Some winters begin without warning.
A breath in the cold, a sound softened by snow.
A moment you don't realize you'll keep forever, they say.
Memory drift like snowfall. Light, quiet, returning to the
places where warm Swans lived. And sometimes, in the hush of a
winter morning, you find yourself standing in an old
version of your own world. One where everything felt
simpler, softer, brighter than you remember.
This is the story of the days that stayed, the one that
settled gently on the heart and never melted away.
This is winter's last melody, the days that stayed.
Some memories don't feel like memories at first.
They feel like small, ordinary moments, until time turns them
into something brighter. Haroud remembered the hall that
day, the warmth of the heaters, the way snow drifted lazily
outside the tall windows, softening the walled beyond the
glass. He had just entered a building,
boots still dusted with white, not really sure which club to
join, only knowing that the winter made him want to try
something warm and quiet. That's when he saw him.
Wren stood behind the small wooden table with a handmade
sign. Music box.
Craft club. Beginners welcome.
He wasn't calling out to students like the other clubs.
He wasn't flashy or loud or even trying to recruit.
He was simply focused, turning a tiny wooden gear between his
fingers, examining it with a kind of gentle concentration
that made the whole noisy hall feel quieter.
Haru slowed down. Renskarf was wrapped too high,
covering half his face, but his eyes were soft, steady, warm in
a way Harrow didn't expect from a stranger.
Ren looked up, sensing someone had stopped in front of the
table. Just for a moment, their eyes
met. Harrow opened his mouth to say
something, anything, but Ren spoke first, voice quiet and
shy. You can try making one.
The music boxes, I mean, if you want.
It wasn't a sales pitch, not even close.
It was an invitation, said the way rented everything at that
age. Something in Haru melted a
little. He stepped closer, drawn in by
the warmth of the scene, the wooden pieces lined neatly in
trees, the soft ticking sound of a tiny metal spring.
Wren's breath fogging slightly as cold air from the hallway
drifted in. Haru reach for a small wooden
box, Wren's finger brushed his by accident.
And just like that, the memory opened, bright and quiet,
exactly the way Haru chose to keep it.
Haru remember sitting down before he even decided to, Wren
had pulled the chair out for him.
Awkwardly, shyly, as if unsure whether it was the right thing
to do. Haru sat.
Wren excelled, relieved. Between them, the beginner music
box kid waited. A small wooden casing, 4 tiny
gears, a metal comb wrapped in paper.
Ren cleared his throat softly. You start with this one.
He said, picking up the first gear.
It's easy. I mean, maybe not too easy, but
you'll get it. His voice was gentle, almost
careful, the kind of tone people use when they want you to feel
welcome. Haru watched his hands move,
steady, precise, yet somehow nervous too.
He mirrored to motion, picking up the same piece.
Their elbows brushed. Neither pulled away.
Ren leaned a little closer to point at the slot on the wooden
frame. Here.
Haru fitted the gear into place. It clicked softly.
Ren's eyes brightened, not dramatically, just enough for
Haru to notice. Perfect.
Wren murmured, almost proud, and Haru, surprised by the warmth
blooming in his chest, smiled without thinking.
Wren noticed, looked away quickly, then back again, but
somehow that moment lingered. Wren handed him the second
piece, fingertips brushing his. Haru tightened the tiny screw.
Wren steadied the box so it wouldn't wobble.
Their hands worked in a quiet harmony.
The last gear slid neatly into place.
Wren let out a soft breath, a laugh almost too small to hear.
See, you're good at this. Harrow shook his head.
You just explained it really well.
Wren's ears turned pink. He didn't deny it.
He didn't look away this time. For the first time that winter,
Harrow felt something shift, a gentle, warming talk inside him,
the beginning of a melody he would remember 4 years.
The snow outside thickened, blurring the world to white.
Inside, the music box took its shape, and so did something
else. Some people don't enter your
life slowly. They arrive, and before you know
it, your days begin to bend toward them without effort,
without fear, without thinking. Haru remembers in its flashes,
bright, warm, quiet pieces of a winter that felt kinder than the
ones before it when waiting for him outside the club room, hence
talked into his sleeves because he forgot gloves again.
The two of them walking across campus was the kind of closeness
that didn't need explanation, carrying the same pace, the same
quiet comfort. The way Ren would look at the
music box part was deep focus, and Haru would study him
instead, learning more from the curve of Ren's expression than
the lesson itself, and how Ren always seemed relieved when Haru
showed up again the next day, Ren offered Haru the warm can of
cocoa from the vending machine. It's cold, so here evenings
where they stayed too long in the club room, the heater
humming, the campus outside turning blue was early night
cold and neither of them wanting to leave first.
It happened fast, faster than anything in Haru's life up to
that .1 winter and ran more. Suddenly the person he saw
everywhere. Looking back, Haru often felt
this was when they became. 1. Just two boys who didn't know
how not to be around each other. The campus pass was nearly empty
by the time they left the club room.
Evening had turned the snow pale blue and the lamps glowed in a
small Hallows that trembled with the wind.
Harold walked a little slower than usual, not because he was
tired, but because Rand was next to him, close enough that their
sleeves brushed now and then. A patch of ice caught Haru off
guard. He slipped just half a step, but
Wren reacted before either of them had time to think.
A hand at Haru's wrist. Haru regained balance, but Wren
didn't let go right away. His fingers stayed where they
were, not gripping, not pulling, just there.
Haru's pulse flickered in his chest, surprised at how much a
touch could feel like being seen.
The snowfall thickened, each flake drifting slower, heavier,
as if the world was trying to give them a moment.
Wren's hand loosened just slightly, as if about to
retreat. Haru didn't move.
His fingers shifted, only a small adjustment, barely
noticeable, but enough for Wren's hand to settle into his,
their palms aligning underneath. For a second.
Nothing happened, and then everything dead.
Ren's fingers curled softly around his.
Not a bold holed, a shy 1A beginning.
No one else was on the pass, No club members heading home, no
couples passing by. Just the two of them and the
sound of a snow touching ground. They were supposed to split at
the courtyard. That was the routine.
Haru toward the dorms. Ran toward the station, but
after the handhold, neither of them loosened their fingers.
When the crossroad arrived, Haru slowed down.
Wren matched him. Haru turned left.
Wren. Followed.
Neither said anything about it. The snow started falling
heavier, each flake tapping softly on the hood of Wren's
jacket. Haru glanced sideways.
You're soaked, he said, voice warm.
Was concerned. Do you want to come in just for
a bit, to warm up? Ren nodded too quickly, a little
embarrassed, a little relieved. Inside Haru's small dorm room,
the air smell faintly of laundry.
An instant miso. He turned on the small floor
heater, it's orange coils glowing softly.
Ren sat across from him on the floor, legs tucked in, steam
rising from his breath. They didn't talk much, they
didn't need to. A long moment passed where they
just listened to the heater hum. Wren's knee brushed Haru's once,
then again, then they both pretended not to move closer.
Haru handed him a towel for his hair.
Wren used it clumsily. Haru laughed softly.
Wren looked up with pink cheeks, towel half covering.
His face. Sorry.
Ren murmured. For what?
Ren shrugged. For everything, I guess.
Harrow shook his head. Something softened in the air.
The heater swarm spread across the room.
Ren's fingertips inched closer along the floor, stopping just
besides. Harrow's hand was out, touching.
Harrow felt his breast catch, not out of fear, but because it
felt inevitable. You OK?
Harrow asked quietly. Wren nodded.
I just don't want to go back out yet.
Then don't. Harrow said, and he meant it.
Wren's shoulder relaxed for the first time since they came
inside. They ended up sitting shoulder
to shoulder back against Harrow's narrow bed, sharing the
same blanket, the snow outside. Kept falling.
The night kept deepening. But need of them move toward the
door. Ren leaned just slightly, his
head almost touching Harus. Haru felt the warmth of him,
like something fragile. And you.
Is it OK if I stay a little longer?
Ren whispered. Haru didn't look at him, He
didn't need to. Yeah, He said, voice soft.
Stay. And Ren did.
The blanket shifted, their shoulders pressed closer.
Their hands, which had been resting separately, began
drifting again, slowly, naturally, until Wren's finger
found Harrows under the fold of the fabric.
Harrow felt something loosened in his chest, something that had
been held tightly for weeks without a knee.
They stayed like that, shoulders touching, hands hidden, but
held, their breasts brushing the same small pocket of air.
Harrow turned slightly toward him.
Ren mirrored. Tim was out thinking.
The room felt smaller. The space between them felt
careful, fragile, full. Ren looked at Harrow for just a
second too long, the kind of 2nd that says everything was out
sound. Harrow's breast caught Ren
notice, and that noticing brought him closer.
Not all at once, just a slow lean, like gravity was choosing
for them. Harrow didn't move away.
Their foreheads brush first. A quiet, accidental touch.
Ren inhaled shakily. Harrow exhale, like he'd been
waiting for this without knowing.
Ren leaned the rest of the way. Their lips met softly, barely
there. A feather light touch, a nervous
press. A first kiss that felt like
stepping into warm light after standing in the cold too long.
Ren made a tiny sound, and it pulled Haru closer.
Without thinking, they parted by owning a breath.
Ren's lashes trembled. Haru swallowed, heart unsteady
and full. Then Haru leaned in again.
This time, the kiss landed with intention.
Ren's hand lifted from under the blanket and culped Haru's cheek,
thumb brushing once. They didn't rush, they didn't
deepen. They simply held a moment, as if
it was something delicate and rare.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads still touching, their
breasts mixed in the narrow space between them, Wren kept
his hand on Harrow's cheek. Harrow covered it with his own,
holding it there, their lips still warm from the kiss.
The blanket slipped from their shoulders.
They didn't notice. Wren shifted closer, his knees
brushing Harrows, his breast trembling with something new.
Not fear, not uncertainty, just unfamiliar weight of wanting.
Harrow lifted a hand, hesitating for only a heartbeat before
touching Ren's jaw, his fingers tracing along warm skin like he
was learning a shape he always wondered about.
Ren's eyes fluttered shut at the touch.
Harrow leaned in again, their lips meeting with a little more
certainty, a little more want. Still slow, still gentle, but
carrying a warmth that spread through the room like the quiet
glow of the heater. They stayed close like that for
a long time, kissing softly, carefully, with the hesitant
confidence of two people who had never done this before.
