Quiet Cure – Volume 1
The city of Nara began each day before sunrise. Delivery trucks hissed down wet streets, vending machines clicked to life, and somewhere beyond the smog the mountains glowed faintly pink.
Yet to Rin Amagawa, the morning felt strangely muted—like the world had forgotten how to speak.
She hurried along the hospital's staff walkway, coat fluttering, coffee cooling in one hand. The soles of her shoes struck the tiles in an even rhythm—tap, tap, tap—the only steady sound she could trust. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their soft hum filling the space where conversation should have been.
Her promotion letter still waited, unopened, in her locker. "Head of Virology." The youngest in the hospital's history. Everyone had smiled when she got it, but all Rin had felt was a hollow weight pressing behind her ribs.
Because titles didn't tuck your son into bed at night.
She glanced at the digital clock in the hall 6 : 42 a.m.
Aki would be waking Haruto about now.
Rin slipped into the break room, balanced her tablet on the counter, and tapped the call icon.
Aki answered on the second ring, hair a mess of brown curls, apron half-tied.
"You're calling before your shift? Is the world ending?"
Rin smiled faintly. "Not yet. Is he up?"
Aki turned the camera toward the kitchen table. Haruto sat there in his pajamas, small hands wrapped around a cup of warm milk. His dark hair stuck up in soft angles. When the screen moved, his eyes lifted toward it—those big, quiet eyes that always looked older than three.
He didn't wave. He never did.
Rin's throat tightened. "Good morning, sweetheart."
Aki coaxed, "Can you show Mama the drawing you made?"
Haruto slid a paper across the table. Crayon scribbles of a woman, a man, and a tiny figure holding a blue flower.
Rin bit the inside of her cheek. "That's beautiful. Thank you."
He blinked once, then lowered his gaze.
Aki's voice gentled. "He waited by the window again last night. Said he was watching for stars. You really should—"
"I know." Rin forced a breath. "I'll try to come home early tonight."
"You said that yesterday."
"I'll try harder."
Aki sighed but smiled. "Okay, Doctor Workaholic. Be safe."
The day blurred into the usual rhythm of charts, scans, and caffeine.
Rin handled three admissions before lunch—routine colds, a mild flu, an elderly pneumonia case. Nothing unusual.
Then a nurse hurried in, face pale. "Dr. Amagawa, Pediatrics sent an emergency file. They said to rush it."
Rin scanned the tablet.
Patient: Child, age 5. Symptoms: Persistent ringing in ears, fever, unsteady balance, confusion.
She frowned. "Run a viral panel—respiratory and neural markers both."
The nurse nodded and vanished.
Rin rubbed her eyes. The words ringing in ears stayed with her like an echo.
By evening, two more similar cases appeared.
"Could be environmental," suggested Dr. Kuroda, her mentor. "Seasonal allergies, maybe?"
Rin shook her head. "No. Too consistent. And localized to children."
Kuroda gave her a thin smile. "You're seeing patterns again. Don't overthink."
Rin wanted to argue but the words wouldn't come.
Overthinking was all that kept her sane.
The elevator chimed softly when she reached her apartment floor. She pushed open the door to the smell of rice porridge and something faintly sweet—Aki's attempt at baking again.
"You're late," Aki called from the kitchen, "but dinner's still hot!"
Rin dropped her bag. "Thanks. Any trouble?"
"None. He's drawing in his room."
Rin paused in the hallway. The apartment was small but warm: low lamp light, humming refrigerator, faint music from Aki's phone. For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Haruto's door was half open. He sat on the floor, crayons scattered like fallen soldiers. The same picture—Mama, Papa, and him—now had stars drawn overhead. Tiny, careful stars.
Rin knelt beside him. "You added the sky."
He didn't look up. His crayon moved in slow, deliberate circles.
She waited. Nothing.
Only the soft scrape of wax on paper and the quiet tick of the wall clock.
Finally she touched his shoulder. "I'm home."
Aki leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "He stayed up hoping you'd read to him."
"I'm sorry." Rin brushed a stray curl from Haruto's forehead. "Tomorrow night, okay?"
Aki's smile was gentle but tired. "You said that yesterday too."
Rin's lips curved upward, brittle. "Then tomorrow for real."
After dinner, Aki washed dishes while Rin tidied Haruto's toys.
The boy padded toward the bed, clutching his worn toy stethoscope—the one his father had given him when he was still alive. He climbed onto the cushion, curled up, and fell asleep without a word.
Rin covered him with a blanket. His breathing was steady, but his brow furrowed. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead—warm, a little too warm.
Then he winced.
A tiny, involuntary twitch toward his ear.
Rin froze.
"Earache?" Aki asked from the sink.
"Maybe," Rin murmured. "He hasn't said anything?"
Aki shook her head. "He hasn't said anything in months."
Rin looked down at her son's sleeping face—the small nose, the lashes trembling in uneasy dreams.
A faint ringing filled her ears.
Or maybe that was just in her head.
Hours later, when the apartment had gone still, Rin sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, reports scattered like fallen snow.
Pediatric data. Three children hospitalized today. Two tomorrow, maybe more.
All under ten. All the same early symptom: The Hush, as one nurse had started calling it.
Outside, the wind brushed the balcony chimes. A soft, almost musical sound.
Haruto stirred in his sleep and whimpered. Rin was at his side before she realized she'd moved.
"It's okay," she whispered. "I'm here."
The chime outside stilled. Silence folded over the room, heavy and complete.
And for the first time, Rin felt afraid of it.
2025 Elias Yūki. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission