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Always had to follow my instincts / Usually, I'm out on my own / You there by the road wet and helpless / What happens if I take you home?
-The Mountain Goats, "Fresh Tattoo"
It’s May, and the spring rain shows no sign of letting up, an overly peppy reporter says over the radio, his voice tinny and grating. We’re in for another week of middling temperatures and wet conditions, before clouds hopefully give way to sun next—
“Gah, who cares,” Sojiro grumbles to himself, shutting off the radio. He turns up his windshield wipers; a sheet of steady rain falls over Tokyo, just like it did yesterday and the day before that. It usually wouldn’t sour Sojiro’s mood, but he keeps forgetting to bring in his new planters off his balcony, and now the roots are probably over-watered and drowning.
The roads back home from work aren’t too crowded this early in the evening, but everywhere he looks there are school kids milling about, scrambling home in the foul weather. All except one, of course, and Sojiro could probably recognize her from a mile away; if not by the familiar green raincoat or the distinctly off-kilter way she walks, then certainly by the way she’s stopping every few feet to splash in a puddle in her Featherman rain boots or stare at some kind of bug.
Sojiro quickly pulls over to the side of the road and slows to a stop beside her. As he’s rolling down his window to call out to her, she freezes up and peers at him over her shoulder.
“Futaba-chan, you need a ride?” he asks over the rain.
Wakaba’s daughter yelps like she’s just seen a ghost, and then, upon realizing who he is, glowers at him from behind her big, round glasses.
“You’re a bad, bad man, Sojiro!” Futaba accuses. “What if you were a kidnapper?”
(Sojiro sighs. No matter how many times Wakaba has insisted that she call him Sakura-san, or at least Sojiro-san, or anything else that implies a modicum of respect, Futaba insists on calling him just-plain-old Sojiro like they’re peers and old friends. She gets her stubbornness from her mother. They’re all lucky he doesn’t really mind.)
“I thought you’d recognize my car. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Futaba hums. Rivulets of rain trail down off her sleeves.
“Come on, you’re all wet. Your mother would kill me if she found out I saw you out here and kept driving,” Sojiro insists. “You want a ride home or not?”
She seems to ponder this for a moment, before reaching for the passenger’s side door. Sojiro stops her.
“Uh-uh,” he says, nodding his head toward the backseat. “Get in the back.”
Futaba’s face scrunches up like she’s bitten into a lemon, but she acquiesces, climbing into the backseat and setting her backpack on the middle seat beside her.
“Why can’t I sit in the front?” she whines.
“Because you’re four feet tall.”
“This is discrimination!”
Sojiro doesn’t even need to ask where she learned that word. He raises an eyebrow in the rearview mirror as he pulls away from the curb. “Does your mom let you sit up front?”
“...No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Futaba sticks out her tongue and then falls quiet, seeming content to chase raindrops down the window of Sojiro’s car and kick her feet back and forth against the seat. Sojiro taps his fingers against the steering wheel, a nervous tic he would normally soothe with a cigarette. It’s rare for him to be alone with Wakaba’s eight-year-old daughter for more than a couple minutes at a time, and he’s never been sure what to do or say when it’s just the two of them. But Futaba seems to like him well enough, as the years have gone by, so he must be doing something right. Wakaba says she’s normally shy around adults, so for her to speak to him at all is something to be proud of.
Sojiro smiles. He doesn’t feel so proud, most days, so he’ll take the win.
“Have a good day at school?” he ventures.
Futaba’s eyes flicker to him for a moment, then back out the window. “Not really,” she admits with a frown.
“Did something happen?”
She’s quiet for a moment, then shrugs. Sojiro opts to change the subject. It’s not his place to pry into the kid’s life.
“Did your mom drive today?” he asks instead.
“Nope, train.”
“Well, what do you say we swing by the lab and pick her up, then?”
Futaba’s eyes light up. “Can we go get dinner too?”
Sojiro chuckles. “I don’t know, kiddo.”
“C’mon, pleeeease?”
“Ask your mother.”
“Aw, Sojiro, you’re no fun!”
There’s traffic in the city, as rush hour looms closer. Sojiro hopes they’ll make it to the facility in time to surprise her. If not, he’ll surely have some explaining to do if Wakaba arrives home early to find Futaba missing. He focuses his energy on driving safely, what with the precious cargo and all, tap-tap-tapping the side of the steering wheel and casting nervous glances in the rearview mirror every so often.
