Winter Bonus Chapter Two: There Was Dad, There Was Me, and There Was Yui.
There was Dad, there was Mom, and there was a little sister, five years younger than me.
An ordinary family, the kind you’d find anywhere, happy in an unremarkable way.
Dad, a man of few words, was always buried in work, rarely home.
Out earlier than anyone in the morning, always home late. Back then, he traveled constantly for business, crisscrossing the whole country — a genuinely hard worker.
He wasn’t good with words, wasn’t the type to express love plainly, straight out.
But Mom loved that man of hers, wholly, completely, without reservation, always.
I never once saw Mom speak ill of Dad. If anything, she’d tell me, happily, about “good things about Dad” I didn’t even know myself.
How he always said the food was delicious, whatever she made.
How he’d come home with cake or flowers on some perfectly ordinary day, for no reason at all.
How he always carved out time for the family on his days off.
Above everything else, she’d say it with such genuine, unguarded pride — “your dad in a suit is so handsome, isn’t he.”
This house we lived in was always, unquestioningly, filled with quiet, ordinary happiness.
I was twelve. Yui was still seven.
On that one day, that happiness we’d always taken for granted collapsed, all at once, without a trace left behind.
The happiness Dad and Mom had built up, steadily, together — the ordinary days that should have gone on and on — what stripped it all away began with some small, careless selfishness of mine.
Running a high fever, delirious, I kept having terrible nightmares every time I slept.
Every joint in my body ached, and, unable to sleep, frightened, I’d begged Mom to sleep in the same room with me.
That’s why. Because she’d nursed me through the whole night, I’d given her my cold.
To take me to the hospital when my fever wouldn’t break, Mom, coughing badly herself, had called Dad.
Asked him to come home.
But it hadn’t worked. That day, Dad had an important meeting he absolutely couldn’t miss.
Already president of the company by then, he simply couldn’t make it home, no matter what.
Barely conscious, climbing into the back seat of the car, Yui, sitting beside me, watched me, worried.
I still remember, clearly, Mom’s gentle voice, telling me — “Yukiya, it’s fine, go ahead and sleep.”
So I closed my eyes, meaning only to sleep for a little while, until we reached the hospital.
*
But the next time I opened my eyes, I was on a hospital bed.
I had no idea what had happened, but a pure white ceiling was the first thing that filled my vision, and I realized — this wasn’t my own house.
Sensing someone nearby, I turned toward the bed beside me.
Through the gap in the white blanket, a small, small hand was visible. Yui, her arms and body wrapped in painful-looking bandages, slept beside me.
I meant to call her name, small — “Yui” — but my voice came out cracked, no sound at all.
And there, right beside her — Dad, eyes bloodshot red, stood, frozen.
*
There was Dad, there was me, there was Yui.
But in that hospital room, only Mom, wasn’t there.
I’ve never been able to forget the cool feel of Mom’s palm, the last time she stroked my forehead.
Even now, I dream of that day, over and over.
That was the first time I ever saw Dad cry.
He’d tried, at first, to hold himself together — but by the time his voice broke, caught in his throat, tears had already started spilling from his eyes, unstoppable, and finally he collapsed to his knees, buried his face against the bed, and sobbed, loud.
It was a grief like the end of the world. And, hearing it, I understood everything. The reason Mom wasn’t there.
The fragmented memories from my feverish delirium slowly connected, piece by piece.
Dad kept calling out Mom’s name, and both our names, over and over, choking on his own sobs, apologizing.
For being away. For not being able to come home. For putting work first.
Repeating those words of confession, again and again, Dad kept apologizing to us, endlessly.
Time doesn’t rewind itself. What’s lost can never be recovered. Never again.
In that hospital room, that day, there was nothing but despair.
＊＊＊
Neither Dad nor Yui ever blamed me.
The wake, the funeral — it all passed in a blur, like flipping through a picture book far too fast.
Company associates came, endless, one after another, and Dad, kept so busy he barely had time to grieve, left me to just stay by Yui’s side, keeping her from feeling scared.
She’d seem fine, and then suddenly burst into tears, out of nowhere, and every time, all I could think about was how to settle her unsteady heart.
Relatives watched me, not shedding a single tear, with something like pity in their eyes.
Every time I received those uniform, scripted words of condolence, I gave back the same scripted words in return, over and over, like some broken toy.
I was glad Yui stayed beside me.
Truthfully, my heart felt like it might crack open under the weight, ready to break at any moment. Just standing upright took everything I had.
Every time I caught Dad’s eyes, watching me, worried, I flinched and looked away, ducking my head.
I’m the one who took Mom away — from Dad, from Yui. There’s no escaping that fact. Never.
