Chapter Text
The wind outside whistled against the windows of the cafe. It'd been fall around this time— cold but comfortable. Business was booming during this season in particular.
Everyone wanted to gather at the cafe for a drink or just for something sweet. Couples going on dates, friends studying, people coming in for warmth. Kunikuzushi quite literally knew all of his customers by heart.
He knew the regulars, the people who only came occasionally, the people that ordered the same thing every time. But something was different tonight. The feeling was off as if something was there, lingering. But he couldn't quite figure it out.
His sister, Mona, left a bit ago after she covered the day shift. Considering how they both owned the cafe they separated their shifts, Kuni took on the night shift, while Mona resided on the day shift.
Mona had always been scared of walking out alone in the dead of night and whatnot. Kuni didn't want her walking alone either, a female walking by herself at night didn’t sit well with him. He did look feminine himself but at least he could pack a punch.
The bell above the door jingled as a couple left hand in hand, the warmth of their laughter trailing behind them. Kuni glanced up briefly, then back down at the cup he was polishing, the cloth turning over ceramic with practiced rhythm. The silence afterward pressed on his chest, and he found himself staring at the reflections in the glass—a dim outline of himself, the low glow of the café lights, and the faint shimmer of the autumn moon outside.
Moments like this had a way of dragging him backwards.
He remembered nights like these as a child. Long evenings when the house had been too quiet, the only sound being Mona's small voice reading out loud from some book she'd pulled from a shelf, or the crackle of something half-burned on the stove that he had tried to cook.
Their mother was rarely home. Ei—brilliant, powerful, untouchable Ei—was always somewhere else. The siblings never really knew where, but they did know with whom.
With the tall woman with pink hair. Always with her, the one with a taunting smirk and a face that screamed deceit. Whenever Ei breezed through the door, her perfume and laughter still clinging to her from whatever party or outing she had been at, it was never to see them. It was a brief check-in, a distracted kiss on Mona's forehead if she was lucky, a nod at Kuni, then gone again.
Their father... well. He wasn't a ghost. Ghosts had presence. He was nothing, a hollow absence they never could fill. Kuni had stopped asking where he was when he was seven. Mona followed his lead.
What lingered, though, was not just the absence but the reminder of it—the dinners uneaten, the mornings where other children clung to their parents' hands, and the way Ei's gaze seemed to skim past them as though she couldn't bear to look directly.
So they learned early, they only had each other.
Nahida was the only one who stepped into that void. She was the closest thing the two had to a guardian. She was not consistent—her work and life pulled her too—but when she came, she came with softness that no one else had given them.
She would braid Mona's hair while humming a sweet tune, her small hands surprisingly deft. She would bring Kuni little notebooks, whispering, "You should write, you have sharp eyes. Write down what you see."
Well, she didn't just braid only Mona's hair. She would braid Kuni's too. He had long, deep dark hair just like his mother’s. And most of the time, his hair brought him praise. Oohs and ahhs from women he barely knew.
The strands were heavy, almost silky, falling in sheets down his back. When Nahida's gentle fingers parted it, weaving it into neat plaits, he sat still, expression unreadable. Mona would squeal with delight at her own hairstyle, turning her head this way and that to admire the handiwork in the mirror. Kuni would simply glance once, nod, and move on.
But inside, the braids left him with a sour taste in his mouth.
Because every time he caught his reflection—those braids glistening, those locks brushing his shoulders—he didn't see himself. He saw her. Ei. His mother. That same suffocating resemblance. The same shade, the same shine, the same look that made him feel like he was carrying her ghost everywhere he went.
He hated it.
The moment he realized he couldn't stand it anymore was small, almost unremarkable. He was fifteen, brushing Mona's hair out after she'd fallen asleep on the couch with a book over her chest. His own hair fell forward as he leaned down, and in that angle, in that flicker of lamplight—he saw his mother. Not himself.
It was like a slap.
He set the brush down, heart pounding. His hands curled into fists.
The next morning, he stood in front of the mirror, scissors in hand. He didn't make a dramatic statement, didn't announce it to Mona. He just cut. Chunks fell to the floor, strands piling like fallen feathers. The more he snipped, the lighter he felt, like the ties that bound him to her were being severed one by one.
When it was done, his hair barely reached his shoulders. Uneven, rough, but it was his.
Mona woke up and shrieked, half in horror, half in shock. "Kuni! What did you do?"
He didn't look at her. He just muttered, "I'm not her. I'm not."
