Back home, the house feels emptier without Karui's presence. Sunlight slants through the kitchen window, illuminating the neat little breakfast mess she left behind – a cereal bowl in the sink, I tidy up absentmindedly, rinsing the bowl and wiping down the table, anything to keep my hands busy.
Mom heads to her bedroom to change for work, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Usually, by this time, Karui and I would be chatting about her training or our plans for the day.
I need to do something. If I sit still, I'll just stew in my worries. So I retreat to my room and drop to the floor to start some light exercises – a few push-ups, crunches, maybe some squats. It's a routine I picked up to feel like I'm at least doing something useful with my body. Father always insisted on keeping in shape, quirk or no quirk, and I guess some lessons stuck.
But today my movements are sluggish, half-hearted. I pump out a set of push-ups, but my mind is elsewhere, imagining how Karui's exam is going. Is she blasting through obstacles with ease? Or is she struggling, hurt? I grit my teeth and add a few more push-ups, as if physical strain could drown out mental distress.
After barely ten minutes, I flop onto my back, chest heaving not from exertion but from the anxious hammering of my heart. "Get a grip," I whisper to myself, staring at the ceiling.
~~~
By late morning, it's time to open the café. I change into my work shirt – a simple green tee with our café's logo – and find Mom already in the kitchen tying up her apron. She insisted on opening shop today despite everything; routine can be its own comfort, I guess. I volunteer to help out for a few hours, and she doesn't object. Frankly, we both know I'm too on-edge to focus on anything else, so I might as well channel it into work.
The café is a cozy, warmly lit space near our home. As I flip the sign to Open and prop the door, I inhale the familiar scent of coffee beans and sweet bread.
Customers trickle in: a couple of regulars who chat with Mom about the weather, a college student who orders a large latte and immediately retreats behind his laptop. I man the register and occasionally carry trays, but it's a slow day thankfully.
Around noon, a lull hits. Only one or two customers sit at tables, quietly nursing their drinks. I wipe down the already-clean counter for the tenth time, my mind drifting to Karui. By now, the practical exam might be underway or even wrapping up. I wonder if she's managed to find someone to team up with or if she's going solo.
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I smirk to myself picturing her bossing around some larger examinee, telling them to focus or follow her lead. My little powerhouse of a sister… She never does anything halfway.
"Kaito, honey, you can take a break. Go eat something," Mom calls gently from the kitchen window. She's been baking muffins, and the aroma wafts through the café, buttery and comforting. I realize I haven't eaten since a quick bite at dawn. "Alright," I respond, placing my cleaning rag aside. Before I can head to snag a muffin, the bell above the café door jingles, indicating a new customer. I turn, ready with a polite greeting. But the words catch in my throat.
Framed by the doorway is a familiar figure – tall and broad-shouldered, with the same dark hair as mine, albeit cut shorter and neater. He's got a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a goofy grin plastered on his face. For a split second, I think I'm imagining things. But no – I'd know that grin anywhere. "Jirou?" I blurt, my voice coming out in a disbelieving half-shout. At the sound of his name, Mom pokes her head out from the kitchen, and her jaw drops.
Sure enough, there he stands: Jirou Yanagi, our older brother – in the flesh, right here in our café doorway. He lifts his hand in a little wave, a wry sparkle in his eyes as if he knows he's catching us completely off guard. I stare, thunderstruck, at the last person I expected to walk through our door today. Jirou is standing there.
For a heartbeat, none of us move. Mom and I are both frozen in place, processing the sight of Jirou casually filling our café doorway like it's the most natural thing in the world. Then, as if a spell breaks, Mom lets out a delighted cry. She rushes around the counter, nearly tripping in her haste. Jirou barely has time to drop his duffel bag before she's upon him.
"My baby boy!" Mom laughs, throwing her arms around Jirou's midsection (she has to reach up on tiptoe to properly hug him—when did he get so tall?). Jirou wraps his strong arms around her in return, lifting Mom off the ground for a second as he gives her a bear hug. He's laughing too, a deep, warm sound that fills the tiny café. I can't help it—I find myself grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
"Whoa there, Mom, you're gonna squeeze the life out of me," Jirou teases, gently setting her back down. There's unmistakable joy in his eyes, though. Mom swats his arm playfully, tears of happiness brimming. "Hush, I haven't seen you in months. Let me look at you." She steps back and holds him at arm's length as if inspecting that everything's still in one piece. Jirou does a comical little twirl to show off. "See? All limbs accounted for."
He's dressed in a fitted black t-shirt and jeans, casual, but I notice a few new scratches on his forearm and a faint bruise along his collarbone peeking out. Mom notices too—her brow creases—but Jirou smoothly distracts her by digging into his pocket. "Before I forget—ta-da!"
From his pocket, he pulls out a small keychain – a gaudy, touristy thing with a cartoon dolphin and the name of some coastal city printed on it. "A souvenir for the best mom in the world," he declares, dangling it. Mom lets out a half-laugh, half-sob and takes it, her fingers trembling slightly. "You didn't have to…" she begins, but he waves her off. "Of course I did. Saw it and thought of you." Mom clutches the cheap little trinket like it's a diamond, then stands on tiptoe again to kiss Jirou's cheek. I can tell she's holding back more tears – the good kind this time.