But they knew, instinctively, how to be gentle with each
other. Wren shifted and Harrow led him,
their bodies aligning in a way that felt natural, like they
were finding a place that had always been waiting.
Harrow's hands slid to Wren's shoulder.
Wren's fingers curled into Harrow's sweater.
Their breasts tangled. Their hearts caught.
They paused once, the tiniest moment of stillness where both
of them seemed to ask wordlessly.
Is this OK? Harrow nodded first, barely
noticeable, but enough. Wren answered by leaning in
again, his forehead resting against Harrows as their lips
met in a slow, trembling kiss that deepened by emotion alone.
The room felt warm, the world felt soft.
Their closeness unfolded piece by piece, gentle touches, the
kind of warms 2 first timers find when they are learning
someone they care for. They held each other like it was
the most natural thing they ever done.
Learning warms, learning closeness, learning each other
with a tenderness that didn't need to be explained.
Winter didn't change all at once.
It changed in small ways, quiet ways, The kind that never feel
like a beginning until you look back.
After the first night, Ren started staying over often.
At first it was once a week, then twice.
Then it became so natural that Hara found himself leaving a
spare toothbrush in the cup beside his own without thinking
about it. Ren laughed when he saw it, a
soft, embarrassed sound, but he never moved it.
Kisses becoming part of their routine, a greeting, a good
night. A pause between words, each one
soft and tentative at first, then deeper, then something that
need of them questioned anymore. Some nights their closeness
deepened in the shy, careful way of two first timers learning.
Warms with hands and breath rather than certainty.
A memory folded into light and quiet, the room dimming into
something tender and unspoken. Rumors drifted through the
campus like early snow, but neither boy cared.
They walked past whispers with fingers brushing with smiles
they couldn't hide was a closeness that didn't need
permission. Between classes and cold
mornings, they spent hours in the music box room.
The scent of wood shavings, A metallic click of tiny gears,
the soft glow of the lamp above their workspace.
Harrow worked quietly on his project, a box carved with two
small trees inside, their branches leaning just close
enough to touch. He sanded them carefully, traced
the shape again and again until the wood felt like a memory
under his fingers. Ren sat beside him, tongue
between his teeth and concentration working on
something of his own. One late afternoon, with snow
drifting lazily outside the frosted window, Ren finished his
box. He held it out awkwardly.
Here. Harrow blinked at him,
surprised. Ren's box wasn't perfect, the
carving slightly uneven, the figures a little simple, but
inside 2 tiny shapes held hands. It's us, Ren.
Moderate, face going pink. Harrow's heart tightened in a
way he didn't have words for. He opened his mouth, felt the
weight of the box in his hands, felt Ren's hope like a soft
light beside him, and froze, his own project set unfinished
beside him. Not perfect enough, not ready,
not good enough to give back. He hesitated, just a second, but
it was enough. Ren's expression flickered,
barely there, a small crack in his smile.
Before he pulled. It back together.
I just wanted you to have it, Haru.
Forced to smile. Wren nodded, but the moment had
already shifted, just a little, a faint shadow where only worms
had been. The snow outside thickened,
blurring the world to white. Wren moved closer again, and
Haru leaned into him, letting the worms return.
The air felt clear somehow, sharp, bright.
Filled with the quiet bust of something unspoken between them,
they walked together toward the courtyard the same way they had
always did, shoulders brushing every few steps, hands grazing.
Wren looked tired from studying, eyes soft, hair pushed back
vastly under his beanie. He kept stealing glances at Haru
whenever he thought Haru was unlooking.
Haru noticed everything at the courtyard.
Their passes split Haru toward his dorm, ran toward the
station. They stopped without needing to
say why. The snow fell lightly, dusting
Ren's scarf and lashes. See you tomorrow?
Ren asked. Haru nodded.
Ren smiled, a small, relieved curve off his lips, and turned
to go. Haru watched him take a few
steps. Just a few, then ran past.
He turned back, eyes meeting Haru's across the quiet
courtyard. It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't a grand gesture, just a soft look that said everything
they hadn't found words for yet. Haru's hand tightened on the
strap of his back. Ren's fingers flexed at his side
like he almost reached out again.
Neither of them moved closer. Neither stepped away.
The snow kept falling between two boys standing in a silence
that didn't feel empty at all. Ren gave a tiny nod.
Harrow answered with one of his own.
Then they walked their separate routes, but both kept turning
back, just once more, and then once again.
Until the past curved and the other was out of sight.
Some winters don't arrive with memory, they arrive with change,
a shift in the air. A new worms in an ordinary day.
A color you didn't expect to see.
They say life turns slowly in your mid 20s.
Quiet mornings, familiar routines, days blending into the
next. But sometimes, without warning,
someone steps into the stillness and the world feels different.
It wasn't a moment meant to stay just the winter afternoon, a
thrift store and a stranger who carried the kind of brightness
you notice before you understand why this is winter's last
melody. The colors that found me.
After graduation, Harrow split his days between his
grandfather's. Farm in BA and home in Attaru.
The work was steady, familiar, the kind of life everyone
assumed he would settle into. But that winter, Mr. feels quiet
and covered in snow. Something in him felt restless.
He began taking the train into Sapporo on his free days, just
to see more of the world than the 1 he grown up inside.
That was when he spotted it. A small thrift shop on the side
street, warm light spilling onto the snow.
A hiring flyer taped to the window.
Haru paused without knowing why. Maybe it was the worms, maybe
the colours inside, maybe something else entirely.
He stepped inside. Warmeyer wrapped around him
immediately, old wood, worn fabric and the clean, calming
scent of hinoki drifting from the small diffuser behind the
counter. The man behind the counter
looked up, I Sprite expressive, already assessing him.
I saw the hiring flyer outside. Oh, you're here for the job?
He leaned in, elbows on the counter.
Great, we actually need someone. Let's see, you're wearing a lot
of Brown. Harold blinked back.
Is that a problem? The man pointed at him like he
was highlighting evidence. Brown coat, brown sweater, brown
scarf, and brown back. Did you do that on purpose, or
did Brown win the fight this morning?
Harold flushed slightly, caught. Between amusement and
embarrassment. I wasn't trying to match
anything. The man nodded in a mock serious
way. By the way, a Mitsuki coat off,
I have to make sure you can reach shelves.
Harrow hesitated briefly, then took off his coat.
Isuki watched him, not rudely, just observant.
Then he nodded. Perfect, you'll do.
Harrow blinked. Wait, you are hiring me?
Isuki laughed. Absolutely not.
I have 0 authority. He tapped the counter twice.
But I can put in a very confident good word.
Haru didn't know why, but that was the moment the shop felt a
little warmer, the moment something shifted, and the
moment color began inching into the edges of his winter.
Itzuki pulled out a deep green net.
This hold still. Before Haru could react, Itzuki
stepped right into his space and lifted the sweater against
Haru's chest, tilting his head to study it.
Haru felt his breast catch, not dramatically, just enough that
he hoped Izuki didn't notice. Izuki definitely noticed.
Hmm. He murmured.
Green wakes you up. You have good skin, but the
brown is killing it softly. Haru stared at the sweater
instead of Izuki's face. Is this part of the interview?
You could say that. Isuki replied, swapping the
sweater for an olive turtleneck. And also our customer service.
We need to look approachable. His eyes flicked back to
Harrow's brown sweater. Not like we're blending into a
wooden floor. Harrow couldn't help it, he let
out a small laugh. Isuki froze for half a second,
then he smiled, slow and satisfied.
The way someone smiles when a puzzle piece clicks.
There it is. He said much better.
Haru blinked. What is your laugh?
I just needed to see what color it was.
Haru stared at him, unsure how to respond.
Yizuki didn't wait for an answer.
He held up a maroon cardigan next.
No, this is too heavy. All right, try that green one I
gave you. You mean change right here?
Why not? Sookie cut in.
Are you afraid I'll judge your fashion choices?
He smirked. Don't worry, I already did that
at the door. Harrow sighed.
I'll use the fitting room. He said firmly.
Come on, I need to see the colour on you.
Harrow hesitated. He exhaled softly.
Fine. He pulled his brown sweater over
his head. Folding it neatly in his hands,
Isuki eye sprouse lifted. Oh wow, he murmured.
You actually have a body under all that brown.
That's good to know. Haru ignored that, slipping the
green net over his head. When he looked up, Isuki was
watching him with a surprising seriousness.
That is your color. Isuki said quietly.
Haru blinked, thrown off by the sincerity, smiling before he
realized he was doing it. Izuki pointed at Haru with a
quick, triumphant gesture. There it is again, that smile.
That's the second time today. Haru stiffened slightly.
I smile all the time. No, you smile politely all the
time. This one, you're not hiding it.
Before Haru could react, the shop doorbell chimed at the
entrance. A customer walked in.
Izuki leaned close enough that Haru felt a brush of.
Warm air near his cheek. Watch and learn, he whispered
lightly. And just like that, Haru's
winter began to change color at home.
His grandfather called it irresponsible, and his parents
called it a face. But the worms he found here, the
way Itsuki moved through winter like he could blend the cold
into something bright, made Haru feel for the first time that he
wasn't running away from his life, but toward something he
hadn't known he was allowed to want.
Winter settle into rhythm before Haru even notice it happening.
Days in the shop pass quietly, stitched together by small
routines. The sound of hangers sliding
across racks, the soft scrape of Izuki scissors trimming loose
threats. The slow, steady worms rising
from the old heater by the window.
Some afternoons, Haru would glance up from a book and find
Itzuki hunched over a worn coat. Hatching fabric was the kind of
intensity that made the whole room seem to pause.
Other days, portfolio pages lay open across the counter, bright
colors layered without confidence Haro never would have
imagined for himself. It was easy, somehow, falling
into step beside him, working in comfortable silence, sharing
warm tea during breaks, watching snow drift down the glass as the
days folded quietly into one another.
And every night, when the lamps dimmed and the shop finally
closed, they walked together toward the station.
Haro waited at the Otaro bound platform while Itsuki stood a
step behind him, hands deep in his pockets, as if deciding
whether to say something he never quite voiced.
