying to fold into himself. He looks worse than Shinji has ever seen him—darkened face, eyes hollow, hands shaking even though there's no alcohol visible.
He sees them approaching and stands, then immediately sits back down like his legs won't support him. Shinji and Hakurage stop a few feet away, maintaining distance.
"Thank you for coming," his father says. His voice is rough, broken glass across gravel. "I didn't think you would." "I almost didn't," Shinji says. His father's eyes fix on Hakurage's bandaged arm. "How is it? The cut."
"Seven stitches. It'll scar."
"I'm sorry." The words come out choked. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to—" He stops, presses his hands to his face. "That's a lie. I was trying to hurt someone. Doesn't matter that I didn't mean it to be you specifically. I was violent. I've been violent for years. Sorry doesn't fix that."
Shinji sits on a bench across from him, Hakurage settling beside him protectively. "Hakurage told me everything. About the deliveries. About you helping him stay at the garden. About you being there when his parents died."
His father's face crumbles. "Shizu-san and Keiko-san were my best friends. Only people who believed in me when the embezzlement investigation started. Only people who knew I was innocent." Tears are streaming down his face now. "When they died, I lost everything. My job was already gone. My reputation destroyed. And now my friends—the people who were going to testify for me, clear my name—they were dead. I had nothing left except you and your mother. And instead of holding onto that, I destroyed it. Destroyed you."
"Why?" Shinji's voice breaks. "Why hurt me when you were capable of helping Hakurage? Why couldn't you be to me what you were to him?"
"Because I saw him and saw their faces. Saw Shizu-san's eyes, Keiko-san's expressions. He was proof of those living memories, and keeping him alive kept them alive somehow. But you—" His father looks at Shinji with devastated eyes. "You I saw every day. You reminded me of every failure. Every loss. Every way I'd fallen short. And the alcohol made it easier to hate you than hate myself."
"That's not an excuse." "I know. There is no excuse. No justification. I hurt my son because I couldn't face my own pain. That's unforgivable."
Hakurage speaks up, his voice quiet but firm. "Why did you keep it secret? The deliveries. Why not tell Shinji you were still capable of caring about someone?"
"Because I didn't want him making excuses for me. Didn't want him thinking 'Dad's not so bad' when he should have been protecting himself. Didn't want him staying because of misplaced loyalty." He looks between them. "When I saw you both together that night. Like you used to be when you were children. Playing in the garden. Laughing. The way Shinji looked at you—protective, caring—it was like seeing ghosts. Like the past coming back to judge me." His voice drops to a whisper. "I looked at you both and saw what I destroyed. Two families. Two peoples futures. All because I couldn't handle losing my job with grace."
"The embezzlement wasn't your fault," Shinji says. "No. But everything after was. The drinking. The anger. The violence. Those were choices. Bad ones. And now I have to live with them forever."
They sit in silence, three people connected by tragedy and blood and choices that can't be undone. "I'm not forgiving you," Shinji says finally. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. What you did—what you've been doing—that's not erasable."
"I know."
"But I'm trying to understand. Trying to see you as a whole person instead of just a monster. And maybe—eventually—we can figure out something that isn't this. Isn't hate. Isn't fear. Something more complicated."
His father's face shows desperate hope. "I'll do anything. Therapy. A meetings. Whatever it takes. I want to be better. Want to be the person I was before everything fell apart."
"That person is gone," Hakurage says gently but firmly. "You can't go back. Only forward. Only becoming someone new who learns from who you were."
"Then I'll try to be new. Better. Someone my son doesn't have to fear."
Shinji stands, and Hakurage stands with him. "We're leaving now. But—we'll talk again. In a few weeks. See how you're doing. See if you're actually changing or just saying what we want to hear."
"I'll prove it. I will. I'll send you updates. Proof I'm attending meetings, staying sober. Whatever you need."
As they walk away, Shinji feels Hakurage's hand find his. They hold on as they leave the park, leave Shinji's father sitting alone with his promises, and head back toward the garden.
"That was hard," Hakurage says. "Yeah." "Do you regret it?"
"No. I needed to see him. Needed to know if there was anything worth salvaging." Shinji squeezes Hakurage's hand. "I think there might be. Someday. If he actually does the work."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we tried. And we move forward anyway." They walk through Tokyo together, heading home to a garden that holds their past and maybe, possibly, their future too.
TO BE CONTINUED...