Music for chapter: Michael Kiwanuka - Home Again
After the train made it to their stop, instead of getting a ride, they decided to walk. Walking through the familiar streets like they were turning pages in a photo album, each corner holding some fragment of childhood that made them pause and smile.
"Oh god, look" Aullie pointed to a low brick building with faded paint, "our old middle school. Remember when Haru got his head stuck in those fence bars trying to retrieve Aki's shoe?"
Sora laughed, the sound bright in the quiet street. "She threw it over on purpose, didn't she?"
"Absolutely. Said she wanted to 'test his dedication to friendship.' Poor guy was stuck there for twenty minutes before the janitor came with soap."
They passed the little bakery with its cheerful yellow awning, the same hand-painted sign swaying gently in the evening breeze. Through the window, Sora could see rows of golden melon bread cooling on wire racks, just like always.
"Still makes the best melon bread in three districts," Aullie said wistfully, pressing his nose against the glass like a kid. "I used to bike here every morning before school. The owner's daughter had a crush on me in eighth grade, kept giving me free samples."
"What happened to her?"
"Moved to Tokyo for university. Probably dodged a bullet, honestly." Aullie said while giving Sora a wink.
She just rolled her eyes.
A few blocks down, they paused at the base of a grassy hill that rolled up toward a cluster of cherry trees. Even in the fading light, Sora could make out the worn path that zigzagged up the slope, carved by countless feet over the years.
"That's where Haru had his famous snowball fight disaster," Aullie said, grinning at the memory. "We were maybe ten? He tried to dodge one of Aki's throws, slipped, and rolled all the way down into Mrs. Nakamura's prized flowers. She came out with a broom, chasing all of us for twenty minutes."
"Did you help him?"
"Are you kidding? We were too busy laughing. Terrible friends, really."
Sora walked a half-step behind him as they continued down the street, watching the way his shoulders had relaxed, how his stride had settled into something unhurried and easy. It had been weeks since she'd seen him like this, unguarded, the constant tension finally melted away.
"That place" he gestured toward a narrow ramen shop squeezed between a used bookstore and an alley lined with vending machines, "I worked there the summer I turned fifteen. Lasted exactly three weeks."
"I remember that, but don't remember why it only lasted a short time?"
"Got fired for 'excessive consumption of inventory,'" he said, making air quotes. "In my defense, I was a growing teenager working twelve-hour shifts for practically nothing. And their gyoza..." He kissed his fingertips dramatically. "Criminally good. Worth the unemployment."
"Did you actually eat that much?"
"Look, when you're fifteen and broke and they leave you alone with a kitchen full of food..." He shrugged, completely unrepentant. "The manager said I ate more than I earned. Probably true."
He led her up a narrow path lined with maple trees. The houses here were older, smaller, with the kind of worn charm that spoke of generations living within the same walls. Garden gates painted in cheerful colors, window boxes overflowing with flowers, bicycles leaning against fence posts.
Aullie's house appeared around a curve, a modest two-story building with traditional sliding doors and a garden that looked lovingly tended to.
Before Aullie could even reach for the door, it slid open with such force that Sora half-expected it to come off its tracks.
"Aullie!"
Brynn Ikeda erupted from the doorway like a force of nature, all flowing hair and warm energy, practically launching herself at her son. She was smaller than Sora had expected, but she hugged with the intensity of someone who'd been genuinely worried.
"Mum…can't breath" Aullie wheezed, but he was grinning, arms wrapped tight around her.
"Good. Maybe next time you'll call when you're going to be late." She pulled back to study his face with the kind of thorough inspection only mothers could manage. "You look tired. And thin. Are you eating enough? When was the last time you had a proper meal?"
"This morning. And yesterday. And—"
Then her gaze shifted past him, and her whole face lit up like someone had just told her Christmas was coming early.
"Sora!" She reached out and gently took Sora's hands, her touch warm and callused from gardening. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so glad you came. Look at you, you're practically disappearing! When was the last time someone fed you properly?"
Sora blinked, completely overwhelmed by the sudden maternal attention. "I... um... I eat..."
