Winter Special 2: There was Dad, there was me, and there was Yui

Father was there, Mother was there, and I had a younger sister five years my junior.

It was an ordinary, commonplace, happy family.
My taciturn father was always busy with work and seldom at home.
He left earlier than anyone each morning and always returned late. Back then, Father travelled frequently on business, criss-crossing the whole of Japan; he truly was a hard worker.

　He wasn’t very good with words and wasn’t the sort to express his affection directly.
But Mum always loved him completely, just as he was.

I never once saw Mum say a bad word about Dad. Quite the opposite, in fact. Mum would always happily tell me about ‘Dad’s good points’ that I didn’t know about.

　How he always ate his meals saying they were delicious.
How he’d bring home cakes or flowers on ordinary days.
How he made time for the family on his days off.

Above all, she’d say with genuine pride, “Dad in his suit is really handsome, isn’t he?”

Our home was always filled with a quiet, unquestionable happiness.

　I was twelve, and Yui was still only seven.

From that day on, the happiness that should have been there as a matter of course collapsed in an instant, vanishing without a trace.

It was my petty selfishness that triggered the loss of the happiness Dad and Mum had painstakingly built up, the everyday life that should have continued from then on.

　I was racked by a high fever, and every time I slept, I relived terrible nightmares.
My joints ached, I couldn’t sleep properly, and I felt so alone that I begged Mum to sleep in the same room with me.
That was why. Because she’d been nursing me all night, I’d given her my cold.

　To take me to hospital as my fever stubbornly refused to break, Mum phoned Dad while coughing terribly.

She wanted him to come back.

But he couldn’t. That day, Dad had an absolutely crucial meeting he couldn’t miss.
Already the company president back then, he simply couldn’t come home.

　Staggering into the back seat of the car, Yui sat beside me, looking at me with concern.
I distinctly remember Mum’s gentle voice saying, “Yukiya, it’s alright to sleep.”

So I closed my eyes, intending to sleep just a little until we reached the hospital.

　But when I next opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed.
I didn’t understand what had happened, but the stark white ceiling immediately filled my vision, and I realised I wasn’t at home.

Sensing someone nearby, I turned my gaze to the bed beside mine.
A tiny, tiny hand peeked out from beneath the white quilt. Yui, her arms and body wrapped in painful-looking bandages, was sleeping next to me.

　I tried to whisper her name, Yui, but my voice cracked and failed me.
And beside her, my father stood frozen, his eyes bloodshot.

Father was there. I was there. Yui was there.
But in this hospital room, only Mother was missing.

I can never forget the cool touch of Mother’s hand, the last thing to stroke my forehead.

　Even now, I dream of that day over and over again.

It was the first time I had ever seen Father cry.

He tried to remain strong, but when his voice broke and began to tremble, as if something had caught in his throat, tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes. Finally, he collapsed to his knees, buried his face in the bed, and wept aloud.

It was a wail like the end of the world. And then I understood everything. Why Mum wasn’t here.

Memories that had been fragmented and broken by the high fever began to connect, piece by piece.

Father called out Mum’s name and ours over and over, sobbing as he apologised.
For being apart. For not being able to come home. For putting work first.

　Repeating his words of repentance over and over, Father kept apologising to us, relentlessly.

Time doesn’t rewind. What’s lost cannot be regained. Never again.

In that hospital room that day, only despair lay there.

＊＊＊

Neither Father nor Yui blamed me.

The wake and the funeral passed in a flash, like a paper theatre performance.

Company associates visited incessantly, keeping Father so busy he scarcely had time to grieve. So I simply stayed by Yui’s side, trying to keep her from feeling anxious.

　She’d seem fine one moment, then suddenly burst into tears. Each time, all I could think about was how to calm her unsettled heart.

Relatives looked at me with pitying eyes, seeing I hadn’t shed a single tear.
Each time they offered their standard, formulaic condolences, I too repeated the same words like a broken toy.

I was so glad Yui was there beside me.

　Truthfully, my heart was creaking as if it might crush me, on the verge of shattering. Merely standing felt like an enormous effort.
Whenever my father’s worried gaze met mine, I would hastily avert my eyes and look down.
I had taken Mum away from Dad, from Yui. That fact was something I could never escape.

　Until the cremation was over, I didn’t want to speak to anyone but Yui. We stepped outside the crematorium and wandered aimlessly together.

