Capítulo 23: A peculiar meeting
It was later than I had planned when I finally started my walk home.
The quiet sound of my footsteps echoed faintly along the empty street, blending with the soft static of the evening breeze. Slowly, I made my way toward the house I now called home—a place that still felt unfamiliar in some ways.
My new home was nothing like the cramped, chaotic one I'd grown up in.
It was spacious, clean, and most importantly, quiet. No neighbors were screaming through the thin walls, no strange odors wafting in from the alleyways.
And most importantly, there were no creepy old men here. The warm silence wrapped around me like a blanket, comforting but sometimes—a bit suffocating.
Compared to my old life, I knew I should be grateful for the peace and luxury. But even so, the emptiness sometimes gnawed at me.
My mother, dedicated to her work as a doctor, was rarely home. Uncle Masanori, a man of few words and even fewer appearances, came and went unpredictably.
And then there was Shinji—my stepbrother—who always seemed busy with his part-time jobs. Often, I was left alone, staring at the neatly arranged furniture and spotless walls, wishing someone else would be here to fill the silence.
It wasn't that I hated it here. This house had brought me so much happiness and comfort—things I never imagined I'd have. Still, there were moments when I longed for something more, something real.
I sometimes wish this place felt like a true family.
Then again, if it were a real family, that would make Shinji and me actual siblings. And that would be even worse.
Smiling bitterly at the contradiction, I shook my head and approached the front door.
As I reached into my pocket for the key, something caught my attention. The door wasn't locked. I stopped mid-motion, tilting my head in confusion.
Did someone forget to lock it? Or maybe someone's already home?
I hesitated for a moment, the quiet creak of the nearby trees filling the silence. Shaking off my uncertainty, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Yuki, welcome home."
The warm voice startled me. Sitting on the white sofa was a stunning woman with light blue hair, her presence both striking and unsettling.
Mom? She shouldn't have been here at this hour. I blinked in doubt, trying to process what I was seeing.
If that wasn't strange enough, another woman was standing beside her. A woman I didn't recognize.
"Uh—Uhm, I'm home..." I stammered, my voice shaky and uncertain. My wide eyes darted between the two women, trying to figure out why they were here. Mom never invited people over—especially not without warning me.
The second woman turned her gaze toward me, a small smile gracing her lips as she waved. "Hello, Yuki," she said, her tone friendly but enigmatic.
She was stunning—perhaps even more beautiful than my mother. Her hair, a soft, smoky gray like the remnants of a fading fire, was swept back into a tidy style that exuded simplicity and grace. Yet it was her eyes that captivated me most. They glowed with an intensity I could only describe as otherworldly—a fiery crimson that seemed to burn with both life and mystery.
What truly unsettled me, though, was the air about her. There was an undeniable sophistication to her presence, a regal aura that demanded respect without effort.
Yet beneath that noble exterior lurked something else—a chill, a distant sorrow that felt as heavy as it was intangible. It was as if she carried a world of unspoken stories on her shoulders, stories that were not meant for me to hear.
Caught off guard by her presence, I instinctively bowed. "Yes, hello, ma'am," I said, my tone polite but uncertain. Whoever she was, she clearly wasn't just anyone to have stepped so easily into my home.
She inclined her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was warm on the surface, a gentle expression that might have been reassuring if not for the subtle sharpness in her gaze.
Her smile seemed too deliberate, too practiced—like a mask worn out of necessity.
Turning back to my mother, she extended her hand in a composed farewell. "It's late; I should take my leave. Please give Masanori my regards," she said smoothly, her voice calm and measured, with a tone that suggested she was used to people listening closely.
"Of course," my mother replied, her own smile bright and welcoming. "I'll be sure to let him know. After all, I am his wife."
Their conversation appeared to end there, though it felt as if there were layers to it I couldn't quite grasp. As the woman reached for her handbag, she moved with a quiet elegance that felt almost unnatural, as though each step and motion were perfectly choreographed.
And yet, there was something about the way she carried herself that stirred an odd sense of familiarity in me—a connection I couldn't place.
Before she reached the door, she paused and turned back to me. Her red eyes softened slightly, and her voice, though steady, carried a faint trace of melancholy. "Take care of Shinji for me, won't you? He may act like he has it all together, but deep down, he's still just a boy."
Her words were unexpected, catching me completely off guard. "O-Of course," I replied hurriedly, nodding even as confusion swirled in my mind. How did she know Shinji so well?
She gave a small nod of approval before turning away. Her departure was as quiet as her arrival, her footsteps fading into the background until there was nothing left of her but the faint memory of her voice.
Even after the door clicked shut, the room seemed to hold onto her presence, like a shadow cast long after the light has disappeared. Her words echoed in my mind, unsettling and cryptic.
Take care of Shinji for me.
Who was she, really? How did she know Shinji so well? And why did her tone carry such a strange mix of regret and tenderness?
So curious…
***
Right now, we're in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Normally, this would be a task handled by either Shinji or Mom—both of whom are far more skilled in the kitchen than I am.
Their expertise makes my attempts feel amateurish, but lately, I've taken it upon myself to learn. Not because I've suddenly discovered a passion for cooking, but for entirely personal reasons.
I want to be able to say something silly, like, "Welcome home, darling. Would you like dinner, a bath, or... me?"
