Kaito stared at the crutches leaning against the wall, the gentle ticking of the clock marking off another afternoon of inertia.
The bruising on his cheek had faded. His ankle was healing—slowly. But what he missed most wasn't movement. It was purpose.
For years, he'd worked his days moving from job to job—delivery runs, helping the bakery, loading cargo at the port. He never complained about the strange hours or aching muscles. What scared him more was the silence of doing nothing.
And now, nothing was all he had.
"Tea?" Haruka shouted from the kitchen.
He smiled and turned. "Always."
She moved more freely around the apartment now, steps more confident, voice no longer withdrawing to corners. There were still dark circles under her eyes, but her eyes themselves were clearer.
They'd both come a long way.
Handing him a cup, she glanced over at the window. The winter sun was mild today, as if it wasn't in a hurry.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, sitting beside him.
"Sure."
"Would you ever… work an office job?"
Kaito's eyes widened. "Where did that come from?"
She hesitated, then pulled a flyer off the table. It was slightly crumpled, with the company name printed in neat black letters. Shinokawa Logistics – Tokyo Branch.
My neighbor—the woman who lives across from us—she works there," Haruka said. "She overhead us talking about your recovery the other day, and she asked me if you'd be interested in something a little less… physical."
Kaito stared at the flyer as though it were in a different language. "Office administration? I've never worked a desk job. I have no clue where to start.".
That's okay," Haruka said gently. "They don't need a degree or anything. Just someone trustworthy, who's eager to learn."
He laughed once—dry and quiet. "That's the thing. I don't know that I am. What if I mess up? What if I just don't fit?
Haruka tilted her head to one side. "You once climbed six flights of stairs during a storm to bring soba to a single resident. You learned to cook on your own when your grandmother was ill. And you memorized every back alley in this town to shave five minutes off each delivery."
He looked at her, a little caught off guard.
You're not scared of things that are hard, Kaito," she said. "You're scared of starting something that doesn't feel comfortable."
He was quiet. The tea in his hands was starting to lose its heat.
"I don't want to leave this town," he whispered. "Not yet."
"Then don't. The job isn't for another month. You can try it. If it's awful, you can quit. But maybe… just maybe… this is one of those doors that needs to be opened.".
He looked down at the flyer again.
And for the first time in days, something in his chest moved that wasn't fear.
Later that evening, Kaito stepped out into the hall with Haruka by his side, the crutches clacking out a rhythmic pattern on the floor. They knocked gently on the door of the neighbor. It opened to reveal a woman in her forties, with a kind face and reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
You must be Kaito," she said, smiling. "I'm Fujimoto-san. We've spoken through thin walls, I think."
He laughed nervously. "Probably when I've dropped something heavy at 2 in the morning."
"Or when you tried to sing badly to try to cheer someone up," she said with a wink. "Do come in.
The small apartment smelled like citrus and printer ink. On the coffee table sat a stack of documents—job listings, HR forms, a printed bus schedule to Tokyo.
"I told my supervisor about you," Fujimoto said. "He's open to an interview. It won't pay a fortune, but it's stable, with health benefits. And you'd have weekends off."
Haruka glanced at Kaito with quiet encouragement.
He looked at the forms, then at Fujimoto. "Can I be truthful?"
"Of course."
"I've worked only physical jobs. I've never done reports or office phones. I don't even own a decent shirt."
Fujimoto smiled. "You'll learn. The most important thing about a team isn't experience—it's attitude. I've seen you carry groceries for strangers and help your neighbor fix her sink. That says enough to me."
Kaito exhaled, a gradual release of something he hadn't known he was holding in.
"Okay," he said. "I'll do it."
Fujimoto nodded. "Good. I'll set your interview up for next week. And don't worry about the shirt—I'll loan you one."
That night, Kaito lay awake on the futon, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in slow circles. Haruka sat beside him, flipping through a book from the store, but he could feel her watching him from time to time.
"You're thinking too much," she said softly.
He smiled. "Always."
"What is it now?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "Part of me still feels like I'll mess it all up."
"You probably will," said Haruka, not looking up.
He blinked. "Gee, thanks."
"But so what?" she continued, closing her book. "So what if you mess up? So what if you don't know what you're doing at first? That's the nature of change. That's what second chances are for. You don't earn them by being flawless. You earn them by showing up."
Kaito turned toward her. "You've gotten pretty good at pep talks."
She shrugged. "I had a good teacher."
They shared a gentle smile, one that said so much more than words could say.
But before Kaito could settle in to sleep, Haruka's phone beeped again.
She answered it, her frowning growing deeper.
Another unfamiliar number.
Her breath caught as she read the message.
"We saw you at the hospital. He's holding you back. Come home."
She froze.
Kaito sat up immediately. "What is it?"
Haruka stared at the screen, her hands trembling.
"They know where I was. Where you were."
Kaito's jaw hardened. "Your parents?"
"I think so."
A silence hung between them, heavy and sharp.
Kaito squeezed her hand. "We'll get through this."
But on the fringe of her mind, Haruka heard her father's voice—cold, calm, determined.
And she knew: second chances came with second storms.