The train always arrived too soon.
The doors always closed before Haro could linger, and whenever
he looked back through the window, Yizuki was still there.
The season split itself in two around him.
Sapporo days filled with swarms and noise, Otaro nights wrapped
in quiet and cold. Two different worlds, and
slowly, quietly. Yitsuki began to fill the space
between them. Snow pressed softly against the
window, muffling the city beyond dead.
Yizuki suddenly straightened, untied his apron, and turned
toward Haru with a brightness that didn't match the Gray
outside. Haru blinked in surprise.
Do you know what today is? Haru passed mid fault.
Isuki pointed at Haru with a kind of theatrical urgency.
Today makes one months exactly since you started here.
Haru opened his mouse, but nothing came out.
Isuki continued. And because you haven't run away
yet. And because you felt better than
my last three Co workers combined.
And because his voice softened just a touch.
You make the shop nicer to walk into every day.
We need to celebrate. Celebrate what?
Izuki didn't miss a beat. The fact you're still here,
which means dinner tonight. Haru blinked once, twice.
He could feel the cold waiting outside the door.
He could picture the train timetable he always checked.
He could hear his own quiet habits whispering the
predictable choice. But something about the way
Yitsuki looked at him like he'd been waiting for this day tilted
the moment Haru excel softly. Dinner.
Yitsuki grinned. Yeah, dinner you're buying, and
I'll buy the beer after. And just like that, winter
shifted again. Dinner passed in blur.
Warm dishes, low lights, the kind of laughter Haru didn't
realize he was capable of sharing with someone he hadn't
known for long. Maybe it was the heater, maybe
the food, maybe the beer Izuki insisted on ordering.
It wasn't until they stood to leave that Haru realized the
bill was already gone. It's our anniversary, Izuki
said. There was something in the way
he said it, Light but sincere. Whatever the reason, Haru felt
lighter as they stepped back into the night.
The cold hit instantly. They walked.
The city had quieted, snow falling and thin silver lines
under the streetlights. Haru felt the warms from dinner
fading too fast, slipping from his hands first.
Instinctively, he curled his fingers into his sleeves.
Isuki noticed, He always did. Seriously.
He bumped Haru's shoulder. You didn't bring gloves.
Yizuki stepped in front of him. Give me your hands.
Haru hesitated only for a second before offering them.
Yizuki wrapped Haru's fingers in his own palms, warm and certain.
He didn't rush, didn't joke, didn't smirk.
He simply breezed against Haru's knuckles, slow and steady until
warm spread into Haru's skin like something intentional,
something deliberate, something meant.
A quiet shift pulsed through Haru's chest.
Isuki didn't let go. He guided 1 of Haru's hand into
the pocket of his coat, slipping his own hand in after it.
Their fingers curled naturally, held securely in the small
shared space there. Isuki murmured low from the beer
and the cold and the closeness. Haru's pulse stilled.
Then rushed in a quiet, dizzy hour.
The restaurant's warmth was gone.
The city was silent around them. But here, in this pocket, in
this borrowed heat, something settled and flared all at once.
Whatever it was, Harrow felt the spark move.
Fast, they reached the narrow St. that branched off toward the
station the 1 Harrow always took.
But tonight, he didn't turn immediately.
A soft glow spill from tiny bar nearby.
Haru passed just for a breath. Yizuki stopped beside him,
breasts rising in soft clouds. You OK?
He asked, voice low from the cold and the drinks.
Haru nodded. He meant it.
He wasn't cold anymore, he wasn't tired, just warm in
places he hadn't felt warm in a long time.
Isuki stepped a little closer, not enough to startle, just
enough that Haro felt the shift in the air.
You don't have to rush home. Isuki said softly.
That sentence brushed something loose inside Haro.
Snow drifted between them, catching in Haro's hair, melting
against Isuki's coat. For a moment, the city faded
into a kind of winter hush. Isuki reached up, brushing A
stray snowflake from Haru's cheek was the back of his
knuckle. It was nothing, a tiny touch,
barely anything at all, but it was enough.
Haru couldn't tell who leaned in the first, or how close they
were before that moment. All he remembered was the worms,
Isuki's breast mixing with his, the faint taste of winter air
between them, snow melting on their lips.
As one heartbeat slipped quietly into another, the kiss wasn't
slow or hesitant. It wasn't careful.
It wasn't shy. It was sudden.
Fast enough that Haru only caught the shape of it, The
Press of mouses, Izuki's hands slipping behind his neck, the
way Haru's fingers curled instinctively into the front of
Izuki's coat. Haru's mind didn't capture the
details, just the impact, and when they finally pulled apart,
breezing lightly, the street felt different.
Isuki's eyes lingered on Haru. You're not going home, He
murmured. It wasn't a question, not a
comment, just a truce hanging in the.
Colt Haru didn't answer. He didn't need to, because
whatever had just sparked had already shifted his night in a
direction that didn't include train tracks, timetables or
Otaru. Just snow warms, and the boy
standing in front of him, and the door of whatever came next.
Isuki unlocked the apartment door with one hand while the
other stayed wrapped around Haru's wrist.
The hurried click of the lock, the worms rushing out from the
entryway, and then the moment the door shut behind them,
everything changed. Speed.
Isuki pressed him against it. The kind of kiss that stole the
leftover cold from Haru's lips. The kind that didn't ask for
permission because the permission was already in the
way. Haru's melted into it.
Haru tried to shrug off his coat, but Izuki caught the
collar, pushing it back from his shoulders in one smooth motion.
The coat hit the floor, their breath tangled.
Snow melted down the back of Haru's neck as Izuki kissed him
again. It felt like being pulled into.
Worms too quickly, too completely.
Like stepping out of a winter and straight into a blaze.
Itsuki murmured something Haru didn't fully hear, already
tugging him forward by the front of his sweater.
They barely made it past the entryway.
Haru stumbled a step, only to be caught at the waist.
Itsuki hands were warm, decisive, sliding on the fabric,
pulling him closer. Haru caught the glow of a small
lamp and the faint hollow off the heater.
But even in the low light, Haru could feel the brightness in
Itsuki, the urgency, the hunger, the certainty of someone who
knew what he wanted the moment he touched it.
Their mouths met again, stronger, deeper.
No hesitation anywhere in it. Haru's back hit the wall softly.
Isuki's fingers tangled in his hair, shirts lifted, half
tugged, half pulled and searching, greedy and warm.
The kind of closeness that didn't come in slow steps.
It came in urges, in rushes, in heat that didn't want to wait
for understanding how Ruth didn't remember the order of
things, not the exact moment they made it to the mattress
now, which kiss blurred into which touch, not when his breast
turned into something soft. And unsteady in the dark, he
remembered only the feelings, Isuki above him, looking down
with heat in his eyes. With the hunger that pulled at
him with a kind of gravity Haru couldn't resist, the knight
answered for him. All he knew was the heat of the
moment, the rush of being wanted, the collapse of distance
between two bodies moving fast and without hesitation.
And somewhere, in the blur, in the rise and fall of forms, in
the urgency that didn't slow down, in the breathless Press of
skin, Haro felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time.
The word. The outside was winter.
Inside, the night burnt. The weeks that followed slipped
in quietly. A few nights blurred into
several, several turn into most, and before Haro realized it,
their closeness had woven itself into the rhythm of the season.
Some evenings he stayed after closing.
Sitting on the counter while Itsuki finished repairs, the
heater washing warm air over them as supper of darkened
outside. Other nights they walked
together without discussing plants, their bodies turning in
the same direction, steps falling into the same pace.
Then one night, with the blinds half drawn and snow pressed
against the window like a second curtain, they slipped into the
changing room. He didn't remember how they
ended up pressed together, just the heat of being pulled close.
The way Itsuki kissed him like the day had been waiting for it.
The way Winter stayed outside the door while something much
harder filled the room. After that, the shop became part
of their story too. A kiss stolen behind the curtain
when the street outside was empty.
A breast shared in the dark seam of the repair table.
The kind of intimacy that didn't fit into daylight, but found
room anyway. And as the weeks went on,
Harold's world shifted around those moments.
But beneath the warmth, something else stirred.
A quiet ache. A sense that closeness this fast
carries shadow he wasn't ready to look at yet.
Still, he stayed. Night after night, they planned
their Otaro trip. It began lightly.
Almost carelessly. They took the afternoon train,
windows fogging as the coastline blurred into long stretches of
white. Itsuki leaned into the glass ice
Sprite at each passing harbour town, cheek swarming from the
heater. Harrow found himself watching
the reflection of that brightness more than the scenery
outside. Otado was cold in a way Sapporo
rarely was. Sea, wind, cold.
The kind that wrapped around the bones.
They walked the canal first. Lamplight brushed the water with
gold. Snow drifted gently, collecting
in folds of their scarves. Itzuki slowed his pace.
Taking in the rows of warehouses, the stone arches,
the quiet afternoon hum. Further down, a faint melody
threaded through the street, a row of music.
Box stalls. Itzuki lingered there.
Haru watched him without asking. They wandered a little longer.
By the time they reached the platform entrance, an electronic
chime sounded overhead. A scrolling notice lit the
signboard and harsh red All trains operation suspended lines
to supper temporarily halted due to the severe weather.
Itzuki stared at it, shoulders lifting.
Was a small exhale he didn't fully release.
Harrow glance at the storm building across the tracks, snow
swallowing the far end of the line, wind bending into long
arcs. There was no choice.
He turned gently toward Izuki. The decision didn't need words.
A short walk later, Haru unlocked the door to his home.
Warm air drifted out. Izuki stepped inside slowly,
brushing snow from his hair, his gloves, the hem of his coat.
Haru's mother stepped out from the kitchen, surprised for only
a heartbeat before her gaze shifted to the storm outside the
window. Issuki bowed quietly.
Haru's mother hid a small smile and stepped aside so they could
pass. Her voice followed.
Tea will be ready. Haru gave a small nod of
gratitude, then opened his bedroom door.
Issuki stepped in silently. Haru's room held its usual
warmth, books lined neatly, heater humming gently, the faint
scent of laundry still clinging to the air.
Yizuki set his back down and paused.
His eyes had caught something on the shelf.
