Tsumiki stopped asking when her mother would come back on the fifth day.
Before that, she checked the door every time footsteps echoed in the hallway. She lifted her head whenever a car door shut outside. She flinched at the sound of keys jingling, even when they never turned in their lock.
On the fifth day, she folded her blanket in the morning, placed it on the couch, and didn't look at the door at all.
Megumi noticed.
He watched her from the kitchen table as he chewed his toast. Tsumiki stared at her plate, where a slice of bread sat untouched under a thin layer of jam.
"You're not eating," he said.
"I will," she replied.
"You said that yesterday."
"I… will," she repeated, a little softer.
Megumi studied her a moment longer, then quietly cut his toast in half and slid the bigger piece onto her plate.
She glanced up, startled. "Megumi, you-"
"I'm full," he said. "Just eat it."
"You're lying." Her lips twitched like she wanted to smile. "You always eat everything."
He didn't answer. He just looked at the toast, then at her, until she picked it up and took a small bite.
The Divine Dogs shifted lazily under the table, their shadowy tails thumping faintly against the floor when Tsumiki finally ate.
Tsumiki's mother left things behind, like she meant to come back.
Her shoes stayed by the door.
Her half-empty shampoo bottle sat in the bathroom.
Her jacket hung on the hook, sleeve turned wrong-side-out.
Her smell clung to the cushions for a while.
Megumi waited for it to fade. It bothered him, the way her ghost stayed when she didn't.
One evening, as Tsumiki rinsed dishes, she paused with her hands in the soapy water, staring at the jacket.
"Mama always forgets her things," she said lightly. Her voice trembled only a little. "She'll come back for them. Eventually."
Megumi wiped the table slowly. "She hasn't called."
"She doesn't always call," Tsumiki said.
Megumi didn't reply.
"…Sometimes she doesn't pick me up from school," Tsumiki continued, as if listing normal facts. "Sometimes she doesn't wake up until really late. Sometimes she forgets what day it is."
Megumi wrung out the cloth in his hand. "Tsumiki."
She blinked at him.
"Do you want her to come back?" he asked.
Her eyes widened. "Of course."
"Even if she leaves again?"
Tsumiki turned back to the sink. For a while, the only sound was running water and the quiet clink of plates.
"…She's my mom," she whispered finally.
Megumi lowered his gaze.
He didn't understand that part. His mother had been good. Kind. Soft. The idea of wanting a bad parent didn't make sense to him. But when Tsumiki's shoulders shook the tiniest bit, he stepped closer and nudged his sleeve against hers.
He didn't say anything like "she's stupid" this time.
He just stayed beside her until the dishes were done.
Toji stopped trying to cook.
For a while, when Tsumiki and her mother first arrived, he came home before dark. He bought groceries. Burned food. Grumbled, but still set plates on the table.
Now his rhythm changed.
The kids started eating alone more often. Instant noodles, eggs, toast, sometimes whatever Tsumiki could manage from a recipe she half-remembered from her grandmother.
Toji came home at odd hours, late at night, early mornings, sometimes not at all. The sound of the door unlocking became inconsistent: three times in a row, then nothing for days.
Megumi tracked it without meaning to.
"There he is," one Divine Dog would perk up beside the door at two a.m.
Sometimes Megumi pretended to be asleep on the couch, just to see what Toji did.
Usually, it was nothing.
He'd step in quietly, shoes scuffing the floor. He'd pause when he saw the two children sleeping in a tangle of blanket and notebook and toy. The shadows around them thickened, a faint, protective pulse.
Toji's face would twist, just for a second. Then he'd look away and vanish into his room.
The next morning, the kids would wake to an empty apartment and an ashtray cleaned out.
At school, rumors spread faster than facts.
"Did you hear? Tsumiki's mom ran off."
"I saw her with some guy near the station."
"Maybe she traded her kid for money."
They said these things too loudly, pretending they didn't see Tsumiki nearby.
Megumi listened.
He didn't react.
He watched Tsumiki's fingers tighten around the strap of her bag until her knuckles turned white. He watched the way she laughed like it didn't matter, how her voice broke on the edges of words.
