Tsumiki noticed before Megumi did that Toji's shoes weren't by the door anymore.
They used to sit there, messy, kicked aside, sometimes muddy. Now the space was empty, except for a faint mark on the floor where the soles had marked the wood.
"Maybe he moved them," she said one morning as she prepared their breakfast.
Megumi knew she didn't believe that.
He didn't either.
But neither of them said anything.
The apartment had grown quieter in a way that didn't feel like peace. More like the silence that fills a room after someone leaves and doesn't come back.
Megumi pulled out the chairs for them both, automatically. Tsumiki smiled at the gesture, though her eyes looked tired in a way he couldn't fix.
"Eat," he told her.
She nodded, taking a small bite. "You too."
They ate together without speaking.
It wasn't awkward.
Just fragile.
On the walk to school, Tsumiki fiddled with the sleeve of her cardigan, twisting the fabric around her fingers. "If Dad is working more… that's okay, right?"
"He's been gone before," Megumi answered.
She lowered her gaze. "But this feels different."
Megumi didn't know how to put it into words.
Toji wasn't just working more.
He was escaping.
In the past, Toji's absences came with sloppiness, forgotten meals, half-washed dishes, clothes on the floor. This time, the apartment looked strangely organized. Like Toji didn't touch anything except what he needed to leave again.
A door closing quietly hurt more than one that slammed.
The schoolyard was loud, but Megumi heard everything. The whispering, the gossip, footsteps hitting gravel, Tsumiki breathing slower than usual.
Some kids lowered their voices when the siblings passed. Others didn't bother.
"That's her."
"Yeah, the one whose mom ditched her."
"Maybe they both got abandoned."
"Wouldn't surprise me."
Megumi didn't react.
But the shadows around his feet shifted, subtle as a breath.
Tsumiki tugged lightly on his sleeve. "Ignore them."
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
He always heard more than he wanted to.
The trouble started behind the gym after classes ended.
Tsumiki had gone back to retrieve a book she left in her locker. Megumi waited for her outside, hands in his pockets, mind half on the growing chill of late afternoon.
Shadows rippled under the bench he sat on. The Divine Dogs sensed something; they always did before he did.
Megumi stood.
Three older boys had cornered Tsumiki near the back doors. She hugged her book to her chest, shoulders drawn tight.
"C'mon," one said, leaning too close. "Tell us the truth. Did your mom bail because you're annoying or because she didn't wanna raise some random guy's kid?"
Tsumiki backed into the wall. "Please stop."
Another boy laughed. "You act all sweet. Bet your mom got tired of that real fast."
Megumi walked toward them, footsteps steady, gaze flat.
The first boy noticed him. "Oh great. The creepy kid."
Megumi stopped a few feet away.
He didn't speak.
This time, he didn't need to step in front of Tsumiki, the Divine Dog manifested before he could even move, emerging from the ground like smoke thickening into shape. Its low growl vibrated in the air.
The shadows responding to Megumi's emotions.
The boys stumbled back.
"W-what the heck is that!" one squeaked.
Megumi's voice came out cool and quiet. "Move."
That was it.
Just one word.
But the boys scrambled away like something had snapped inside them. Two tripped over each other. One dropped his bag.
They didn't stop running until they were out of sight.
Tsumiki pressed a shaky hand to her chest. "Megumi…"
He walked past the dog and picked up her fallen pencil case. "They won't bother you again."
"They're scared of you," she whispered.
"They should be."
Tsumiki's eyes softened. "That's not good."
Megumi finally looked at her. "…It keeps you safe."
She didn't argue.
Not this time.
Instead, she reached out and touched his hand gently, the book still tucked against her side. "You can't protect me from everything."
"I can try."
The Divine Dog pressed against her leg, as if agreeing.
They went home early that day.
The apartment felt too big for two kids.
Too empty.
Tsumiki headed to the kitchen to make rice, slipping into the caretaker role she'd created for herself. Megumi watched her fill the pot with water, shoulders rounded with exhaustion.
"Leave it," he said. "I'll make it."
She looked surprised. "You… know how?"
"No. But I'll figure it out."
Tsumiki laughed quietly, a real laugh, though small. "Okay. But don't burn the house down."
"I won't."
He took the pot. She hovered, offering instructions, not bossy, just helpful, the way she always was.
"You have to rinse it first."
"More water."
"Not that much. Okay, that's good."
"Careful, the stove is-"
Megumi gave her a look.
She covered her mouth to stifle a smile. "Sorry."
They cooked together, awkwardly but peacefully.
It almost felt like a home.
That night, Toji returned after nearly two weeks.
Megumi had been expecting the door to stay shut.
Tsumiki had set aside a bowl on the counter, just in case.
Neither said anything about it.
The lock clicked.
Megumi froze.
Toji stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. He looked thinner. Sharper. Like he'd been carved down into something dangerous and tired.
He avoided the light as if it hurt his eyes.
Tsumiki stood from the couch, hopeful. "Toji-"
Toji raised a hand, not to stop her, but to silence the moment. "Don't," he said.
Tsumiki's smile faltered.
Megumi studied him. The faint scent on Toji's clothes wasn't smoke or alcohol this time.
It was… sterile. Like hospital hallways and metal trays.
Toji didn't look at either of them.
He walked straight into his room and shut the door with a quiet finality that said more than words.
Tsumiki lowered herself back onto the couch, hands folded in her lap. She didn't cry. She didn't even frown.
She just stared at the closed door, as if trying to see through it.
Megumi sat beside her.
She leaned slightly against his shoulder. Not enough to cling. Just enough to not be alone.
"Do you think he's okay?" she asked.
"No."
Tsumiki let out a soft, sad laugh. "You're honest. I like that."
Megumi didn't reply.
A Divine Dog lay at their feet, chin resting on its paws, watching the hallway with cautious eyes.
Later that night, Megumi woke to faint footsteps. He slipped out of bed and padded silently into the hall.
Toji was leaving again.
He didn't carry a bag. He didn't carry anything.
He just stood with his hand on the doorknob, shoulders tense, breath shallow.
Megumi said nothing.
Toji glanced over his shoulder. Their eyes met for the first time in weeks.
For one moment, Toji looked like he wanted to say something.
Apologize.
Explain.
Lie.
Anything.
He didn't.
He gave Megumi the smallest nod, almost invisible, and left.
Megumi locked the door behind him when he was gone.
He returned to Tsumiki's room. She slept curled into herself, fingers gripping the edge of her pillow like she feared it would disappear.
Megumi pulled her blanket higher over her shoulder.
The Divine Dogs shifted in the shadows, their forms clearer at night, watching him expectantly.
"I'm not letting anything happen to her," he whispered.
The shadows steadied.
He sat on the floor beside her bed, back against the wall, and stayed there until morning, listening to the quiet hum of the city outside and the restless stirring of dogs only he could see.
He didn't know what Toji was involved in.
He didn't know why a shadow clung to the edges of their life like a stain.
But he understood one thing already:
Adults walked away.
Adults disappeared.
Children had to learn how to hold the pieces.
And Megumi-
He would hold them quietly, stubbornly, in the shadows where no one ever thought to look.