The small apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that made Michinomiya Shikishima restless. He sat slouched in a chair, still wearing his old uniform, idly flipping through a book he wasn’t really reading. Outside, life in Tokyo carried on—merchants calling out, people moving forward. But inside, it felt like time had stopped.

Kōichi sat across from him, staring at nothing in particular, lost in his own thoughts as usual. Michi had grown used to the way his brother would drift into silence, like he was trapped in a memory he couldn’t escape. The war had ended, but it still lived inside him.

On the other side of the room, Noriko moved quietly as she tended to Akiko, humming softly. The baby let out a small giggle, reaching for her, and for a brief moment, the heavy air in the room felt a little lighter.

Michi glanced up from his book, watching them. He still wasn’t sure what to think about Noriko. He had been skeptical of her from the start—of her, of the baby, of what his brother was trying to build. It all felt so fragile, like something that could be taken away in an instant.

He shifted in his seat, exhaling sharply. “How do you do it?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Noriko glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “Do what?”

Michi hesitated, then shrugged. “Act like things are normal.”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “Because they have to be.”

Kōichi finally stirred, looking toward her, something unreadable in his expression. Michi didn’t push further. He just went back to his book, pretending not to notice the way his brother’s gaze lingered on her—like he was holding onto something he was afraid to lose.

None of them knew it yet, but this quiet moment—this fragile sense of peace—would soon be shattered.