Ayame's head drooped, her eyes fixed on the floor as if the world beneath her feet suddenly weighed too much. Kaito leaned in, brows drawn in concern.
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.
Ayame hesitated before whispering, "I was wondering if we could go to Arashi's home… or maybe Aunt Mikasa's."
Kaito's shoulders slumped. A faint shadow crossed his expression.
She noticed instantly. "What happened now?" she asked gently.
Kaito bit his lip, gaze shifting away. "Because… you told me you don't like me."
Ayame blinked. "When did I say that?"
"You said you don't have fun with me," he mumbled, turning his face aside.
Ayame shook her head quickly and took his arm. "It's not like that at all, Kaito. I just… want to go outside too. I want to see more than these walls."
Kaito stayed silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and trembling.
"The reason I don't want to go is… my heart's already broken. First Mom and Dad… then the street kids. I don't want to risk it again, Ayame. I can't guarantee people will accept me—or reject me—and I don't want to break my heart anymore."
The honesty in his words hit harder than any shout. Ayame's expression softened, her breath catching.
"Then… why not Yuji-san?" she asked softly.
Kaito's eyes lifted a little. "Because Yuji-san came to us. He helped us. He didn't say anything about me… and that means he accepts me the way I am."
The room fell into a thick, heavy silence—until a faint whisper drifted from the window.
"I knew it…"
Both children froze.
Kaito's head snapped toward the swaying curtain. For just a moment, he thought he saw a figure—a shadow watching them—before it vanished the instant he blinked.
Ayame clutched his sleeve. "Was someone there?"
Kaito didn't answer. But his heartbeat thundered, unsure whether the unseen presence was danger… or something else entirely.
A sudden knock broke the silence—sharp, commanding.
Both children jumped.
"W–who's that?" Ayame whispered.
The knock came again, louder.
Kaito swallowed hard and crept toward the door. He peeked through the small gap… and froze.
Standing outside was a figure clad in dark armor, the mask of an ENKA operative gleaming faintly. The air around him was tense, disciplined—not hostile but undeniably serious.
Ayame's breath hitched. "Should we open it?"
Kaito nodded slowly. He pulled the door open, and the operative's cold gaze met theirs.
"Your Aunt Mikasa's condition has worsened," the agent said, voice deep and steady. "She wishes to see both of you immediately."
The words struck like a thunderclap. Ayame grabbed Kaito's hand, fingers trembling.
"We… we have to go," she whispered.
Kaito nodded, throat tight. "Let's go."
The ENKA operative stepped aside. The air felt heavier than before as they slipped into their shoes and followed him out.
Kaito led the way, gripping Ayame's hand tightly as they hurried down the quiet streets. The night air was cool but unmoving, as if even the wind held its breath.
"Don't talk to anyone," Kaito whispered. "Just stay close."
Ayame nodded. Their footsteps echoed, small but steady, carrying the weight neither dared to speak aloud.
When they reached the hospital entrance, a nurse suddenly called out, "Ayame!"
Ayame froze—but remembered Kaito's warning. She lowered her gaze and continued walking, pretending not to hear. Their hands stayed tightly linked.
The deeper they went, the heavier the atmosphere grew. The soft beeping of machines, the scent of antiseptic, the low murmurs of voices—it all blurred into a distant, hollow hum.
Finally, they reached the room.
The glass window beside the door reflected their anxious faces—two children standing at the edge of something far bigger than themselves. Through that reflection, they saw Mikasa lying pale and fragile on the bed.
Ayame gasped, covering her mouth as tears filled her eyes. "Kaito…"
Kaito's breath caught. He lifted his trembling hand, pressing his fingertips against the glass as if the thin barrier was the only thing keeping her from slipping away.
For a long moment, they said nothing. The world around them seemed to shrink until only the soft hum of machines and the beating of their hearts remained.
And in that quiet, they faced the fragile truth together—
their hearts were made of glass, but still fighting not to shatter.