“...Sojiro?” Futaba eventually pipes up, and that somber look is back on her face.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Why don’t I have a dad?”
Sojiro narrowly avoids swerving the car and quickly schools his expression into something marginally less aghast.
“What makes you ask that all of a sudden?”
Futaba bites her lip. “We’re learning family words in English class, so we talked about our families. A lot of the kids said it’s wrong that I don’t have a dad, that my mom was supposed to get married and then have me so that I would have a dad.”
Sojiro sighs. He’s out of his depth. But if there’s a reason she feels more inclined to tell Sojiro about this than wait to ask her mother, then it’s his responsibility to try.
“Plenty of kids don’t have dads, Futaba. Families look different, and there’s no one correct way for them to look.”
Whoever Futaba’s biological father is, Sojiro has never met the man. Wakaba never talks about him, and as far as Sojiro knows he’s never been a part of their lives. From her tone, he’s always assumed that was ultimately for the best.
“It made me feel… gross,” Futaba says. “Kazu-kun said maybe my dad didn’t want me.”
“Well, Kazu-kun’s a little jerk,” Sojiro replies, and that gets a giggle out of Futaba. “The only thing that matters is that you are the most important thing in your mother’s life, Futaba. She loves you so much—when I first met her you were all she’d ever talk about.”
“Really?”
“Of course. You don’t need to worry about what those other kids say, alright? They’re just repeating the stuff their parents say, about ‘traditional’ values. Just because they think one way to be is normal, doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you if you’re different.”
“Hmm… I guess you’re right,” Futaba decides, going back to swinging her feet. “My mom is pretty great.”
“That, she is.”
A few minutes later, they’re finally pulling into the parking lot outside the lab where Wakaba works. Sojiro idles out front and sends her a quick text from his flip phone to let her know he’s picking her up. She doesn’t reply, but sure enough she steps out of the sliding glass doors shortly after.
Before Sojiro can do anything to stop her, Futaba’s rolling down her window and calling out, “Hey, Mom! Sojiro tried to kidnap me!”
“F-Futaba!” Sojiro sputters, fumbling with his own controls to put her window up before she either lets more rain in or says anything else incriminating. Wakaba grins and hurries over to the car.
“Sojiro, did you kidnap my daughter?” she teases as she slides into the passenger’s seat.
“Mom, Mom!” Futaba cries before Sojiro can get a word in edgewise. “Sojiro said we could get dinner after!”
“I did not ,” Sojiro shoots back, putting the car in drive. “And I’ll have you know your daughter was walking home in the rain.”
Wakaba shakes her head in mock disappointment. “Unbelievable,” she says. “You’re undoing all my lessons on stranger danger.”
“But I’m not even a stranger!”
“I don’t know, Sojiro,” Futaba interjects. “You are pretty strange.”
Wakaba shouts, “Futaba!” while Sojiro is busy choking on his own saliva, but then he finds himself laughing anyway, sour mood from earlier suddenly a thing of the past.
It’s a testament to Sojiro’s self-control that he doesn’t immediately kidnap Futaba from Youji Isshiki’s apartment the moment he arrives.
He hasn’t seen her since that day at Wakaba’s funeral, and it’s only through the grapevine that Sojiro hears, week after week and month after month, as Futaba is passed along from relative to relative like trash. It’s by coincidence that Sojiro finds out, when he runs into one of Futaba’s teachers who happens to recognize him, that she’s been looking unwell lately.
( It seems like she rarely bathes or eats, they tell him. I’m a bit worried about her, but her uncle never seems to answer the phone. Sojiro tracks down Youji’s address the very next day.)
Unwell is an understatement, Sojiro realizes, when Futaba looks up from doing her homework on Youji’s filthy living room floor and stares at him like a deer in the headlights. She’s paler and scrawnier than ever before, and her hair—black roots starting to grow back in—is greasy and matted. And it may be starting to fade, but Sojiro can definitely still make out the traces of a bruise on Futaba’s cheek. Shell-shocked, Sojiro bends down on one knee beside her.
Dear god, he should have stepped in sooner. Why didn’t he make a bid for custody months ago?
“Hey,” he whispers.
Futaba scrambles back a bit, eyes wide with a perplexing combination of distrust and hope. He tries to reconcile the memories he has of her, the shy but sharp-witted little girl he once knew, with this frightened broken bird she’s become. Sojiro’s already broken heart breaks further still.