"Crackers and convenience store rice balls don't count," Brynn said firmly, somehow divining Sora's usual diet with uncanny accuracy. "Come inside, both of you. Shoes off. There's fresh tea, and I just pulled yakitori off the barbeque."
The house enveloped them in warmth and the kind of lived-in comfort that can't be manufactured. It smelled like ginger and something sweet baking, underlaid with the faint scent of incense. Family photos covered every surface, Aullie at various ages, grinning gap-toothed or serious, always with that same unruly white hair.
Brynn bustled between the kitchen and the low table in the sitting room, producing an alarming amount of food with the efficiency of someone who'd clearly been preparing for this possibility all day. Rice balls, pickled vegetables, grilled chicken skewers, miso soup that steamed in ceramic bowls, and what looked like enough side dishes to feed a small army.
"So," she said, settling cross-legged at the table with the grace of long practice, "Aullie never brings friends home anymore. I was starting to think he'd forgotten how to make them."
"Mum," Aullie groaned, but his cheeks were pink.
"What? It's true. You used to drag half your class home for dinner when you were little. Remember that boy Kenji? He practically lived here for a month because his parents were going through that messy divorce."
Sora accepted a bowl of soup, inhaling the rich, comforting scent. "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Ikeda. This is... this is really kind of you."
"Brynn, please. You've been friends with Aullie since middle school, you're practically family." She paused, ladling rice into another bowl. "Speaking of which, did he ever tell you about the time he got stuck on the roof trying to rescue a stray cat?"
"He did not," Sora said, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Aullie's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Mum. No."
"Oh yes. He was maybe twelve? This little orange tabby had been crying on our roof for hours, and my soft-hearted son couldn't stand it. So he climbs out his bedroom window with a rope made entirely of bedsheets tied together."
"Please stop," Aullie muttered, but he was fighting a smile.
"The cat jumped down on its own the moment it saw him. But did Aullie think to test his rope first? Of course not. The knot came loose the second he put his full weight on it. He hung there for twenty minutes, yelling for help, while that cat sat in the garden judging him."
Sora nearly choked on her soup, laughter bubbling up despite her efforts to contain it. "What happened?"
"The fire department had to come with a ladder. The cat was adopted by the neighbors the next day." Brynn's eyes twinkled. "The firefighters still wave when they see him around town."
"It was a tactical miscalculation," Aullie said with wounded dignity.
"It was peak Aullie," his mother corrected fondly.
"But Mum, you made so much food, how are going to finish all of this ourselves? I'll try to finish it, but you two need to help" Aullie replied giving his mother a slightly sour look.
"Oh hush, I don't know where you got that weird trait that you can't leave any food left unfinished. If I didn't know any better you'd think I starved you as a kid."
Aullie flinched but no one noticed.
"But if it makes you feel better we can just pack what we don't eat up and i'll include it for breakfast."
Aullie stared at his food and mumbled "Thanks, Mum."
The meal stretched on, filled with stories and second helpings and the kind of gentle teasing that only happens in families. Brynn asked about their training, their friends, their lives at the academy. When the conversation turned to recent events, the missions, the close calls, the weight they'd all been carrying, her expression grew serious, worry flickering behind her warm eyes. But she didn't pry, didn't push for details they weren't ready to share. Instead, she just made sure their bowls stayed full and their tea cups never emptied.
Later, as the last light faded from the sky, Aullie and Sora found themselves on the back porch, settling onto worn wooden steps that overlooked the garden.
"Thank you," Sora said quietly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "For making me come. For... all of this."
"Thank you for saying yes." Aullie's voice was just as soft, touched with something that might have been relief. "I didn't realize how much I needed this until we got here."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the fireflies weave patterns in the darkness. Sora drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them, and for the first time in months felt something in her chest unclench.
"I could get used to this," she murmured.
Aullie looked at her, studying her profile in the gentle glow of the porch light. She looked younger somehow, softer, the sharp edges of constant vigilance finally smoothed away. "Me too," he said, meaning it more than he'd expected to.
The night stretched out around them, full of possibility and peace, and for a little while, the everything felt right.
