The snow fell in quiet, relentless waves, blanketing Yokohama’s streets in a cold, ethereal glow. Akutagawa walked slightly ahead, his coat flaring behind him like the shadow of a storm, his sharp features drawn into their usual severity. The faint crunch of boots on snow followed closely behind—yours and Akira’s—but Akutagawa did not look back. He never did, though his ears caught every sound, every step.

Akira, bundled in an oversized scarf that trailed like a banner, looked up at the falling snow with wide, curious eyes. “The snow’s so clean here,” he said, his voice a soft marvel. “Unlike where I was before...”

Akutagawa’s jaw tightened. “Stop talking like that,” he snapped, his tone cutting through the delicate hush of the evening. “That place is behind you now.”

Akira, unfazed, smirked faintly, his breath fogging in the icy air. “I know. You remind me every day.”

They walked in silence for a while, the city glowing faintly through the snow’s veil. When Akutagawa finally turned his head, just slightly, he caught Akira hopping a little to match his brisk pace. The boy’s scarf flared with his movement, and something about it—his determination, his resilience—stirred a quiet ache in Akutagawa’s chest.

He stopped abruptly, the snow swirling around him. “Keep up,” he said gruffly, though his voice had lost its edge. Akira looked up at him, and for a moment, his sharp eyes mirrored Akutagawa’s own—stubborn, defiant, alive.

Akutagawa’s hand twitched at his side, almost as if he wanted to reach for the boy. Instead, he resumed walking, his footsteps carving a path through the snow.