A small wooden box, soft edges gently worn, the carved
silhouette of two trees touching at their branches Without.
Asking, he reached for it. He turned the key once.
A quiet melody filled into the room.
Haru stood still, watching the way Itsuki expression shifted.
Then came a faint knock. The door slid open just enough
for Haru's mother to slip inside and steady around the tray of
tea. She set the tray on Haru's desk
when she left, closing the door softly behind her.
The room grew still again. Just the music.
Haru watched him, something tightening gently in his chest.
Before he could stop himself, the word slipped out.
Do you want it? Yizuki looked up, surprised.
He lifted the box fully into his hands.
He didn't know what the box meant, he didn't know what
winter lived inside it, but he accepted it, and Haru let him.
Isuki looked at the music box again, then at Haru.
Thank. You.
I like it. When the last note faded, Isuki
finally excelled. There's something I need to tell
you. I got a job offer in Tokyo.
The words landed quietly, without decoration.
Haru blinked. Tokyo designer position.
Yizuki said. Silence moved between them.
When a week. The heater hummed.
Snow pressed harder against the siding.
Haru, step forward, come here. Yizuki didn't smirk this time.
He simply moved. Haru wrapped his arm around him,
holding him fully, steadily. A careful, anchoring embrace.
Isuki leaned in, exhaling against Haru's shoulder,
fingertips curling into the back of Haru's sweater as if steady
himself. Haru held him a little.
Tighter, and Itzuki let himself be held.
Some winters don't end when the season changes.
They set up quietly in the place we leave behind, in the corners
of a station, in the breast between two people, in the words
we couldn't say. They say times, often, the
things we run from, but sometimes it only makes the
memory sharper. A smile you couldn't hold on to,
a hand you let slip, a worms you didn't.
Know how to keep. And when the years begin to
blur, you look back and realize there were winters you try to
carry and winters you try to forget, but they all return
eventually. This is Winter's last melody.
The winters we let go, Haru, and rent in a fall apart all at
once. They drifted the way seasons do,
a little colder here, a little quieter there, until the
distance between them became something they could feel but
couldn't name. But before any of that, there
were nights in the university hall when Haru leaned into Ren's
shoulder, eyes half lidded. With exhaustion, feeling the
steady shape of Ren's breezing through his jacket.
There were kisses stolen behind the music building, the kind
given in soft rushes, both hopeful and terrified.
The kind that made Haru smile against Ren's lips before
pulling away too soon. There were mornings when the
rent tucked Haru's scarf a little tighter, thumb brushing
the edge of Haru's jaw, a gesture so small it almost
didn't count. Except it did, because Harrow
felt that long after Wren let go, there were afternoons and
cafes where their knees touched under the table and they
pretended not to notice, and late evenings where Wren walked
Harrow home through Sapporo's quiet back streets, snow
saddling in their hair like a dust from a gentler world.
And there was the silences, the good ones, the kind when Harrow
rested his forehead against Wren's shoulder and Ren read him
a passage from some book he liked and nothing needed to be
said because nothing felt missing.
But time began doing what time always does.
The day started blending into one another.
Classes, part time shifts, exams, all the things they
thought they could outrun. Their messages got shorter,
their laughter softened, plans got postponed.
Because let's just meet tomorrow.
And tomorrow kept moving. Sometimes Harrow waited for Rent
to show up, fingers wrapped around the warm drink, watching
the steam rise into the cold as shadow lengthened.
Sometimes Ren arrived late with an excuse.
Sometime he didn't arrive at all.
Still, Harrow held on. Ren did too, but something in
the air shifted, something neither of them said out loud,
something they pretended wasn't happening, the kind of change
your only notice in hindsight. 1 icy evening, as they crossed the
street after grabbing snacks, a car took the corner too fast,
tires shrieking across black ice, metal groaning as it
struggled against the slight. Hara froze.
Wren grabbed his wrist, pulling him back onto the sidewalk.
You're OK, Hara? Wren asked, breast clouding in
front of him. Yeah.
Haru lied, but even after the car drove away, Haru kept
staring at the tracks it left behind in the snow.
The winter and became a senior. Their passes didn't clash,
Winter didn't steal anything from them, it simply made it
clear the way Haru and Ren were beginning to move at different
speeds. Ren laughed, just as easily
touched Haru with the same tenderness, held in the same way
during cold walks home. But the future, the thing Harrow
always held like a campus needle began slipping out of reach.
Everyone around Ren was planning internships, entrance exams,
cities to move to. Their conversations were filled
with nervous excitement and the. Feeling of the road bending
clearly ahead. Ren listened, nodded, smiled.
But whenever Haru asked him about his own plans, Ren's
answer grew vague, half formed. Let's just enjoy this year.
Haru tried to match that ease, but something inside him, the
part that needed grounding, the part that feared being left
behind, tightened. Like a knot he couldn't loosen,
Haru had already chosen his Rd. Even as a junior, he imagined
finishing school, packing boxes, returning home to help run the
grandpa's farm, continuing something that held his
childhood, his roots, his sense of purpose, renewal.
This. But Brent himself didn't have a
plan, not yet, maybe not ever. Where Haru grew steadier when
drifted gently. He slept through morning
classes, missed bus connections, wandered into Haru's arm, was
out noticing how long Haru had been waiting.
Haru didn't judge him for it, he never would, but the difference
between them slowly became a wait Haru couldn't ignore.
One day they sat in a cafe overlooking the snow covered St.
Ren stirred his drink, eyes following strangers outside,
thoughts drifting like winter's wind.
Haru watched him with a quiet ache.
Ren was beautiful in those soft, focused moments, but Haru
couldn't see where he was heading.
They walked home afterward, but that night, Haru realized
something he hadn't wanted to face.
Ren lived inside the moment. Haru lived beyond it.
Not because one was right and the other wrong, but because the
space between them had shifted. And neither of them knew how to
bend the road back. When Ren reached for Haru's hand
near the station, Haru held it. Of course he did.
Their fingers still fit easily, naturally, as if no time had
changed them at all. Baharu also felt the truth
settle quietly in his chest. Love wasn't the question, Timing
was. And sometimes timing is the
thing that begins to break. First, they entered the station
together, side by side, as they had done hundreds of times
before. The worms from outside cafes and
bus rides still clung faintly to their coats, but inside supper
station the air felt colder, sharper, as if it already knew
what Haru was about to do. They stood near Track 5, snow
melting off their sleeves, voices of commuters weaving
around them like distant waves. Ren nudge Haru's shoulder
gently. What's on your mind?
You been quiet? He looked at Ren, really looked,
and you, Instantly, If he hesitated even a second, he
wouldn't be able to say it at all.
So he didn't hesitate. Ren.
Haru began, for he's steady in a way that scared even him.
I don't think we should keep doing this.
Ren blinked, stunned. Doing what?
Haru's eyes didn't waver. Us, this being together.
The words hit like a winter gust, brutal in how suddenly the
worms left the space between them.
Ren stepped forward, confused, hurt.
Haru, where is this coming from? Did I do something?
Just tell me. Haru swallowed heart, the
decision solidifying inside him. I'm choosing my pass, and I
don't know where you're going, and I don't think you know
either. Wren reached for him.
Harrow stepped back. A train horn echoed through the
platform. Harrow's breast shook just once
before he forced himself upright.
I don't see you and me. Wren jerked as if it hit Harrow.
Wait. Haroud turned, not abruptly,
just firmly enough to show he had already made the choice.
He took two steps away and Ran ran after him, arms wrapping
around Haru from behind in a desperate, shaking embrace.
Haru inhaled sharply at the sudden worms, the familiar
weight of Ran's hold, the way Ran buried his face against
Haru's back like he was afraid Haru might disappear if he let
go. Don't, Ran whispered, breast
trembling. Please don't just walk away.
We can't fix this, I can't fix this.
Harrow closed his eyes. The ache was unbearable.
Ren saw more memory wrapped around him, every tenderness,
every warmth, every night. They had once shared Harrow
pride. Ren's hand off his coat, one
finger at a time, until nothing was holding him anymore.
He didn't turn around. His voice came out quiet.
I don't love you anymore. Rent staggered back a step.
Haru exhaled a breast that sounded like breaking.
I don't see myself in your world.
A long silence filled the entire station around them.
Rent didn't run after him again. Haru walked toward the exit
without looking back, leaving the warmth of Rents embrace and
the last piece of their winter behind him.
On track 5, there are winters that stretches slowly, quiet,
pale, unchanging. And then there are winters that
rush into your life so suddenly you don't remember how the world
looked before them. Issuki arrived like that, not
loud, not demanding, just warming away Haru hadn't felt in
a long time. After hearing about the Tokyo
offer, Haru expected distance. He expected hesitation, he
expected the beginning of an end.
He didn't expect a week that felt like the world folding in
around the two of them. Everything blurred together, not
in a frantic way, but in the gentle, continuous haze of
closeness. The thrift store became a small
universe. The hum of the heater, the smell
of old wood and fabric. It So keep grinning as he placed
the ridiculous hat on Haru's head just to hear him laugh.
The shared bowls of steaming Robin at night, sitting shoulder
to shoulder in a boost too small for two people.
Isuki stealing Haru's chashu, Haru stealing it right back,
their knees touching under the table like it was an accident,
then neither bothered to fix. Snow collected on their scarves
as they walked home, Isuki brushing flakes from Haru's hair
with fingers that lingered a little too long.
Haru didn't pull away. They kissed under a convenience
store light, a sudden, instinctive pull.
Nights blurred into each other, their sweaters tossed onto the
same chair, their laughters echoing softly against the
apartment walls. Sometimes they stayed awake
until dawn, talking about nothing.
Recipes Issuki wanted to try, colours he wanted to design with
places Haru remembered from BA, the way fresh snow changed the
sound of a highway. Sometimes they didn't talk at
all. A kiss in the dark, hence
finding each other under the blankets.
A soft exhale against the collarbone, warm breasts pressed
into the hollow of her throat. Everything felt new yet
strangely familiar, as if their bodies were learning a language
their hearts already understood. One evening, the storm outside
made the windows rattle, snow swirling hard against the glass.
Isuki lit a single candle on the kotatsu, its warm glow turning
the room into something tender and unreal.