Just kidding. That's too much, even for me!
Honestly, I just want to cook delicious meals for him. It's my way of expressing gratitude for all the kindness he's shown me. More than that, it's a quiet ambition of mine—to become someone capable of taking care of him, like a good wife would.
I want to become someone who could chip away at that impenetrable iron heart of his and show him I'm worth keeping by his side.
"Mom, you're home early today?" I asked, glancing at her as she skillfully peeled a carrot with smooth, practiced motions.
"There wasn't a shift scheduled for me, so I came back earlier than usual. Besides, Shinji's at his part-time job, right? It wouldn't be fair to make him cook dinner after such a long day," she replied, not looking up as she moved on to the next vegetable.
"...It'd be nice if I were better at cooking," I muttered, frowning at the potato in my hand.
My clumsy attempts with the peeler left jagged edges and strips of skin clinging stubbornly to the surface. The simple task was taking far too long, and I couldn't help but feel frustrated. Maybe a knife would've been faster—but also far riskier.
"You'll improve with time," Mom said reassuringly, pausing to glance at my face. Her smile was warm but tinged with amusement. "Shinji doesn't mind, does he? He eats whatever you make without complaint."
I huffed in response, setting the poorly peeled potato down on the counter. "That's because he's too nice to complain, not because it tastes good."
Mom chuckled softly, her hands moving with ease as she diced the carrots into perfect cubes. "So, how's school? Are you enjoying it?"
The question caught me off guard.
Enjoying it? I wouldn't go that far. School is tolerable at best—mundane and unremarkable. Aside from the fleeting moments I get to spend with him, it's just a routine.
But maybe that's for the best. No one bothers me, no one targets me, and I don't stand out. It's a little lonely, but it's peaceful. And, if I'm being honest, I owe that peace entirely to Shinji.
Without him, I might've already made a mess of things—or worse, found myself in trouble for freezing people.
"It's... fun," I said softly, offering her a small smile to hide my true feelings.
Mom's gaze lingered on me for a moment before she returned her focus to the simmering curry pot. "That's good to hear. Have you made any friends yet?" She asked casually, stirring the bubbling mixture.
Friends? Not exactly. There are a few people who've approached me—an eccentric blonde girl with a strange sense of humor and a pink-haired girl whose taste in books is surprisingly similar to mine. But calling them friends feels too presumptuous.
"...I guess so. Though I wouldn't really call them friends," I admitted hesitantly, my voice trailing off.
Mom nodded thoughtfully, her hands pausing for just a moment. "I see. That's good to hear." Her tone softened, and her movements slowed as she added the potatoes to the curry. "I'll have to thank Shinji when he gets home…"
Her voice wavered ever so slightly, and she didn't look up from the pot. For a moment, I couldn't see her face, but I could sense the weight of her thoughts.
Was she relieved that I was slowly returning to the person I used to be? Or was she ashamed for not being able to do more for me herself?
"Mom, please don't feel guilty—it's all my fault."
I thought to myself as I turned away, deciding to stay silent. My hands moved automatically, reaching for the cupboard to grab a few eggs. I cracked them into a bowl, the shells crunching slightly louder than usual in the quiet kitchen.
I didn't really know how to make a perfectly cooked omelet—fluffy on the inside, golden brown on the outside.
So I settled for something simple, convincing myself it didn't have to be perfect. Even then, it wasn't turning out well. Maybe I should start reading those cookbooks in Shinji's room. He probably wouldn't mind, right?
Sighing, I began whisking the eggs. Mom always said, "The more you whisk, the fluffier it gets," so I put extra effort into it. But then I overthought it—maybe it needed more flavor?
I added three teaspoons of seasoning, figuring it would be just right. Then I thought, Why not spice it up a bit? and tossed in a sprinkle of pepper. Still not satisfied, I added a dash of soy sauce for good measure.
The mixture looked… too runny. This is fine, I told myself, trying to stay optimistic. But when I poured it into the pan, the batter spread too thin, cooking unevenly. I held the spatula nervously, waiting for the right moment to flip it.
Now!
The omelet tore as I tried to turn it over, half of it sticking stubbornly to the pan. The uncooked side wobbled precariously, leaving me staring at yet another cooking disaster.
It was underdone, lopsided, and frustratingly imperfect.
Another failure. I sighed deeply, scraping the mess onto a plate.
"…By the way, Mom," I asked suddenly, trying to distract myself from the embarrassment.
I glanced over at her as she breaded the chicken cutlets with her usual practiced ease. She was almost done, her movements methodical as she worked beside the pot of simmering curry. "Who was that earlier?"
She paused, tilting her head slightly at my question. "Hmm?" she hummed, glancing at me in mild confusion.
Her expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her face. "You mean you didn't recognize her?" she asked, genuinely surprised.
"No, I don't," I said, meeting her gaze steadily. I had a guess, but the way she acted, the way the woman and Mom interacted, left me unsure.
"Miyu Aoyama," Mom said after a moment, her tone soft but direct. "Shinji's mother. When I got home, she was standing at the door."
My breath caught for a moment as the name sank in.
Miyu Aoyama—his mother? It wasn't the first time I'd heard the name, but meeting her in person felt like another thing entirely.
What was she doing here? And why now?
Was she trying to ruin our happiness?
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