The conflict between mother and daughter erupted the day after Ichinose Maki's birthday.
Honami had just picked up her mother's prescription. The hospital corridors—or rather, the entire hospital—were pale and sterile. Few people were around, and those who were whispered softly, their faces marked by fear, worry, and a sliver of hope. They wore masks of the same shape, molded from different lives.
But Honami, with her bright hair and lively presence, lit up the otherwise bleak hallway. Whether it was her energy or appearance—or both—she stood out.
The hospital's air conditioning was perfect. Although the sun outside scorched the pavement, it was cool inside. Yet remembering why she was here—because her mother was sick—made Honami's heart heavy.
Before entering the room, she smoothed the wrinkles at her collar and checked her reflection in the glass panel nearby. She took a deep breath, gently slapped her cheeks, and forced on the flawless smile she'd practiced countless times.
She didn't want to worry her mother or her sister.
Her right hand reached for the doorknob—a pale metal matching the hospital's color scheme.
From inside came the sound of shouting. Desperate, guttural, almost primal.
Maki's voice, now entering puberty, was sharper than ever. Like a bird of prey pecking its mother raw, ripping her open to the nerves.
Her daughter was cursing her.
Compared to her peers, Maki had no edge—nothing to eat better, nothing to wear better, no better family, no better love. Not even the shallowest comforts of vanity.
She poured out her grievances—trivial in adult eyes but catastrophic in hers.
Children lack reason.
They complain about what adults don't understand—like when a friend makes another friend, or when a lunchbox spills and everyone laughs. They'll groan "I'm tired" after cram school.
Maki was like that. For a year, she'd obsessed over the hair clip. Trends came and went, but she clung to that one thing. As if owning it could justify a year of self-restraint.
Their mother tried apologizing between fits of coughing. She tried to reach for her daughter, but could barely lift her upper body. Sunlight poured through the window, casting a small, frail silhouette on the wall.
It looked so weak. So helpless. So aged.
Finally, she covered her face and cried.
Maki's words fell apart into fragments, her tears streaming freely. She didn't dare look at the woman in bed, but she kept whispering:
From her lunch to her supplies, from not having a phone during contact exchanges, to being too ashamed to go out with friends—and to that damned hair clip.
Maki vented. Everything she'd bottled up, she dug out and dumped at her mother's feet—one by one, from the deepest well.
Her emotions and memories lay shattered across the room. Maki just stood there, numb and exhausted, staring at the wreckage. It twisted and curled like dark serpents.
Honami's hand was still on the doorknob, her palm pressed hard against the metal as if trying to absorb it. The cold seeped into her fingers and crawled through her nerves into her whole body, draining her warmth.
Her mind saw the image vividly: the touch, the chill, the scene.
She felt dizzy. The hospital suddenly felt too cold.
What shocked her most was that—even as Maki's words turned cruel—Honami didn't have the courage to scold her.
No... she didn't feel she had the right.
She should do something. But her legs felt weak. She didn't even know what she could do.
She bit her lip hard—so hard it turned white—and dragged herself to the hallway's end. There, she sank down, arms hugging her knees. Tears began to fall.
When she finally returned to the room, everything was in shambles. Her mother was sobbing, and all that remained was the wreckage of the Ichinose household.
Inside her heart, weeds had sprouted wildly. Her mind swarmed with messy thoughts. She kept asking herself over and over:
If I just get that hair clip... would Maki smile again? Would things go back to how they were?
At that moment, Honami clearly saw something dark and shameful inside her.
Was that her? Was that really Ichinose Honami?
If not her, then who?
She didn't dare keep looking inward. She just numbly repeated the trip between hospital and home.
One place held a silent sister. The other held a sick mother.
Honami stood between two collapsing walls—each inching closer, crushing the air she could breathe.
That day, the sun blazed once again. The midsummer sky was a brilliant, almost painful blue.
She walked toward the department store. Irises bloomed along the roadside. The air was thick and sticky.
She drifted like a ghost through the crowd. Her eyes were blank. Her expression unreadable. The people around her—elders, teens, children—blurred into meaningless black-and-white static.
She reached the counter that once displayed the hair clip. It no longer stood out like it did a year ago. Dozens of neatly boxed clips lay there, like vegetables in the produce aisle.
Yet the five-digit price still set them apart. Honami instinctively calculated how many days that could support their household. Then, ashamed of herself, she stopped.
This item's value wasn't in its price. It was just a clip. Functionally, no different from cheaper ones.
But now, it meant restoring her sister's smile.
Ichinose Honami reached for one of the hair clips, but the sudden chatter of people nearby startled her, and she retracted her hand as if shocked.
She lowered her head and quickly stepped away, browsing the nearby displays. Lingering too long would arouse suspicion.
Even now, Ichinose Honami thought rationally—and she hated herself for it.
Surrounded by the noisy crowd, the same Honami who had once stood confidently before hundreds of students to give speeches now only wished to vanish, to shrink her presence to nothing.
In mere minutes, every casual conversation around her felt like thunder in her ears. A simple glance from someone would make her examine herself from head to toe in panic.
For fifteen years, not once had Ichinose Honami ever associated herself with the word "criminal."
She wasn't stealing.
She was doing it for her sister.
That thought rose in her mind like a whisper.
Doing something bad for her sister's sake wasn't that big a deal. There were far worse people in the world. If anyone deserved forgiveness—it was her.
This line of reasoning calmed her trembling hand. Deep inside her, a strange sense of liberation bloomed.
She needed that fragile illusion of self-justification. Without it, her actions would feel far too shameful.
She grabbed the hair clip, her posture as natural as any girl casually browsing accessories. No one would suspect a thing.
Her sister's smile was now sealed within that tiny clip clenched tightly in her hand. Her graceful figure stiffened, as if burdened by a sudden weight. Her feet felt nailed to the polished floor.
Her heart hung suspended, but her hands moved on their own, slipping the hair clip into the side pocket of her handbag.
She turned, stiffly, and almost fled to the nearby restroom.
Inside a stall, crouched awkwardly in the tight space, Honami tore open the packaging. She flushed the box down the toilet, then tucked the bare clip into her inner coat pocket.
Carrying stolen goods on her body made her feel ashamed and nervous—but heavier emotions now pressed over that shame.
As she stepped out and headed toward the exit, she felt like something had been taken from her. Like a chunk of her full moon had been bitten off by some mythical beast. With each step, her heart throbbed with guilt. To atone—if even a little—she bought a pack of gum at the counter.
Her body smiled at the cashier and handed over the money, but her soul felt like it was drifting away. Only when she stepped outside, under the scorching sun, did her awareness return.
Ichinose Honami had committed theft.
She stood dazed in the shade. Sunlight streamed through the leaves above, casting a long shadow behind her. Dragging that shadow, she staggered home like a soldier returning from battle.
She walked for a long time—long enough to lose track. At some point, she realized how strange it was.
So she looked around. Traffic still flowed on the road. In a store window, she saw her blurry reflection.
And then it hit her—what she had done. As if anesthesia wore off, as if waking from a nightmare. The pain rushed in.
She reached out and touched the glass.
To passersby, it looked like a girl admiring the boutique's latest display.
But inside, Honami felt like she was choking herself. The reflection wasn't her. It was a nightmare made real—emerging from the dark.
A sudden thought appeared: I should return the clip.
But then she remembered her mother and sister. She imagined Maki receiving the gift—and her heart surged with pride. Her blood boiled. A fleeting euphoria overtook her.
In that moment of fantasy, Ichinose Honami picked up her pace.
Like she was fleeing a crime scene.
Under a searing blue sky, she ran home.