Harrow looked at him across the tiny flame and felt something
inside shift. It was only a week, only a
handful of days, but it moved through Harrow's life like a
season he hadn't realized he needed, A season he didn't know.
He was almost done with the weekend fell like season,
Bright, warm, unplanned, a rhythm that carried Haru before
he even realized he moved. But this day arrived like the
softest Excel, setting over them in a way that made the outside
world seem unreal. Morning light slid through thin
curtains, golden stripes painting the messy photon where
Haru and its zuki lay in a tangle of blankets.
And half whispered laughter. Yizuki had packed most of his
things the night before. His suitcase sat by the wall,
shirts and sketchbooks arranged neatly, the zipper half opened
like a held breath. Only a few items remained
scattered around the apartment. A scarf, a charger, a pair of
socks he couldn't find the match for, and a small pile of their
clothes mixed together from the night before.
Haru's sweater woven between the Izuki's jeans.
Their undershirts tangle like they've been folded by the same
hand. Izuki glanced at the suitcase
once that morning, then looked away quickly, as if
acknowledging it would break something fragile.
They spent the first hour draped in blankets, Izuki curled into
Haru's lap, Haru brushing soft lines along his jaw with a
tenderness he didn't realize he'd been holding back.
When Izuki finally sat up, hair messy, eyes bright from sleep,
he sated casually in the tone of someone asking for a pen or
charger. Hey, can I have something of
yours? Harrow blinked.
Like what? Issuki blushed the faintest
pink, smiling in the half teasing, half serious way he did
when he was about to say something bold.
Your underwear. Harrow's breast caught, not out
of shock. Why?
Harrow asked softly, heat rising to his cheeks.
Izuki shrugged, eyes warm. Cus I want something that smells
like you. The words landed deeper than
Harrow expected. He hesitated only a moment
before sliding the waistband down, movement slow, breasts a
little shaky from the intimacy of it.
He folded the fabric once, twice, and placed it into Izuki
Wedding's hand. Isuki held it like something
precious, thumb brushing the soft cotton, then smiled, a
little shy, a little wicked. Then, without a word, he slipped
off his own underwear, quick and smooth, and offered it to
Harrow. You keep mine.
Harrow didn't laugh. He couldn't.
The gesture was too tender, too unexpectedly sincere, a warmth
he felt in the back of his throat.
He took the fabric carefully, as if accepting something fragile,
pressed it to his chest. For a moment, the exchange felt
like a promise Neither of them said loud.
After that, the day moved softly around them, tea warming between
their hands, Isuki sketching Harrow on a loose paper.
Snow fell harder outside, turning the world into a blurred
white quiet. Inside, Harrow and Itsuki
existed in a room that fell carved out of time, a small,
warm universe holding them just long enough to make goodbye feel
impossible. It was only a one day, one
suspended golden day, but it's settled into Haru like a memory
that will linger forever. They reach Sapporo station
entrance. Isuki shifted his back higher on
the shoulder, packed tight, only a scarf and the traded boxer
speaking out of the side pocket. Haru notice his chest tightened.
The street beside them, hiss was sliding tires.
A car skidded slightly on the ice before correcting the
driver, honking sharply out the window.
Izuki flinched. Harold did too, but deeper, as
if something inside him braced without understanding why.
They stepped into the station's warm air.
Fluorescent lights, tiled floors, winter coats brushing
past. Harold looked at the size of the
bag, at the way Isuki's hands were already red from the cold.
Are you sure you can manage all this to the airport?
His voice came out softer than he meant.
I can't help. I can't go with you, at least.
Isuki cut him off gently. Haru, don't make it harder.
The sentence dropped between them like a quiet snowfall, soft
but heavy when it lands. Haru blinked, caught off guard
by the tenderness in it. Isuki.
Every part of him wanted to reach out just once more, but
his Suki exhaled the long, steady kind of breaths people
take when they've already made the decision they know will
hurt. Haroud.
Listen, don't take me wrong, but I'm not coming back here, ever.
For a second, Haroud didn't understand the shape of the
words. Then the meaning hit him all at
once, sharp and cold. What do you mean?
His voice cracked. What are you saying?
We can still call, right? Text.
I can visit Tokyo. It doesn't have to end just
because. Izuki shook his head with a
small, almost apologetic smile. This week was real.
But don't wait for me. Harrow swallowed heart, the
words trembling along cold silence.
Izuki inhaled softly, Then he turned.
No dramatic pause, no final glance, just a quiet pivot of
his body. The decision already made, his
step steady as he walked toward the gates.
Harrow kept his eyes on the tiled floor, jaw tight, breast
shaking, until the heat behind his eyelids finally broke and a
single tear fell. Then another.
And that was how it ended. Not with shouting.
Not with a kiss. But with two men standing in the
same station and choosing different directions, Harrow no
longer woke to dorm alarms or hurried footsteps in a station.
Those they live somewhere far behind him now, blurred into a
time he didn't visit often except in the quiet between
breath. Harrow was in his 30s now, old
enough that winter felt different on his skin.
Not sharper, just heavier. The kind of cold that settled
into your bones and stayed. The farmhouse creaked as he
stepped outside. It's wood older than him.
It swarmed, something he maintained now instead of
inherited. This was BA, grandfather's
slant, grandfather's truck. Grandfather's routine now
carried by Haru's hands. He brushed snow from his
sleeves, looked out over the long rows of white fields.
His brother joined him, zipping his coat against the cold.
You're up early delivery day. Haru said, lifting a crate into
the truck bed. It's a special order.
His brother studied the sky, the thickening clouds, the way
snowflakes already floated heavier than an hour ago, storms
coming in fast. Haru nodded, not dismissing it,
just accepting it. It's Sapporo.
He said quietly. I'll be back before dinner.
There was no rush in his voice. He closed the tailgate, took the
thermos his brother handed him and climbed into the truck.
The seat moulded under him, familiar, too familiar.
He set there for a moment, hands resting on the wheel, watching
the snow drift over the fields. Time had passed, life had
settled, and the boy he once was, the one who ran from one
station and was left in another, felt like someone he could only
meet in a dream. Now.
Haroud turned the key, the engine rumbled to life and he
eased onto the road. The truck.
Moved slowly through the early light, mirrors dusted with snow,
the heater sighing warm air against the glass.
The landscape of BA drifted past in long, familiar stretches,
open fields blurring into one another.
Birch tree stripped bare fences half buried in white snow,
tapped lightly at first, then a little heavier.
A weather update, a crackle from the radio, visibility decreasing
on the supper route, advising drivers not to rush.
Harrow lowered the volume, letting the voice fade into a
soft static. A slow, creeping haze settle
over the distance, blurring the road ahead until it felt like he
was driving into a watercolor. Haru tightened his grip.
His breath fogged the car window lightly.
Every time he excelled. He turned the heater up a little
more, the worms brushing his knuckles and muted waves.
The truck ahead of him was only a pair of dim red lights,
hovering like blurred sparks in the snow.
Haru blinked, focused, kept steady.
The world around him had grown quieter, as if the storm was
inhaling before speaking. By the time Harrow reached
Sapporo Station, the storm had eased into quiet curtain of
snow, thick but gentle, as if winter had decided to behave For
the last few kilometers. He pulled into the outdoor
loading area, tires crunching over frozen slush, the truck
settling with a soft hiss of heat against the cold.
For a moment he just sat there, breathing, letting the engine
die down. Letting his body relax in the
way it always did after a long drive through a disappearing
roads, the world was peaceful again, almost tender.
Haru stepped out into the cult, boots sinking slightly into the
packed snow. He walked to the back of the
truck. Hands pulling at the cold metal
Lech it stuck once the gave way was a soft clank breast fogged
in front of him in pale clouds. As he reached then for the first
crate, the moment fell. Ordinary routine, a simple
delivery. He lifted the crate out, hand
steady, footsteps slow on the icy ground.
A distant car, horned, echoed. Not sharp, not alarming, just
the normal kind you hear in a busy station lot.
Harut didn't turn. He shifted the crate to his
other arm, closed the truck bed with his elbow, and took two
steps toward the loading entrance, just to the sound hit
first, tire sliding, rubbers getting hard across ice, the
engine revving. Too loud, too close.
Haru's press caught. He turned his head
instinctively, too late. A car burst through the shear of
falling snow, out of control, a dark shape cutting across white.
A single violent jolt knocked the crate from his arms.
It hit the ground. Wood splintered.
Glass shattered. The sound scattered like tiny
bells across the snow. Haru felt his back slam against
metal. The world tilted, then folded.
Snowflakes drifted over him, falling out of rhythm.
Was the panic in the air? Voices blurred.
Footsteps rushed. Haru's gaze drifted upward, past
the falling snow, past the glare turning his vision white till it
landed on the sign above him. Sapporo Station.
They say your life passes by in pictures and moments like this.
Oharu didn't see his whole life. He saw the sign.
He saw snow, and then two faces rose to the whiteness.
Quiet, warm. Painful.
His eyes softened, closed. Some endings don't echo.
They fall into the world softly, leaving nothing behind but
stillness. And the name.
That won't return. They're winters that change us,
winters that shape the years that follow, and winters we
never learn to speak about because the person who held our
words is gone. Grief doesn't arrive with.
Warning. It comes in a call you weren't
expecting, a message you read twice, a moment where your
breast doesn't feel like yours. And when the world grows quiet
again, you find yourself returning to the place Haroud
once stood, to the memories Haroud left behind.
To the. Silence that remained after him.
This is. Winter's Last Melody chapter. 4
The silence that remained. Snow had begun to fall before
dawn, softening the edge of the harbour town long before anyone
woke. By the time Wren unlocked the
door. The wooden chime above the door
rang quietly as he stepped inside.
The workshop was small, but it held everything Wren needed.
A heater in the corner humped to life the moment he switched it.
On. A single work table dominated
the centre of the room. Warren smooths from years of
use. He took off.
His clubs placed them beside the heater and set water to boil on
the small electric kettle he kept near the tools.
People came to him for different reasons and heirloom.
That no. Longer played a music box passed
down from my grandmother, a gift someone wanted restored before
our wedding anniversary. Ren never rushed.
He treated each piece like a small memory.
He liked that about the job. It asked for patience,
attention. Steady.
Hands. It didn't ask for explanations.