****
Aki's childhood bedroom looked exactly the same as it had when she was twelve, boy band posters peeling at the corners, a desk buried under art supplies and half-finished sketches, fairy lights strung haphazardly around the window that cast everything in a warm glow. She'd collapsed onto her narrow bed the moment she'd walked through the door, not even bothering to change out of her uniform, just letting herself sink into the familiar comfort of sheets that still smelled like the lavender fabric softener her mom had used for as long as she could remember.
Her dog, a scraggly, lovable mutt named Bandit who was more fur than substance, had immediately claimed his rightful spot curled against her ribs, his warm weight a comfort she hadn't realized she'd missed so desperately. His tail thumped sleepily against the mattress as she scratched behind his ears, the rhythm soothing in a way that made her eyelids heavy.
The sound of familiar footsteps on the creaky wooden stairs made her smile before the door even opened. Her mother appeared in the doorway, carrying a steaming mug that smelled like chocolate and cinnamon and childhood.
"I thought you might want this," she said softly, settling on the edge of the bed with practiced ease, careful not to disturb Bandit's territorial claim on his favorite human.
Aki accepted the cocoa gratefully, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic, the same chipped mug with faded cartoon characters that she'd been drinking from since elementary school. The first sip tasted like coming home, rich and sweet and exactly the right temperature, the way only mothers seemed to manage.
"Thanks, Mom." Her voice came out rougher than she'd expected, thick with something that might have been tears if she'd let them fall.
Her mother reached out and smoothed a wayward strand of hair from Aki's forehead, her touch gentle and familiar, the same gesture she'd made countless times over scraped knees and bad dreams and teenage heartbreaks. "You're home now, sweetheart," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Aki's temple. "You're safe."
And for the first time in weeks, Aki believed it.
On the other side of town, Haru stood in his grandfather's garden as twilight painted the sky in shades of purple and gold. The space was simple but perfect, a circle of carefully placed stones marking the boundaries of their makeshift training ground, surrounded by bamboo that rustled softly in the evening breeze. Lanterns hung from wooden posts, casting dancing shadows that made everything feel both ancient and timeless.
His grandfather, Jiro, was a stubborn man, all weathered hands and sharp eyes that missed nothing. Despite being well into his seventies, he moved with the grace of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the art of controlled violence. Right now, those keen eyes were studying Haru with the kind of attention usually reserved for complex puzzles.
"Again," the old man said, his voice carrying the kind of authority that brooked no argument.
Haru wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and settled back into his fighting stance, muscles protesting but obeying. They'd been at this for over an hour, working through forms that had been passed down through their family for generations, and his body was starting to remember why he'd been so eager to leave for the academy in the first place.
But there was comfort in the familiar burn of overworked muscles, in the rhythm of movement and correction, in the sound of his grandfather's voice calling out instructions that had been drilled into him since he was old enough to stand steady on his feet.
He threw the combination again, left hook, right cross, pivot, uppercut, pouring everything he had into each movement. His form was better this time, cleaner, more focused. The kind of precision that came from muscle memory and years of practice.
Jiro nodded once, a barely perceptible gesture that somehow conveyed more approval than a thousand words. "Better. Your technique is sharp, sharper than when you left." He stepped closer, studying Haru's stance with critical eyes. "But I can see it in your shoulders, boy. The weight you're carrying."
Haru's hands dropped to his sides, chest heaving. "Grandfather, I—"
"Strength without purpose is just violence," the old man continued, his voice gentler now but no less firm. "I've seen what happens to fighters who forget why they step into the ring. They become weapons without wielders, dangerous to everyone around them." He placed a weathered hand on Haru's shoulder, grip steady and sure. "You're stronger than when you left, but are you fighting for the right reasons?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Haru looked down at his hands, calloused now from training, scarred from battles he couldn't have imagined when he was just a kid throwing punches in this same garden.
"I am now," he said quietly.
Jiro squeezed his shoulder once before stepping back. "Then that's enough for tonight. Your grandmother's making your favorite ramen. She's been cooking since noon, convinced you've been starving at that academy."
Haru smiled, the first real smile he'd managed all day. "Have I mentioned how much I missed this place?"
"No need, boy. It's written all over your face." The old man's expression softened, just for a moment. "Welcome home."