He stayed close, walking a step behind or beside her, eyes sweeping the hallway. When a boy stepped into her path and said, "Hey, Tsumiki, your mom ditch you for real?", Megumi simply stepped between them.
He didn't speak.
He didn't shove.
He just looked at the boy.
It wasn't a glare, exactly. Just a flat, steady, unblinking stare. His eyes were dark in a way that made even the fluorescent-lit corridor feel colder.
The boy shifted. "What? I'm just saying-"
Megumi continued to watch him, expression unreadable, as if he were analyzing a stain on the floor. A Divine Dog's silhouette flickered briefly behind him, teeth barely visible.
The boy's bravado cracked.
"…Whatever." He backed up. "You two are weird anyway."
He walked off, muttering.
Tsumiki let out a little breath she'd been holding.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Megumi shrugged. "They're annoying."
She smiled weakly. "Don't get in trouble for me."
"I won't," he said.
He didn't mention that the shadows had already memorized the faces of anyone who made her cry.
At home, Tsumiki learned to fill the empty spaces.
She started writing lists on small scraps of paper, taping them near the fridge:
-bread
-eggs
-milk
-rice
"Adults always say they forget things," she told Megumi. "If we write them down, we can be better than that."
Megumi watched her scribble, swinging his legs from the chair. "We're not adults."
"Then we'll be… good kids," she corrected. "Responsible kids."
She kept track of the bills left on the table, folding them into neat stacks even if she didn't know how much money they meant.
She set an old alarm clock to wake them both up for school. She checked Megumi's backpack twice, making sure he had his notebooks and pencil case.
"You forgot your math book yesterday," she scolded gently.
"You remembered for me," he said.
"That's what big sisters do."
Megumi looked at her. "You're my big sister?"
"If you want." Her smile was small but hopeful. "We live together. We share food. We share… dogs."
As if summoned, a Divine Dog popped its head out from under the table, tail wagging in slow, inky arcs.
Megumi considered this.
"Okay," he said. "You're my big sister."
Tsumiki beamed.
The dog thumped its tail so hard the shadows on the floor jumped.
One night, rain pattered against the windows, soft but constant. Tsumiki sat at the table with her notebook, practicing kanji under the dim kitchen light. Megumi lay on the floor nearby, chin in his hands, drawing two shadowy dog shapes on a piece of scrap paper.
"Megumi?" she asked without looking up.
"Mm."
"Do you… think she's coming back?" Tsumiki's pencil paused. "Mama?"
Megumi stopped drawing.
He stared at the lines that were supposed to be Divine Dogs but looked more like blobs.
"…I don't know," he said honestly.
Tsumiki's shoulders sank. "I thought if we waited long enough…"
Megumi pushed himself to sit up. "She hasn't called. She hasn't come. She left all her stuff."
"She forgets things sometimes," Tsumiki said, voice small.
"Not people," Megumi replied quietly. "Not if she wants them."
Tsumiki swallowed.
"I used to wait for Mom," he continued, eyes on the floor. "At first. I thought maybe she'd come through the door by mistake. Like she'd realize she was gone and… come back anyway."
Tsumiki looked at him, eyes wide and wet.
"She didn't," he said simply. "That's… just how it was."
"Does it still hurt?" she whispered.
Megumi thought about it.
"Not the same way." He twisted the paper between his fingers. "It just feels… normal now. Wrong things start feeling normal if they stay long enough."
Tsumiki put her pencil down.
"That's sad," she said.
"Yeah."
She scooted her chair back and came to sit on the floor next to him, crossing her legs.
"I don't want you to get used to this," she said. "To people leaving."
Megumi shrugged. "It happens."
"It shouldn't," she insisted.
He didn't argue.
The shadows around them thickened, drawn by the ache in their words.
A Divine Dog crawled into Tsumiki's lap, heavier than usual. She hugged it like a pillow, burying her face in its dark fur.
Megumi watched silently, then reached out and rested his hand on her shoulder.