By mid morning, worms had seeped into the room, fogging the lower
corner of the window. Ren sat at the work table with
magnifying visor pushed over his eyes, adjusting the positioning
of a tiny spring. He.
Held the part between tweezers rotating.
It gently. Under the lamp it was a delicate
work, but he preferred that. Delicate things made sense.
They told you what? They needed.
If you listened. The cattle clicked off behind
him. Ren set down the tweezers and
poured himself a cup of tea, steam curling upward and thin,
quiet ribbons. He leaned back in his chair,
letting the worm seep into his fingers.
There were days he wondered how he had ended up here, in a small
workshop on a side street of Otaro, living a life so
different from the 1 he once imagined.
He had chosen this life piece by piece, quietly.
Deliberately. Far from the noise.
Of views far from the expectation of BA, far from
memories. That once shaped him.
His workshop was small, but it was enough.
The afternoon light. Shifted.
Slowly, across the workshop floor, dimming from pale silver
to a muted winter grey, Ren was still seated at his work table,
the tools neatly arranged. His phone burst on the counter.
He didn't expect anyone, especially not at this hour.
Wren glanced at the screen. Father.
He picked it up immediately. His father's voice came through
calm, steady, the tone of some assuring use not delivering a
shock. Wren, you still at the shop?
Wren waited, expecting something ordinary, but his father
continued in the same even tone. You remember the cow about a
family? Wren's finger stilled around the
edge of the table. Yeah.
He answered quietly. I remember they called.
Us this afternoon, his father said.
Their son passed away last night.
Wren didn't move, His father repeated gently, unaware of the.
Stillness foaming. On the other end, their youngest
son passed, sometimes overnight. Haru.
His father paused, surprised Wren had connected the name so
quickly. Yes.
Haru, it's unfortunate. His.
Father continued. With the storm coming in, your
mother and I don't think we can make it tomorrow.
Roads might close. Could you attend the service on?
Our behalf, Ren swallowed. Yeah, I can't go good, dress
warm and call us after, all right A.
Few more ordinary words were exchanged before the call.
Ended. Ren set the phone down on the
work table. His hand didn't lift away, the
workshop usually warm and humming gently.
With purpose felt suddenly. Hollow, as if the air had
thinned, as if sound itself had pulled away from him.
Haru gone. The heater clicked once then.
Fell back into its soft. Tom Ren remained seated, the
phone still beside his hand. Though the call had ended
minutes ago, he didn't move. The workshop had never felt this
quiet. The silence was different,
depressed against him. He lowered his gaze to the
table. The tools.
The tiny brass screws. The soft claws he meant to fold.
Ren inhaled once. His chest tightened before he
could stop it. Haru.
He hadn't heard that name spoken aloud in years.
He never needed to. It lived somewhere quieter than
memory. He shut his.
Eyes and the years fell away in. A single sharp.
Slide to a courtyard dusted in snow, to Harrows small startled
smile, to the Sound of Music box playing slightly off key, to the
warmth Red had held too carefully.
And lost too easily. His throat tightened.
He wasn't crying, not yet, but the grief sat behind his.
Ribs. A cold, aching weight that felt
like something old finally cracking open.
He pressed the hand over his mouth.
Red blinked. Tart, once, twice.
A tear slipped before he could stop it.
He brushed it away quickly. Another tear followed.
Rim bowed his head, shoulders folding inward finally to the
name that had lived inside him. Long.
After he tried. To move on.
Snow tapped softly against the window.
The storm thickened, and in the silent workshop where Red had
built his quiet life, a single. Name echoed.
Back to him, a name. He hadn't.
Spoken aloud in years. Haru.
The studio was warm, was afternoon light, the kind that
slipped through high windows and softened every surface it
touched. Sewing machines buzzed in uneven
rhythm across the room, needles rising and falling like a soft
mechanical heartbeat. Isuki sat at his station near
the back, shoulders relaxed, 1/2 finished, charcoal wool coat
draped across his. Knees, a clean silhouette,
careful stitching. He ran his thumb across the
seam, checking the tension. He liked the steadiness of it,
the quiet. Focus the small decision.
Only his hands understood the feeling of the fabric warming
under his touch. He.
Wasn't a. Full designer, yet still an
assistant, but he had carved out a small, unofficial corner of
the studio where he could create things that felt like his own.
On. The wreck beside him hung a few
coats he never sent, pieces he had made over the years while
thinking of Haru. The ones he had shipped up north
over the years were gone. Always to the same mattress,
always signed for. Never replied to.
For Itsuki, that had been enough, knowing how we received
them, even if nothing was sent back.
He reached for a new spool of thread, lifted it to.
The light. Checking the colour, everything.
Was normal, routine, predictable, Just an ordinary
winter day in Tokyo. The whole way outside the sewing
studio was narrow. And bright.
Lined with pin sketches. And frame magazine's covers.
Isuki stepped out only far enough to escape the hum of
sewing machine, brushing a loose thread from his apron.
His phone busted once an unknown Hokkaido.
Number. Lit up the screen.
Isuki frowned slightly. He didn't recognize it.
He answered politely. This is Isuki.
A brief pause followed, not the uncertain silence.
Of a scam call. But the composed stillness of
someone organizing difficult words, a man's voice came
through, steady and formal. Hello.
Is this Maurice Suki son? Yes.
Izuki replied slowly. Who is this?
Another quiet breath on the other end, measured heavy.
My name is Kawabara Yuto, I'm calling from Hokkaido, The
surname notched something faint in.
Izuki's memory, but he didn't place it immediately, not until
Yuto continued. I'm Haru's older brother.
Isuki froze. Yuto's voice remained.
Calm. Not cold, I'm very sorry to
contact you like this. I found your number among Haru's
old belongings. Isuki's hand tightened around
the phone. Belongings he already
understood. But.
Yuto still had to say it. Haru passed away last night.
The hallway went silent. Isuki didn't breathe, didn't
move, didn't speak. I'm sorry.
He whispered without thinking. What?
Yuto's voice softened but stayed steady.
Our family is holding a. Small funeral tomorrow in
Altara. I don't know how well you knew
him, but I felt you should be informed.
Isuki let out a small, fractured breath, barely audible.
Thank you for calling. The cold ended quietly.
Isuki lowered the phone slowly, fingers trembling once before he
forced them still the. Hallway was unchanged.
The sketches. The.
Laughter faintly from the studio, the winter light he
pushed off the wall. He would never return.
To the same way. Again, Isuki stepped back into
the studio without fully. Seeing it, the warm light,
scattered fabrics, the soft chatter, they blurred into a
single distant wash off sound. Someone called his name once,
lightly, but he didn't turn. He moved straight to his
workstation. The urgency in his movement was
unusual enough that one of them stood a little.
Isuki San. Is something wrong?
He. Shook his head.
Once too quickly, family emergency, he said, bowing
apologetically. I'm so sorry.
I need to take a few days. Alcohol.
He didn't wait for permission, didn't need it.
They could see something had cracked open behind his eyes.
He slung his back over his shoulder.
Nearly. Forgetting the.
Threat still looped around his wrist, pulling it free as he
walked toward the elevator. The Doors.
Closed around him. He couldn't fall apart here.
He wouldn't. He stepped.
Out into the cold Tokyo air and started running.
He didn't remember the street he crossed, only the rush.
Of winter wind. Against his cheeks and the doll
thought of his boots on pavement.
He reached his apartment faster than he should have, fumbling
slightly with the keys before stepping inside.
Everything felt too quiet. He sat his back down, excelled
shakily. Then he began to move a small
overnight duffel bag from the closet.
He didn't pack thoughtfully, just grab what he needed with
the instinct of someone preparing for something they
didn't want to face. He pulled open the drawer of his
small cabinet and froze. Inside was the rap bundle he
never touched except to dust the shelf.
The old music. Box.
He hadn't given away his hand over before lifting it.
He held it carefully, thumb brushing the worn.
Edge of the cloth. The weight of it felt different
today. Heavier somehow.
Like he knew why it was being held.
He placed it gently into his back.
He looked down at himself. He wasn't wearing black.
He let out a small, disbelieving Excel sweater off, jacket
switched, hair pushed back with both hands.
Smoothing it down more forcefully than needed, he
paused. In front of the bathroom mirror,
his. Reflection.
Looked too calm for what he felt.
But his eyes, his eyes told the truth.
He zipped his bag, turned off. The lights opened.
The door then stood there in the doorway, hand on the knob,
breath suspended, not prepared, just going.
He locked the door quietly behind him and stepped back into
the cold Tokyo hallway, the air already feeling different.
He. Headed for the airport.
Otato was. Waiting.
And Haru was. Gone.
The snowfall had thickened by. The time Ran reached the temple
grounds in. Otaru The air was sharp with
incense and winter grief. Inside, the funeral hall was dim
and still, rambowed at the entrance, then moved quietly
along the right aisle, Haru's photograph framed simply.
Lit. Softly, from within, rested at
the centre of the altar, Ren felt something inside him
tighten, then drop. He joined the line of mourners,
palms pressed together, breast steady, eyes lowered.
When it was his turn, he placed the white flower gently before
the incense, bowed deeply. Ren kept his gaze on the floor
only when the priest. Began.
Chanting, did he allow himself to lift his eyes again, taking
in the room through a soft distambler?
Haru's. Family stood near the front,
shoulders held firmly, hands folded, faces composed in a way
people who had lived through northern winters know how to be
composed. Ren had helped families through
lost before. He had watched.
Neighbors and childhood friends say their last goodbyes.
He understood how grief spread through a small town.
Quietly, collectively, with the weight dispersed across many
hands, he offered what he could. When he saw the incense
thinning, he rose to help replenish it.
When Harrow's mother swayed slightly while greeting a
visitor, he stepped forward with a discreet glass of warm tea.
He didn't say much, his presence was enough.
Ren noticed movement near the entrance.
A. Young man had.
Slipped inside late, dark coat dusted with snow, breasts
unsteady, posture tight. He took a hesitant step forward.
Bowing deeply toward the altar before finding a place near the
sidewall. Something about the way the
stranger's fingers gripped the strap of his.
Back. The way he didn't look up,
didn't breathe fully, the way he moved like someone holding the
world together by threads. Wren felt it.
