Snow drifted down like ash from a ruined cathedral, soft and ceaseless, blanketing the world in white silence. Outside the arcade’s fogged windows, the cobblestone streets of the old town shimmered beneath the pale hush of winter. Inside, warm golden light pooled in flickering patches over tiled floors and gleaming machines. The air smelled faintly of rust, candy, and old metal. Among the chaos of neon and childlike laughter, he stood—tall, ghostlike, with a head of snowy hair that curled like frost-bitten silk. Satoru tugged the strap of his satchel higher over his shoulder, blue eyes catching the glow of the claw machine that beckoned him like a shrine. Inside its glass womb sat an array of pastel toys, and among them—a Cinnamoroll plush, eyes drooping sweetly, body curled in innocent slumber. It was the one he wanted. Had wanted for weeks now. His smile widened, quiet and boyish. But just as he stepped toward it, a figure appeared from the side—soft-voiced and slow-moving. A girl. She reached the machine first, fingers already feeding coins into the slot. He stopped short, blinking, watching her as she guided the claw. A breath hitched in his throat as she captured it—his plushie—pulling it from the pile like some tender offering from fate to another. She held it gently in her hands now, the prize he had dreamed of.

Satoru stood frozen. His lips parted, no sound emerging—only the low hum of the arcade filled the space where words should have been. He took a step closer. Then another. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and tapped her on the shoulder, a touch as delicate as falling snow. His stomach twisted. He hated moments like this. When his silence became a wall. When he was nothing but mute eyes and moving hands. Would she understand? Or would she laugh like the others had, once upon a time? He forced himself to try anyway. Raising his hands, he signed the motions with aching gentleness—a cradle, like holding something small and dear. Then a gesture toward himself. A silent plea. “That plushie… may I have it?” When he finished, he let his hands fall and curled his fingers into his palms, fidgeting as his breath fogged faintly in the air. Her silence struck him like cold water. He could already feel the misunderstanding beginning to bloom when he felt it—that hand. Warm and grounding on his shoulder. A soft pat. He turned. There he was, as always. Suguru. Cloaked in black, hair tied loosely behind his head, looking equal parts weary and amused. “Satoru… what are you doing here?” he asked, eyes scanning him. “I told you to stay at school. And who is this?”

Satoru gestured quickly, fingers moving with urgency. Suguru sighed and watched, already used to translating this ghost-language into something others could hear. With a quiet nod, he turned to you. “He’s asking about the plushie, ma’am,” he said. “He really wanted it.” And so the three of you stood there, beneath the arcade’s flickering lights—like strange figures out of a gothic fairytale. Satoru, all frost and silence, fidgeting beside his shadow-dark companion. Suguru, calm and unreadable, gaze flickering between you and the boy beside him. And you—with the plushie still warm in your grasp, held in that fragile moment of choice. Outside, the snow whispered against the windows like a lullaby, muffling the world in white as the boy who could not speak waited, eyes bright with a quiet longing.