And Mona, wide-eyed, understood. She didn't tease him. She didn't laugh. She simply walked over, hugged him from behind, and whispered, "You don't have to be."
The haircut was only the beginning.
Soon after, he began rifling through old drawers, discarding clothes that clung to him wrong, that made him feel exposed in ways he hated. Skirts, blouses, dresses Ei had once insisted on—they all went into a bag destined for donation.
In their place, he chose hoodies, loose shirts, jeans that hung comfortably on his hips. Clothes that didn't announce anything, didn't demand he be looked at a certain way. Clothes that gave him the faint, fleeting sense of safety.
At first, Mona didn't say much. She only watched, a quiet witness to his transformation. She didn't need to ask why—she already knew. She saw the relief in his shoulders when he pulled a sweatshirt over his head. She noticed how much less tense he was when he could fade into something neutral, something not feminine.
To her, it didn't change who he was. It just revealed him more clearly.
It was Nahida who noticed the struggle that came next.
On one of her visits, she caught Kuni sitting stiffly on the couch, his shirt pulled tight in ways that made him frown at his own chest. He looked uncomfortable, irritated, tugging at the fabric like it betrayed him.
Nahida didn't ask directly. She never pressed with heavy words. Instead, she placed a small box in his hands the next time she came.
"For you." she said simply.
Kuni raised an eyebrow, suspicious. He opened it. Inside was a binder.
He stared at it for a long time. He wasn't the type to light up or shout in joy—Nahida knew that. But the stillness in him shifted. His breath caught, just slightly. His fingers lingered on the fabric as if afraid it would vanish.
"Thank you," he said at last, voice low, rougher than usual.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a scene out of some grand novel. But it was one of the most real moments of his life.
Because someone had seen him. Not the mask, not the echoes of his mother. Him.
Kuni wasn't expressive. He never had been. Joy, for him, was subtle—a softened glance, a rare smile, the way his posture eased.
But Nahida saw it. She noticed how he carried himself differently after that. How he stopped tugging at his clothes every five seconds. How he walked with a little more confidence, as though the floor beneath him wasn't trying to swallow him whole.
He never gushed about the binder. He never brought it up unprompted. But once, when Nahida was packing up to leave, he stopped her at the door.
"You didn't have to," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the ground.
Nahida tilted her head. "But I wanted to."
Kuni hesitated, then finally looked up. His eyes softened, and though his lips barely moved, the words were heavy with sincerity. "It... means a lot."
That was his way of saying thank you. And Nahida understood.
Most importantly, she cooked. Real meals. Food that didn't come from instant packets or from Kuni's trial-and-error disasters. Nahida would teach him the basics of cooking too. She’d even bring groceries. Kuni remembered the warmth of sitting at the table while Nahida stirred something fragrant on the stove, Mona giggling beside him with cheeks full of rice. He remembered thinking—this, this is what it feels like to be cared for.
But Nahida couldn't stay long. She always left again, apologetic, promising to return. And when the door shut, the siblings would look at each other, at the dim kitchen, and shrug. Back to two.
By the time Kuni was twelve and Mona was ten, survival was second nature.
He learned how to budget Ei's sporadic money transfers, making sure bills were paid before he dared to buy Mona the cheap astrology books she loved. He learned how to fight after some older kids cornered Mona on the way home. He still remembered the taste of blood in his mouth and the sting in his knuckles, but more vividly, he remembered the way Mona's hand trembled in his afterward, the way she whispered, "You're all I have."
Mona learned other skills. She became good at slipping into silence, reading people from the smallest expressions. She could tell when Kuni's shoulders sagged just enough to mean he was tired, when his anger was more mask than truth. She knew when to push and when to distract him with stories about constellations she traced on the ceiling.
Together, they became a unit. Two children holding up a crumbling house of absence.
Kuni placed the polished cup back onto the shelf and leaned his elbows on the counter. His gaze swept the room: half a dozen students cramming at a corner table, a man tapping impatiently at his laptop, a mother rocking her baby with a latte cooling beside her.
All of them. Every single one. People needing something—warmth, caffeine, sugar, comfort.
That was why they started the café.
It hadn't been about profit. It had been about rewriting. About creating a place where no one had to feel the ache of neglect the way they had.
For Kuni, it was about remembering the way he had stared at an empty kitchen table for hours as a child and deciding: no one who came here would feel that way. He learned every regular's favorite order, not because he had to but because it mattered. It mattered to be known.