This man knew Harrow. He didn't know how, but he knew
when. The chanting.
Resumed for the closing rites. Wren found his gaze drifting
toward the stranger again, a quiet awareness forming between
two people who had never met someone else had lost him, too.
The wind hit Izuki first, sharp, stinging, full of frozen needles
that clung to his coat. The moment had stepped out of
the taxi. The temple grounds were quiet.
Except for the storm, snow swirled.
Low across the stones, muffling every sound under a thick white
hush. Issuki.
Bowed once at the entrance before slipping inside.
Warms met him immediately. He stopped a few steps in,
letting his breath steady as the door slit shut behind him.
His eyes lifted slowly. Haru's photograph.
Rested at the centre of the altar he took.
His chest tightened once. He bowed deeply, holding the
pose a bit longer than necessary.
His movement was controlled, deliberate, respectful, the kind
of grace he had trained into himself after years of holding
things in. When he placed the white flower
before the incense, his fingertips trembled barely, just
the smallest. Shift.
The kind only he felt. He straightened, bowed again,
and stepped back. Someone offered him a seat near
the side wall. He accepted with a quiet nod.
From where he sat, he could see the entire room.
The altar glow, the flicker of candles.
Haru. Family standing.
With a straight backs and tired. Eyes.
Isuki folded his hand in his lap.
He didn't blink often. He didn't trust himself to.
The chanting began. Low, rhythmic, familiar in a way
he hadn't heard in years. A shape moved on the opposite
side of the hall. A man, Dark coat, quiet
presence, head bowed. Isuki recognized nothing about
him, but something in the man's posture resonated.
Not the. Same grief as his, but a grief
that belonged. To Haruttu.
Isuki's gaze drifted back to the altar.
He did not. Cry.
He wouldn't. Not here.
Not in front. Of strangers, not when his.
Hands felt like they were made of glass.
The service continued. Prayers, incense, soft
footsteps. Isuki stood.
Only when everyone else did, he bowed toward.
The family. They thanked him.
Politely. He stepped aside to pull out his
phone, intending to check the time.
A notification blinked on the screen.
Flight cancelled due to the severe weather.
The words didn't sink in at first.
Then his breast shuddered silently.
He turned. Toward the exit, snow slanting.
Sideways. Outside, wind shaking the bare
branches, panic flickered. Not loud, just.
Deep. He looked around for someone
local. Someone who might know his eyes
landed on the men from earlier. Isuki.
Stepped closer, clearing his throat softly.
Excuse me, He said, voice low, steady despite the cold clouding
around his ribs. Do you know?
If the trains are suspended too. The man looked at him, and in
that small second of shared winter silence.
Something. Unspoken passed between them.
Around them, people murmured to updates roads.
Closing. Visibility dropping.
Taxis stopping service. The storm had swallowed Otaru
home. Haru's father called out.
Over the wind, offering calm hospitality through his grief.
Several mourners bowed gratefully.
Others hesitated, not wanting to impose.
Isuki didn't move. His jaw worked once, a tiny
motion, like he was holding everything steady by force.
Ren stepped closer, keeping his tone gentle, not intrusive.
My workshop is 10 minutes from here.
He said softly. It's warm, there's a sofa,
blankets, they'll get you through the night.
Isuki breast caught. You sure His voice wasn't
steady, Red nod at once. Yes.
The temple bell hummed a single low note.
Stretching into. The cold and together, without
speaking further, they stepped into the winter night.
The. Storm shoved against the street
of Otaru. As they reached the.
Workshop, a narrow building glowing softly through layers of
snow. Ran unlocked the door and the
worms inside greeted them in a slow excel.
He switched on another lamp. You can put your slings
anywhere. He said gently.
Issuki nodded once. The workshop felt nothing like
home, but it was warm, grounded, alive with the quiet hum of
someone's crafts removed to the small kitchenette setting. 2
cermeric cops on the counter. How warm The sake, he said.
I'll take a bit. Isuki murmured the soft thank
you, then wondered. Ren lit a small tabletop burner
and poured sake into a tiny metal to goody to heat.
The soft crackle of the flame filled the room.
Isuki's attention drifted to the shelves lining the workshop.
Dozens of music boxes, all shapes all.
Woods, all quietly waiting. He stepped closer.
His fingers hovered over one made of dark walnut, delicate
flowers carved into its lid. He didn't open it, just looked.
A craft. Man's touch.
Wren glanced over while handling the sake, but didn't.
Interrupt. Izuki finally reached for a
small one. Crafted a Maple, simple in
design. He turned the crank slowly.
The Tokuti clicked softly against the burner, Ran poured
the warm sake into two small cups and walked toward him.
Was 1. Yizuki accepted it with both
hands, bowing lightly. They sat Ran on the sofa edge,
Yizuki near the low table where the music box rested between
them. The storm outside, stretched
against the windows, went howling like something hollow
and tired. Yizuki took the first sip.
Warm spread slowly through. His hands, then his chest, then
Izuki's control cracked. Not loudly, not messily, just a
trembling inhale that broke apart halfway through.
A hand pressed against his mouth, shoulders quivering in
small restraint shutters. Ren looked away to give him
privacy, jaw tightening, his own eyes burning outside.
The wind rolled. Inside.
The socket cooled and untouched cups.
As two men said. Was the winter horror left
behind? Not speaking, not touching, just
existing. Through the ache.
Until the night softened enough for them to breathe again.
Some melodies return long after the moment they were written,
not as a promise, but as a memory the world wasn't ready to
release. There are winters that take from
us, and winters that give back in ways we never expected.
A name spoken in a cold room, a box held carefully in shaking
hands. Two men who once walked beside
him, now standing in the quiet he left behind.
Grief moves differently when shared.
It softens at the edges. It finds room to breathe.
It let the choose rise between people who never thought they
would meet. And somewhere in the stillness,
a small melody waits, unfinished, unresolved, holding
the echo of the boy who shaped all.
Their winters. This is Winter's last melody.
Chapter 5 The melody that belonged to.
Him the. Quiet inside, Wren's workshop
settled. Slowly like.
Snow choosing where to land. The door had been closed for a
while, the heater clicking softly as it fought the cold.
Two men, both shaken in different corners of the same
room, tried to steady themselves again.
Wren remained near the workbench, hands braced on the
wood he trusted. Across the room, Isuki wiped the
last trace of. Tears.
From his face. Before.
Speaking to his boss, apologetic, restrained,
explaining the flights were suspended.
When he hung. Up.
Neither man spoke. The silence between them was not
uncomfortable. It was simply delicate.
Isuki finally sat his phone down and reached into his travel bag.
His movements were careful, deliberate, wrapped in a soft
claws. He.
Drew out a small wooden object, the music box he had carried for
years. Wren's eyes shifted the moment
it touched the workbench. Recognition flickered the
stubborn way Harrow's early work always held tiny.
Imperfections. Like the fingerprints, Issuki
unwrapped the claws fully. It broke.
A while ago. He said quietly.
Wren reached forward finger tips, brushing the cranked
hinge. The loosened.
Gears. Ren excelled once, the sound
small, almost warm. I can't fix it.
He said. The relief in Izuki's postures
was subtle but clear. He nodded, stepping closer to
watch Ren examine the inner mechanism.
Haru gave it to me, Izuki said. Ren paused Onia breath and then
nodded once, gently. The workshop.
Light softened. Over the broken box.
Snow pressed lightly against the window as R.E.M.
Began to work and the silence between the two men shifted.
No longer heavy, simply shared, Ren worked in silence at first.
Not out of. Avoidance, but because the music
box demanded a kind of attention.
That. Left no room for haste, He
spread a clean cloth across the workbench.
Placed. Each tool in a precise line then
lifted the lid again with a gentleness that made Itsuki's
press ease without him meaning to.
The gears inside were shifted. One screw had nearly worn
through its thread. The hinge had split cleanly at
the seam, a break that set more about years than neglect.
Isuki watched quietly from the opposite side of the workbench,
hands folded in front of him, his trouble coat still hanging
off 1 shoulder. He didn't lean close or hover,
he just stood there as if staying still might.
Keep the memory. From slipping, Ren lifted the
hinge, tested the GIF, then reached for a fine headed
screwdriver. We were in the same club, Ren
said. Craft work instruments.
He stayed late a lot, tried too hard most days.
Isuki absorbed that slowly, just listening.
Ren adjusted the tiny. Gear.
Rotate to the axle and set it down.
He gave you this? He asked.
Isuki nodded. A long time ago.
Ren's hands still for a moment, barely a pause before he
continued soothing the worn edge of the wood.
Another silence followed, softer this time.
Ren straightened, lifted the lid gently and tested the tension of
the repair trench. It held Isuki let out of brass.
He didn't realise. He'd been.
Holding. Ren didn't smile, but something
eased in his shoulders. Thank you.
Isuki said quietly. Ren simply nodded, 2 men
standing over the. Same.
Memory, letting the room warm around them inch by inch, Isuki
sat down 1st. The repaired music box.
Resting in his hands as if it were still fragile.
Ren joined him a moment later, the heater soft, Tom filling the
room with a steady, muted warms. Neither spoke.
Isuki brushed his thumb over the lid once, lightly, then lifted
it. The first note was small,
tentative, almost shy. A thin.
Chime. That wavered, as though
remembering how to exist. The Sake Field Cup set a touch
beside them. When reached for One Cup,
paused. Then look at Itsuki.
You want to finish. The sake.
He asked. Isuki let out of breath.
A small one, almost. The laugh was out, the sound.
Yeah, he said. I think I do.
Ramport slowly. Their first sip was quiet, the
warmth spreading. Gently.
Through the cold edges of the room.
For a while they said nothing, Not out of discomfort, but
because the knight didn't ask for noise.
Isuki. Fingers drifted back to the
music box, tracing the smooth edge of the lid.
He hesitated. You knew him well, he said
quietly. Ren set his cup down, fingers
brushing the wood off the table, grounding himself, studying the
place where memory threatened to rise.
Then in a. Voice just above a whisper, he
spoke. There was a time when Haru went
outward close, and the night finally began to open.
The sake warmed slowly between them.