*
Until the cremation finished, I didn’t want to talk to anyone but Yui, so we stepped outside and wandered, aimless, together.
Small snow flakes drifted down from the sky, as if crying themselves.
I just kept staring up at that sky, blanketed thick with heavy cloud.
Gripping Yui’s small hand, still marked with wounds, tight, tight.
“—Yukiya-kun, Yui-chan, so you’re here.”
Someone called out, and I turned. Dressed in mourning black, a man with kind eyes, roughly Dad’s age, stood there.
I recognized him — he’d been talking with Dad, just before. I knew him, from hearing Dad mention him so many times.
The one who’d brought Dad and Mom together. Dad’s closest friend.
Crouching to meet my eyes, those pale brown, kind eyes narrowed, gentle. Something about them felt different from the pitying gazes of every other adult around us.
“Fuyuto’s looking for you. It’s almost time to go back inside.”
“…I see. Sorry, and thank you. Yui, let’s head back.”
I looked at Yui. Her small nose had gone faintly red.
Yui said nothing, but maybe she’d been cold. Feeling bad for dragging her along outside, I took her hand, small in her black dress, and followed his broad back inside.
“…Um, what happens now?”
“…It’s called ‘kotsuage.’ You pick up the bones with chopsticks, and place them into the urn.”
“Bones… Mom’s?”
My feet froze in place, unbidden. I don’t want to see it, I thought. Why? I was supposed to see it. Supposed to accept reality. And yet the thought of bringing Yui along terrified me.
Noticing me stop, he paused too, turned back, and let his eyes wander, thinking.
“…Yuki-nii, what’s wrong?”
A small, young voice reached me, and I looked down. Her eyes, wavering, anxious. —Yui, I’m sorry.
I needed to say something reassuring, and yet my throat closed, tight, and no words came. I noticed my knees were trembling, faint.
“…Yukiya-kun, why don’t we hang around out here a little longer, just us. Thirsty? Let’s go get some juice.”
A hand, different from Dad’s, but just as big, just as warm, stroked my head. This man, like a golden retriever, just watched me with nothing but pure tenderness in his eyes.
I shook my head, hard, side to side.
“Thank you. But I have to go. But, Yui… Yui, needs—”
I didn’t want her to see it. I hesitated over whether I could even say that out loud. How could I protect my little sister’s fragile, unsteady heart, after suddenly losing our mother?
“…Then, Yui-chan, why don’t you wait here with me? For Yukiya-kun.”
“Eh? Yuki-nii’s going alone? Why?”
“…Sorry, Yui, wait here. Excuse me, could I ask you to look after my sister?”
“Of course. I have a daughter myself, you know. Two years younger than Yui-chan. Go on, Yukiya-kun, don’t worry.”
Letting go of Yui’s small hand, I nodded, small, and broke into a run. I felt like I had to witness it myself. See it, properly, with my own eyes.
My vision blurred with tears, unable to see straight ahead. Legs tangling, nearly stumbling, I just ran, back the way I’d come.
I didn’t want Yui to see it. Didn’t want her to look death straight in the face, not yet. I wanted to protect her heart.
I don’t know if that was the right decision. Taking away her final chance to say a proper goodbye — maybe that had simply been my own selfishness.
What Yui actually thought of that decision of mine, that day — even now, grown up, I still haven’t been able to ask her.
*
That sleeping memory came flooding back the day I first met her, on her twenty-first birthday.
I’d already heard from Yui that she’d be sharing a place with the daughter of Dad’s friend, so I’d wondered, maybe — and the moment our eyes met, I was certain.
I know these eyes. Pale brown eyes. I’d seen them once before, long ago. Just that one time.
I’d met your father.
He’d mentioned, I remembered, having a daughter. Two years younger than Yui, he’d said.
So you’re that daughter, I thought, like some answer finally confirmed.
No wonder Yui fell for you. You must be a genuinely kind person. Because you’re his daughter.
Thinking that, on the drive home that day, is a memory I still carry, fondly, even now.
Since then, it seems, the two of them went through all kinds of twists and turns — but in the end, right now, that girl stands beside Yui.
Since childhood, Yui’s always been the understanding one. Never once said something selfish.
Her own feelings always came second, I think — she just endured, quietly, so neither Dad nor I would ever get hurt.
So when that day came, and Yui, with a genuinely serious face, came to me and said, “I want to break off the engagement with Shinji” — something deep in my chest burned, hot.
Yui never once blamed me, useless as I’ve been.
It must have been hard, this whole time. Painful, this whole time.
The little sister I was supposed to protect, as her older brother — I’m the one who’s been protected by her, all along.
So I need to face forward too, at last.
If it’s my precious sister’s wish — however dirty the means I have to use — I’ll make it come true. Absolutely, without fail.