For Mona, it was about seeing strangers sit down alone and ensuring they left with something warm in their hands. She remembered what it felt like to crave comfort and get silence instead. So she brewed tea with care, she decorated lattes with stars, she slipped in words of encouragement when she could.
The café was a form of rebellion. Against Ei's absence. Against their father's void. Against every night they had been left to fend for themselves.
It was, simply, love disguised as business.
Kuni's eyes softened as a girl walked in, clearly exhausted, dropping her bag onto a chair. He already knew what she wanted: a lavender latte. She always came after late-night study sessions, always looked like the weight of the world pressed down on her.
He made the drink before she even ordered it, sliding it across the counter with a quiet, "Long night again?"
The girl blinked, surprised, then smiled—a small thing, but real. "Yeah. Thanks, Kuni."
She left lighter than she came.
Moments like that eased something in his chest. He didn't need grand gestures. Just this. Being the presence someone could rely on.
For Mona, it was similar. She would tell Kuni stories of daytime customers—how an elderly man always brought flowers for his late wife and sat with them over tea, how children scribbled on napkins with crayons she provided. She said, often, that these small exchanges stitched her together.
They were both, in their own ways, healing by doing what no one had done for them.
But even with the café full of life, ghosts lingered.
Some nights Kuni would close up, mop in hand, and suddenly remember the sound of Ei's heels clacking in the hallway, the way she would sweep past them without asking how their day was. He would grip the mop tighter, anger threatening to flare before it fizzled into tired resignation.
Some mornings, Mona would unlock the doors, smell the fresh beans, and find herself wondering—if Ei ever came here, would she even like coffee? Would she sit at one of these tables and talk to them? The thought made her chest ache in ways she didn't like to admit.
They didn't talk about it much. Not because they couldn't, but because they both already knew. The scars were shared.
The café closed late that night. Kuni flipped the sign, locked the door, and turned off the main lights until only the soft glow of the string bulbs remained. He sat at a table near the window, sipping tea he'd made for himself.
He didn't hear Mona come back, but he felt her presence. She always circled back, even if it meant walking faster through the streets, even if she pretended it was because she forgot something. She slid into the seat across from him, chin resting on her hands.
"Busy night?" she asked.
"Not bad." He paused. "The usual girl came in. I made her a drink before she asked."
Mona smiled faintly. "You always do that. You remember everyone's orders like it's life or death."
"Someone has to," he muttered, then added softer, "No one remembered ours."
The silence after was heavy but not suffocating.
Mona reached across the table, fingers brushing his wrist. "We turned it into something, though. You know that, right? We turned all of that... into this. And people are better for it."
Kuni didn't respond right away, but the corner of his mouth lifted, just barely.
They sat there in the glow of their little café, listening to the wind outside, and for once, the ghosts seemed quieter.
The café smelled faintly of coffee grounds and sugar, the scent clinging to the air like an invisible comforter as the evening wound down. The tall man in the corner had already slipped out silently, leaving behind his empty cup and the faint unease he'd carried in with him.
By then, Mona had returned, jingling her keys as she pushed through the door. "Kuni," she called, her voice carrying that tired edge of someone who'd spent all day running around but was too stubborn to admit it.
Kuni glanced up from behind the counter where he was wrapping up the day's receipts. "Didn't I tell you to go home? I've got this covered."
"Mm, and leave you here to sulk all by yourself?" Mona set her bag on one of the stools by the counter, slipping off her scarf. Her long, dark hair spilled down her shoulders, a little tangled from the wind. "Not a chance. Besides, I need to prep the strawberries for tomorrow."
"You don't need to—" Kuni started, but she was already behind the counter, tugging on one of the spare aprons.
"You know, for someone who complains about me overworking myself, you're very dramatic about letting me help." She plucked a bowl from the shelf and set it on the counter with a decisive clink.
Kuni rolled his eyes but didn't argue further. There was no point. When Mona decided on something, she stuck with it until the end. "Fine. But don't blame me if you cut your finger. You get careless when you're tired."
"That was one time," she huffed, grabbing a basket of strawberries from the cooler. "And you didn't even let me finish cutting them."
"You were bleeding all over the cutting board."
"Details." She stuck her tongue out at him, though the gesture was softened by the tired smile tugging at her lips.
For a while, the café was filled only with the quiet clatter of dishes, the rhythmic slice of knives against cutting boards, and the hum of the refrigerator. Kuni moved methodically, lining up trays of pastries for tomorrow, sealing them into airtight containers. Mona handled the fruit, carefully sorting through strawberries, blueberries, and kiwi slices, rinsing them in the sink before patting them dry.