Tiny snowflakes drifted down from the sky, as if weeping.
I just kept staring at the sky, covered in thick snow clouds.
All the while, I clutched Yui’s small hand, still bearing fresh wounds, tightly, tightly.

“—Yuki-kun, Yui-chan, here you are.”

I turned at the sudden voice. A man, dressed in mourning clothes, with gentle eyes—about the same age as Dad—stood there.

This man had been talking to Dad earlier. I knew him; Dad had told me about him many times.
The man who had brought Dad and Mum together. This man was Dad’s best friend.

　Bending down to meet my eyes, his gentle, light brown eyes narrowed. Somehow, his gaze felt different from the pitying looks the other adults gave us.

“Fuyuto was looking for you. It’s nearly time to go inside.”

“…I see. Thank you, I’m sorry. Yui, shall we go back now?”

Looking at Yui, I saw her little nose was slightly red.
　Yui said nothing, but perhaps she was cold. I felt bad for making her come along. Thinking this, I took Yui’s hand, clad in her black dress.
Then, following that tall figure, I started walking.

“Um… what are we doing now?”

“…It’s called bone gathering. We pick up the bones with chopsticks and place them into the urn.”

“Her bones. Mum’s?”

My legs went weak. I didn’t want to see them. Why? I should have to see them. I should have to accept reality. Taking Yui along scared me. That’s what I thought.
Noticing I’d stopped, the person paused, turned back, and let their gaze drift as if pondering.

“…Yuki-nii, what’s wrong?”

A childish voice suddenly reached my ears, and I looked down. I gazed into eyes flickering with unease. —Yui, I’m sorry.
I should have offered words to reassure her, but my throat tightened, and no sound came out. I became aware my knees were trembling slightly.

“…Yuki-kun, shall we just hang about around here a bit longer with Uncle? Thirsty? Fancy getting some juice?”

A hand, different from Dad’s but large and warm, stroked my head. That person, like a golden retriever, just looked at me with eyes full of affection.

I shook my head vigorously from side to side.

“Thank you. But I have to go. But Yui… Yui has—”

I didn’t want her to see. I hesitated, unsure if I should say it. How could I protect my sister’s fragile heart, still reeling from suddenly losing our mother?

“…Well then, Yui-chan, shall we wait here with Uncle? For Yukiyasu-kun.”

“Eh? Are you leaving Yukiyasu-nii alone? Why?”

“…Sorry, Yui, wait here. Excuse me, would you mind looking after my sister?”

“Of course. I have a daughter myself. Two years younger than Yui-chan, mind you. Yukiyasu-kun, go without worry.”

When I let go of Yui’s small hand, she nodded and dashed off. I felt I had to see her off. With my own eyes.

　Tears blurred my vision, obscuring what lay ahead. My legs tangled, threatening to trip me, yet I ran back the way I’d come.

I didn’t want Yui to see. I didn’t want her to face death yet. I wanted to protect her heart.
I don’t know if it was the right decision. Perhaps it was selfish of me to take away her last chance to say a proper goodbye.

　What does Yui think of my decision that day? Even now, as an adult, I still haven’t been able to ask her.

On Yui’s twenty-first birthday, when I first met her, that dormant memory resurfaced.
Yui had told me beforehand that she’d be rooming with the daughter of a friend of her father’s, so I’d thought, ‘Could it be?’, but when our eyes met, I knew for certain.
　I know these eyes. Those light brown eyes. I saw them long ago. Just once, back then.

I met your father once.

I’m sure he mentioned having a daughter. Said she was two years younger than Yui.
Realising it was you felt like checking an answer.

No wonder Yui fell for her. She must be a kind woman. After all, she’s that person’s daughter.

　I still remember that day, walking home, thinking such things, as a fond memory.

Since then, it seems there have been twists and turns between the two of them — but as a result, that girl is now beside Yui.

From a young age, Yui was always so well-behaved. She never once acted selfishly.
I think she always put her own feelings second, quietly enduring things so that neither I nor her father would be hurt.

　So when that Yui approached me that day, her expression earnest, saying, “I want to break off my engagement with Shinji,” a heat rose deep within my chest.

　Yui never once blamed me for being such a pathetic mess.

It must have been so hard for her. So painful.
The sister I should have protected as her brother — she was the one who protected me all along.

So I must look forward too.

If it’s my precious sister’s wish — no matter how dirty the means, I will make it come true.