Thinning the cold, that. Had clung to their shoulders
since the funeral. Pieces of their stories surfaced
gradually, the quiet way Izuki's gaze lingered on the box,
remembering a time when Haru had placed it in his hands that they
had known Haru in different time.
Ren's memories came from use. Long hours in workshop rooms at
the university, Haru frustrated with tools he barely understood.
The. Brightness that drew people in
before he ever realized it. Isuki carried a later version, a
steadier. Haru.
Softened by experience, more deliberate in his warmth, less
unsure of where to place his affection. 2 separate histories
never meant to overlap. Now, sitting side by side in a
quiet winter workshop. The sake moved them closer to
the truce Haru had. Changed.
Between their lives. And yet, somehow, he had
remained himself. It was an exchange of stories.
It was a quiet alignment, a winter chew.
Settling. Into place.
Morning came quietly, as if unsure.
Whether to touch. The night they had left behind,
the storm had blown itself out in the early hours, leaving
Otaro wrapped in a soft blue white stillness.
Snow clung thick against the workshop windows.
Ren stepped out first, boots sinking into a new snow with a
muffled sound. The cold met him cleanly.
He excelled, breast turning white in the morning air.
Isuki followed a. Moment.
Later pulling his coat. Tighter.
Around himself, his eyes scanned the pale sky, the thin line of
sun lifting slowly over the distant houses.
The world felt quieter than the night before.
A small radio near the door murmured weather updates from
the inside. The workshop roads partially
cleared, buses running again, trains expected to resume.
By. Afternoon airports still closed.
Isuki listened without. Reacting.
He had already accepted he wasn't returning to Tokyo today.
Ran closed the workshop door, gently locking it.
The repaired music box was wrapped carefully and tucked in
Itsuki's bag, resting between spare closes and a few.
Crumpled. Papers, a memory in that hole
again, waiting for its place. Izuki looked toward the street,
toward the snow covered car, waiting under a soft drift.
Shall we say hello to Haru? Ren nodded once.
There was no hesitation in either of them.
Not in the. Way they moved toward the car.
Not in the way R.E.M. brushed the snow from the windshield.
Not in the way Izuki held the back a little closer, as if
aware of its gravity. They weren't returning for
themselves. They weren't returning
foreclosure. They were returning because
Haru's memory asked for it. Ren started the engine.
Isuki. Settled into the.
Passenger seat The drive was almost soundless the.
Heater filled the car with. Muted warmth, but neither Ren
nor Isuki spoke. The morning seemed to ask for
quiet and they honoured. It.
They passed a turn toward the temple district.
Isuki noticed, but didn't question it.
He understood intuitively the way one recognized the truth was
out words. That.
The funeral wasn't the place for what they carried.
Funeral were for farewell spoken in public.
What they held was in public. Haru's body lay a.
Temple. For visitors, condolences,
rituals, but his life, the peace that shaped the boy.
They each knew lived in BA. In the fields, in the farmhouse,
in the quiet corners of BA, he had never stopped returning to
snowfields offered on both sides of the road.
Ren had driven these passes in younger years.
Back when. Harrow would insist on taking
the long route. So.
They could talk about nothing and everything at once.
Isuki. Had never been to BA, but the
landscape felt strangely honest, as if.
It held. Something Harrow had never been
able to say aloud. Ren slowed the car as they
approached the familiar wooden fence, the farmhouse still still
in the morning light, a thin trail of smoke rising from the
chimney. The fields.
Stretching wide and untouched behind it, they stepped out into
the cold. Itsuki stood cell for a moment,
taking in the quiet. They didn't walk.
Toward the house right away. Instead, they wandered the
grounds, following the shape of fences, The storage shed.
Ren walked ahead at first, boots sinking.
Into snow with. A muted crunch.
Yizuki trailed a few steps behind, his gaze drifting across
the field as if trying to imagine Haru's footsteps layer
beneath the snow. The farm held its own kind of
silence, Not mournful but familiar, like a place that had
waited through many winters for someone to.
Return. Every now and then ran pause to
look over the land. Yizuki stopped near the old
swing frame, half buried in snow, its rope stiff with frost.
He didn't touch it. Only watch how the light.
Landed on the. Seat wondering if Haru had once
set their legs kicking forward under the summer skies.
It felt right to walk first, to breeze this air.
They rounded the side of the house, boots leaving thin trails
behind them. The snow.
Muffled. Everything.
Their steps, their breath, the soft Creek of distant branches,
until the. Silence fell.
Almost protective. Only then did the farmhouse door
open. A farm worker stepped.
Out bundled in a thick jacket, rubbing his hands for warms, he
looked surprised to see visitors.
Scanning them for a moment, Wren lifted a hand in greeting.
We're Haru's friends, he said quietly.
The workers expression shifted, not shocked, but softened by
recognition of the funeral. Of the few who.
Might come today. Yes, please come in.
He stepped aside. Holding the door.
Open against the cold, the family is still at the funeral
hall, he said gently. But they told me if any of
Haru's friends came. By You're welcome.
To look. Around especially his.
Room. Isuki lowered his head, a quiet
thank you forming in the small movement.
Wren nodded once, breeze drifting in the cold air.
They followed the worker across. The.
Porch toward the warm light spilling from inside.
Toward the place. Where Haru had lived, the door
closed softly behind them, the farmhouse interior held the
warmth of a place. Used daily.
The worker LED them to a short hallway and stepped back,
nodding toward the second door. That's Haru's room, he said
softly. Everything says he left it.
Then he returned to his chores, leaving Yitsuki and Ran alone.
R.E.M. pushed the door open first.
Haru's room was the room of a man who had settled into a.
Quieter. Season of life, the life he
chose after years of drifting. The bed was neatly made, blanket
corners tucked with a habit formed through a routine rather
than careful appearance. A single pillow slightly
indented A folded sweater at the foot of the bed.
Yisuki stepped inside slowly, ice scanning the space.
Was a reverence that came from seeing the version of Haru.
He never fully knew. The Haru returned to his
farmhouse year after year until it became where he stayed.
Renski found the bedside table almost immediately.
The music. Box.
The odd, uneven sculpture like Peace he had crafted in
university, sat there, a thin layer of dust softing its edges.
Rent. Didn't touch it, but his breast
shifted, quiet and contained. He Suki paused near the wooden
rack. A familiar winter.
Coat hung there, the one he had sent Haru during a cold Tokyo
season, Not new anymore, the cuff slightly worn, the colour
muted from use. Haru had worn it often.
Everything spoke quietly, of life in motion.
One Haru had been living fully, even if gently, even if
privately. Red took a slow step.
Deeper into the room, Isuki stayed near the doorway.
Each taking. A different.
Side of her life Haru had built after drifting out of theirs.
There was no dramatic realization, no tears.
Only a room that felt real, immediate and warm.
A space that Meharu absence, sharper and yet strangely
comforting. This was the version of Haru the
world saw last. The version who had finally
chosen a home, a rhythm, a steadiness.
A man neither of them fully knew, but both recognized.
Wren's shoulders seized, Itsuki's breast steadied.
The room didn't feel empty. It felt paused.
Haru. 'S room held them gently.
The way quiet places. Sometimes hold grief for people
who don't know how to place it. Wren stood near the bedside
table. Itzuki near the.
Desk. Neither rushing, neither trying
to fill the space with words. It felt wrong to move too
quickly, and equally wrong to Linker.
Yizuki reached into his back and lifted the repaired music box.
Wrapped. Still in the.
Class Wren had used the night before.
His hands were steady, not trembling.
Not. Unsure, simply respectful.
He crossed a small room, each step soft against the warm
wooden floor, and stopped at Haru's desk.
There was enough space cleared at the center, a natural gap
among the notebook and the farm locks, as if this was where Haru
might have placed something he meant to return to.
Yizuki kept his hands on the cloth for a moment before
letting it fall open and placed it in the desk.
He stepped aside, ran watch from a few steps away, breast slowing
in a soft, steady rhythm. The gesture didn't startle him.
It felt right as though the box had finally found its.
Way back to the place. It had been meant to rest, Ren
approached then. He.
Didn't reach for the box either, he only stood close enough that
the melody seemed as if it could rise if either of them wanted
it. Ren lowered his head slightly, a
gesture small yet full, as if acknowledging the years between
the boy he once knew and the men who lived in this room.
Yizuki gazed soften at the coat hanging, worn, used, loved in a
way he'd never been told but could now plainly see.
For a long moment they simply stood there, not remembering the
same Haru, not grieving him the same way, but honouring him side
by side in the space he last called home.
When they finally stepped back from the desk, the room stayed
warm, as though Haru was still walking it's edges.
They stepped out of the farmhouse together.
Boots meeting the cold. With a soft, steady crunch, the
door clicked shut behind them. The winter felt different now.
Not harsh, not biting, just clean.
The kind of cold that met you was clarity.
Rather than wait, Ram pulled on his gloves while We Suki
adjusted the strap of his back, their movements unhurried,
shaped by a calm that has settled into them only minutes
earlier. The yard stretch open before
them, covered in a thin layer of fresh snow.
Their earlier footprints crossed the ground in wavering lines,
looping around the barn and the side paths where they had walked
before being invited inside. They started toward the car at
the same time the snow on their foot grew.
Farmer near the parked car. I can take you to Sapporo
Station. Isuki nodded.
Thank you. That would help.
Ran open the door. The heater.
Humped softly as the. Engine started.
Snow. Shifted beneath the tires as
they pulled onto the narrow farm Rd.
The farmhouse shrank behind them, becoming a warm square of
light in the white. And slowly, gently.
The snowfall. Erased their footprints.
Some melodies don't end when the.
Hands that made them are gone. They stay in the room they once
filled in the people who carried them forward in the quiet place
where love was left unfinished. A winter can hold many stories.
The ones we shared, the ones we were too young to understand,
and the ones we've returned to only when the world grows still
enough to listen. For Ren and Izuki, this winter
was not. A beginning.
And not a second chance. It was a soft, unbroken truce.
That loving. Someone leaves a shape in US.
And carrying. The shape is its own kind of
grace. The snow will fade.
The roads will. Open.
Their lives will move. Again.
This was. Winter's last melody Chapter 5.
The melody that belonged. To him and.
Though this story closes here. More stories will be.
On this winter. Please like the video and
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