It was routine. Familiar. The kind of thing they could do half-asleep, and sometimes practically did.
"You think tomorrow'll be busy?" Mona asked after a while, her tone casual as she arranged strawberries into neat little rows.
"Probably. Fridays usually are." Kuni glanced at her. "Why?"
"No reason." She shrugged, but he caught the way her fingers tapped absently against the counter, restless.
"Mona."
She sighed. "Okay, maybe I was thinking of putting up that new menu sign. You know, the chalkboard one I bought? The artsy one with the gold trim?"
Kuni raised a brow and scoffed. "The one you blew half our budget on?"
"It was not half our budget!" She said defensively, glaring at him over her shoulder. "And it's cute. People like cute things. We'll get more business."
Kuni smirked faintly but said nothing, simply sliding another tray onto the rack. He didn't need to admit that she was right—Mona always was when it came to drawing customers in. She had a knack for presentation, for making things beautiful in a way that pulled people closer.
By the time they finished, the café was spotless again, ready for another day. The lights glowed softly against the dark windows, illuminating their reflection—siblings standing side by side in aprons, hair messy, eyes tired but satisfied.
"Alright," Mona said, pulling her apron off and tossing it onto the hook. "Let's go home. My feet are about to fall off."
"You complain too much." Kuni turned off the final light, leaving the café in a peaceful hush. The bell above the door chimed quietly as they stepped outside, locking it behind them.
The walk home was calm, the streets mostly empty at this hour. Streetlamps cast their golden glow across the sidewalks, stretching shadows long and thin. The wind had quieted since earlier, though the air was still cool, brushing against their faces.
Mona walked with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, her scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. Kuni walked beside her, carrying a small bag of leftover pastries they always saved for themselves.
"You know," Mona said after a few minutes, "sometimes I forget how nice it is to walk like this. Just us. No rush. No noise."
"Mm." Kuni glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "It's quieter without customers nagging you about horoscope-themed lattes."
"That's only because you won't let me sell them!" she shot back, swatting his arm lightly.
"Because it's ridiculous."
"It's creative!"
Their bickering carried them all the way to their house—a beautiful, dark-toned home nestled at the edge of their neighborhood. Even from outside, it looked different from the rest: taller, sharper lines, dark wood trimmed with silver. The windows glowed softly, a welcoming beacon against the night.
Inside, it was everything they loved. The moment you stepped through the front door, the space opened into a wide living area—high ceilings, soft dark wood floors, a loft stretching overhead with railings that overlooked the room. The living room flowed into a sprawling kitchen, all marble counters and hanging lights, with two guest rooms and a shared bathroom tucked neatly to the side.
Perhaps the money that Ei would often send as a sorry excuse for her absence wasn’t the absolute worst thing she could do after all.
The loft above housed their personal sanctuaries. Kuni's room, painted in muted purples and deep blue-grays, was filled with shelves of books, writing journals stacked neatly beside his bed. Mona's room reflected her personality: celestial patterns across the walls, star charts pinned to a corkboard, crystals catching the light from her window. Both had private bathrooms, and between their rooms sat a cozy loft area with beanbags and a low table, their unofficial "sibling corner."
The house was dark in palette—deep purples, midnight blues, silvery grays—but it was warm too. Blankets draped over couches, the faint smell of vanilla candles lingering in the air. It felt lived-in. It felt like home.
Durin, their tuxedo cat, was waiting by the door the moment they stepped in. He stretched, tail flicking lazily, before weaving between their legs.
"Durin!" Mona bent to scoop him up, pressing her cheek to his fur. "Were you a good boy?"
The cat meowed softly, his green eyes blinking up at her.
Kuni smirked faintly, setting the pastry bag on the counter. "He's a cat. He probably slept the entire time."
"That's still being good," Mona argued, carrying Durin toward the couch.
Kuni shook his head, heading upstairs toward his room. He wanted a shower, maybe some quiet before bed. But as he reached his room and opened the door, something unusual caught his attention.
A faint tapping.
He paused, frowning. It was coming from his window.
Durin, having wriggled free from Mona downstairs, padded up the stairs and sat beside him, ears perked curiously. The tapping came again—sharper this time.
His mind kept insisting that he shouldn’t investigate, he’d seen enough horror movies to know this by now. But the persistent tapping against the glass hadn't ceased.