He didn't promise her anything. He didn't say "I'll never leave." He didn't think saying something made it true.
He just stayed.
Toji's presence thinned out until he was more concept than person.
Megumi started marking the days in his head:
Three days gone.
One night back.
Gone again.
A brief appearance at dawn, smelling like metal and sweat and something sharp.
Sometimes Toji had bandages. White stripes around his hand. A bruise near his collarbone. Once, a cut at his jaw he hadn't bothered to clean properly.
Megumi noticed.
He didn't ask.
He watched from the hallway as Toji washed blood off his knuckles at the kitchen sink, face blank, eyes distant.
Tsumiki slept on the couch, curled under a blanket, unaware.
A Divine Dog stood in the doorway with Megumi, its ears pricked, growl low and almost inaudible.
Toji glanced up once, meeting Megumi's gaze over the rim of the sink.
They stared at each other for a moment.
Toji looked away first.
"You should be in bed," he muttered.
Megumi didn't move.
"You're not… supposed to see this stuff," Toji added, quieter.
Megumi's voice, when it came, was flat. "We see everything."
Toji flinched as if slapped.
He didn't say another word.
The next time he came back, it was three days later.
On a particularly cold night, the power flickered once, then went out completely.
Tsumiki froze in the dark. "Oh."
Megumi blinked as the apartment sank into shadow. The only light came from the city outside, a faint, bluish glow through the windows.
"Did we break it?" Tsumiki whispered.
"It's the building," Megumi said. "Not us."
"What do we do?"
Megumi got up and went to the drawer where Toji kept random junk. After a bit of rummaging, he pulled out a small flashlight and clicked it on.
A thin beam cut through the darkness.
Tsumiki smiled with relief. "You're prepared."
Megumi handed her the flashlight. "You're scared."
"I'm not-" She stopped as thunder rumbled in the distance. "Okay. Maybe a little."
The Divine Dogs appeared fully this time, drawn by the dark like they belonged to it.
They circled the two children, tails brushing their ankles.
Megumi sat on the floor and patted the spot next to him. "Come here."
Tsumiki obeyed, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, wrapping the flashlight in both hands as if it might run away.
"Do you want to tell a story?" she asked. "Grandma used to tell stories when the power went out."
"I don't know any stories," Megumi said.
"Make one up."
He thought about it.
"There was a girl," he said slowly, "who adopted a pack of weird shadow dogs."
Tsumiki giggled softly. "Was she nice to them?"
"Yes. So they followed her everywhere."
"Even to school?"
"Yes."
"Did other kids think she was weird?"
"Yes."
"Did she care?"
Megumi considered. "No."
"That's a good story already," Tsumiki said. "I like it."
He looked down at the Divine Dog resting its head on her leg and decided not to say that he didn't know if the story had a happy ending yet.
They sat like that, in the dim light, until the power came back with a buzz and a flicker.
Neither of them moved right away.
Later, when Tsumiki fell asleep on the couch, notebook slipping from her fingers,
Megumi gently took it and set it on the table. He pulled a blanket over her and stood there for a moment, watching the way her face softened in sleep.
His mother had looked gentle when she slept too.
He turned away before that thought got too heavy.
One of the Divine Dogs nudged his hand as he walked past.
He scratched it behind the ear.
"Watch her," he murmured.
The dog's tail swished, and it hopped lightly back up onto the couch, curling at Tsumiki's feet.
Megumi went to his room.
He lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant rumble of traffic, the occasional creak of the old building, Tsumiki's faint breathing in the other room.
He waited, just to see if he would hear the door open.
He didn't.
He turned onto his side and pulled his blanket up.
Adults leave, he thought. It was a slow realization, not sharp or sudden.
A quiet conclusion settled over many nights like dust.
Some of them stayed long enough to feel real.
Some of them left pieces behind.
Some never got the chance to come back.
And some walked out on purpose.
He didn't know which kind Toji was yet.
He only knew this:
Tsumiki was still here.
And as long as she stayed, he would too.
Not because it was logical.
Not because it was easy.
Because she was a good person.