Chapter 01 ~Kurosawa house
The small Kurosawa house hummed with a gentle warmth that had nothing to do with the thermostat. It was a simple, clean home, where the scent of aging wood and fresh sencha tea seemed to perpetually hang in the air. From the main room, where worn-but-comfortable furniture was arranged on tatami mats, came the sound of easy laughter.
The grandparents were visiting.
"I'm just saying," Haru Kurosawa said, a playful grin on his face, "that if the baby inherits my intellect, high school will be a breeze."
His wife, Aoi, rolled her eyes, shifting her weight on the cushion. She was in her final month of pregnancy, a beautiful, round swell under her maternity dress. "Haru, you teach mathematics. Let's hope the baby inherits your kindness, not your obsession with prime numbers."
Haru, a man with sharp black eyes and equally black hair, clutched his chest in mock pain. "Aoi! My passion for numbers is a gift."
The Grandmother chuckled. "A 'gift' that made him forget his own anniversary last year, as I recall."
"Mother, please," Haru protested, as his own father, the Grandfather, laughed heartily.
"You'll be a wonderful father, Haru," the Grandfather said, his smile kind. "You both will. But all this talk of 'him'… what if it's a girl?"
"Then she will be as beautiful as her mother," Haru said, his voice softening as he looked at Aoi.
A faint blush crept up her neck. Her hair was a warm brown, but her most striking feature was her eyes—a deep, startling violet. "Stop that," she murmured, but she leaned into his side.
"By the way," the Grandfather interjected, "have you settled on names?"
Haru and Aoi looked at each other. "Not yet," Aoi admitted. "It's difficult."
"I have a suggestion," the Grandfather said, a nostalgic look in his eye. "If it's a boy... what about Kaito?"
Haru paused. "Kaito? That's... specific. Why that name?"
"It was the name I wanted to give you," he said, glancing at his wife. "But your mother refused."
"And I would refuse again!" the Grandmother said, though her tone was light. "It's too plain. I have a list of much stronger names."
But Aoi wasn't listening. Her hand rested on her stomach, feeling the slow, powerful kick from within. "Kaito..." she whispered. They all looked at her. A soft, serene expression had overtaken her features. "It sounds lovely. It feels... soft. Peaceful. I want him to be peaceful." She looked up at Haru, her violet eyes shining. "I want that to be his name."
One month later, the peaceful quiet of the house was a distant memory, replaced by the sharp, sterile smell of a hospital room and the piercing cry of a newborn.
Haru Kurosawa held his son for the first time, his arms unsteady. He was a man of logic, of equations and certainties, but the flood of emotion that struck him was anything but logical. It was overwhelming. Tears blurred his vision as he looked at the tiny, red-faced creature.
"He has your hair," Aoi whispered from the bed. She was pale, exhausted, but her smile was the most brilliant thing Haru had ever seen.
He did. A tuft of inky black hair, just like his own. The baby's eyes were squeezed shut as he cried, tiny fists clenched. Haru felt a fierce, terrifying wave of pride and protectiveness. He had created this. They had.
Gently, Haru brought the baby to Aoi. She reached out, her fingers tracing the baby's damp cheek. She brought her forehead down to rest against her son's. Her own tears began to fall, landing on his blanket.
"Kaito," she wept softly. "Welcome, Kaito."
The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months. Kaito was a good baby. He ate well, he slept (mostly), and he had a laugh that could make Haru forget a difficult day at school.
But around the six-month mark, a subtle, cold unease began to settle in Haru's mind.
Kaito responded perfectly to sound. The jingle of Haru's keys made him turn his head instantly. Aoi's singing would calm him from a fit of crying.
But light… that was different.
Aoi dangled a bright red, spinning toy over his crib. Kaito only stared forward, his beautiful black eyes—so dark they seemed to absorb the light—remaining unfocused.
"He's probably just tired," Aoi said, but her voice was strained.
That evening, Haru tried an experiment. He sat Kaito in his lap and snapped his fingers on the left side. Kaito's head turned at once. He snapped on the right. Kaito turned again.
Then, Haru took a bright flashlight and shined it in a slow arc in front of his son's face.
Kaito didn't blink. He didn't follow it. His pupils didn't even contract.
"Aoi," Haru said, his voice quiet. "I think we need to make an appointment."
The pediatric ophthalmologist's office was bright, covered in cartoon animals, a cheerful veneer over a place of anxiety. Dr. Himura was kind but professional. After a series of standard tests, he frowned and brought in a small machine with several wires.
"This is a Visual Evoked Potential test," he explained, attaching small, sticky sensors to Kaito's scalp. "It measures the brain's electrical activity in response to visual stimuli. It's painless."
Kaito fussed as the sensors were attached, and Aoi held his hand, humming a soft tune to calm him. The doctor presented a series of flashing patterns on a small screen in front of Kaito. Haru watched the monitor where a line graph was supposed to be spiking.
It remained almost flat.
The doctor stared at the screen for a long time. Finally, he removed the sensors from Kaito's head and turned to the parents, his face grim.
"Mr. and Mrs. Kurosawa," he began, his voice low and measured. "I'm afraid I have some difficult news. The tests are definitive. The signals from Kaito's eyes are not reaching the visual cortex of his brain."
Haru's heart hammered. "What... what does that mean?"
"It means," the doctor said, meeting his gaze directly, "that despite his eyes appearing perfectly healthy, Kaito is completely blind."
The word hung in the sterile air, vast and suffocating. Aoi made a small, choked sound, her hand flying to her mouth. Haru just stared, his mind, usually so full of numbers and answers, suddenly, terrifyingly blank.