Kuni crossed the room slowly, his steps cautious. As he reached the window, his breath caught.
A small bat clung to the sill, its wings beating weakly against the glass.
Not just any bat.
Its fur was pale, an unnatural albino white, with a strange streak of vivid red running down its head like a slash of paint. Tufts of the same red tipped its ears, and thin crimson markings traced the corners of its eyes, making it look almost otherworldly.
Since when did they have bats in the area?
The small creature flapped against the glass again, desperate. Kuni hesitated only a moment before slowly unlatching the window. The bat darted inside the second it was granted access. It flew around aimlessly, its wings beating in a frantic rhythm before it crashed straight onto his desk with a faint thud.
Durin hissed softly, tail puffing up, but Kuni crouched beside the desk, his expression sharp with focus.
"Easy," he murmured, reaching carefully toward the small creature. "You'll hurt yourself like that."
The bat shifted weakly, its tiny body rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. Its crimson-marked eyes blinked up at him, startlingly aware.
Kuni felt something tighten in his chest. He had no idea what this thing was or why it had been all tangled up in his window, but he couldn't just let it die here. He was no veterinarian—sure, but the least he could do at the moment was try.
Behind him, Durin leapt onto the bed, watching with wary eyes.
Kuni extended his hand slowly, his voice steady and low. "Alright. Let's take care of you."
The bat twitched weakly on the desk, its thin wing trembling at an odd angle. Kuni leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he carefully extended his hand. The delicate bones of its wing were visible even through the fur, the membrane stretched thin.
"You've torn it," Kuni murmured, almost to himself. "Clumsy thing."
He retrieved the first-aid kit he always kept tucked in his drawer—more so for Mona, since she was accident-prone, but useful now. Pulling out gauze and a small roll of bandages, he returned to the bat. Durin hopped closer on the bed, tail flicking.
The moment Kuni tried to touch the injured wing, the bat bared its teeth with surprising strength, hissing low. Its tiny fangs gleamed sharp as daggers.
Durin hissed back instantly, ears flattening, tail puffed like a bottlebrush. With a quick, sudden motion, the bat lunged toward the cat, jaws snapping.
"Hey." Kuni's hand darted out, intercepting it with a quick flick to the forehead. Not hard, but just enough to make the creature jolt.
The bat froze, blinking up at him with wide crimson-ringed eyes.
Kuni's voice was calm, firm, carrying that no-nonsense edge he usually reserved for scolding Mona. "No hurting Durin. No hurting anyone in this house. You try that again, and you're gone. Understand?"
The bat's wings twitched. It made a small sound—half squeak, half hiss—but it didn't lunge again.
Satisfied, Kuni began his work. With surprising gentleness, he cradled the fragile wing between his fingers, wrapping it in gauze to support the torn membrane. The bat squirmed, but after another warning look, it stilled. Once the bandage was secured, it slumped against his hand, exhausted.
"There," Kuni said softly, almost like he was speaking to Durin after a rough day. "Better."
He set the bat carefully back on the desk and stood, crossing to the kitchen. Mona would scold him if she saw him feeding a stray animal on the countertops, but she wasn't there, luckily for him. He opened the fridge, pulling out fruit—mangos, strawberries, bananas, and apples.
Durin padded after him, watching with skeptical green eyes as Kuni chopped the fruit into small, neat pieces. Soon he had a bowl piled with colors, juice glistening on the edges.
"Fruit bat, aren't you?" he muttered, setting the bowl down in front of the creature. The bat sniffed warily, then buried its face in the fruit, nibbling with a hunger that surprised him. It devoured the mango first, smearing juice along its pale fur, then moved to strawberries with sharp little bites.
Durin sat nearby, still tense, but quieter now.
When the bat finally slowed, its tiny stomach visibly full, Kuni exhaled and went to the closet. He returned with a large plastic container—the kind they used for storing seasonal decorations. He lined the bottom with one of his spare blankets, soft and clean, then set it on the desk.
"Here," he said simply, lifting the bat and laying it inside. The creature squeaked softly, curling into the folds of fabric. Kuni left the lid off, tilted so air could flow freely, and pushed the container closer to the slightly open window for comfort.
Durin leapt onto the bed, curling into a loaf, still keeping a sharp eye on the new arrival.
Kuni wiped his hands on a towel, studying the bat one last time. "Rest. You'll need it."
The room was quiet again—save for the soft breathing of the bat nestled in its blanket, and the faint purr of Durin, grudging but steady.