“Woah, I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says. “I promise I’m never going to hurt you.”
After a moment, blessedly, Futaba nods.
“I came to check in on you,” Sojiro continues. “I’m so sorry it took me so long, Futaba. I should have come a long time ago.”
Heavy footsteps approach from the back room, and Futaba stiffens before hurriedly hunching back over her homework.
“Are you done with your little ‘wellness visit’, Sakura?” Youji drones from behind. “The kid’s fine, see?”
“Fine?” Sojiro pushes to his feet and whirls to face Youji, heart thundering in his chest. “How could you say this is fine? When was the last time you let her eat, or take a bath? Does she even have a bed?”
“What’re you getting at?” Youji crosses his arms over his chest. “You got a problem with the way I’m raising my own flesh and blood?”
Sojiro takes a deep breath. His mind is made up.
“I’m going to petition for custody of Futaba,” he announces, and behind him the sound of Futaba’s pencil scratching frantically against her notebook stops. Her eyes bore holes into the back of Sojiro’s head.
Youji scoffs. “ You? You’re not related to her, you don’t have any right to—”
“That doesn’t matter. You’re her uncle and you’re treating her like shit. That’s not what family was to Wakaba and it sure as hell isn’t what it means to me.”
“So, what, you think you can just come in here and—”
“For the love of god, Youji, what is it you want? Is it money? Is it the inheritance you’re after? Because if it’s money you want, fine. Just leave Futaba alone.”
“Get out of my house.”
With great effort, Sojiro tries to calm himself. Causing a scene and angering Youji any further will likely only put Futaba in danger. So instead, he mutters his assent and heads for the door, but turns back to Futaba and says, “I promise you, Futaba, on Wakaba’s life,” before he goes.
Futaba stares very intently as Sojiro places another strip of beef on the grill, studying his movements and the sizzling layers of fat with a scientist’s discerning eye. She hums to herself for a moment before she reaches with her chopsticks for a different piece, and Sojiro has to gently bat her hand away.
“Sojiro!” she whines.
“It’s still not done, Futaba,” Wakaba tells her with the patience of a saint. “See how there’s still pink on the edges?”
“You know,” Sojiro drones in response to Futaba’s subsequent pout, “watching like that isn’t going to make the meat cook any faster.”
“Well if I don’t watch, how will I know when it’s ready?”
“When it’s ready, I’ll put it on your plate.”
Futaba grumbles and gets up from her seat.
“Restroom!” she announces before scampering off.
As soon as she’s out of sight, a solemn expression creeps onto Wakaba’s face. Wakaba’s always been a little hard to understand, but after all these years, Sojiro can tell when something is wrong and she’s trying to work up the nerve to admit it. The look in her eyes makes his stomach turn, and not in any pleasant sort of way.
They sit in silence for a few heavily-pregnant pauses, before Wakaba finally speaks.
“Sojiro,” she says under her breath. “I think I might die.”
Sojiro lets out a startled chuckle. “Well, we all will eventually.”
Wakaba shakes her head. Futaba’s piece of beef is starting to char, but neither of them notice.
“It’s this research project. Sojiro… If something were to happen to me, you’d make sure Futaba was protected, wouldn’t you?”
“Uh— Of course, but, Wakaba—”
“Thank you.” Wakaba sighs in relief, eyes closed. Sojiro opens his mouth to question her further, but Futaba comes sauntering back up to the table. Just like that, Wakaba plasters a hollow smile on her face, and the somber moment is gone. But Sojiro can still read it in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders, even as she breaks into a laugh ruffling Futaba’s hair. Futaba groans and swats her away, ever-innocent and none the wiser, before launching into a very thorough take-down of Sojiro’s subpar grill monitoring abilities.
After what feels like hours, the social services agent sighs and lowers the form Sojiro submitted from her eyes. She tosses it haphazardly onto the scratched-up desk between them.
“These are very serious accusations, Sakura-san,” she says.
“I know.”
“I mean, willful neglect? Physical and emotional abuse?”
“I know.”
She leans against the desk, arms crossed. “And how can you be certain it’s intentional on Isshiki-san’s part, and her state is not merely a result of Futaba-chan’s grief?”
Sojiro snorts. “What, you think that helps his case? She’s been grieving for months now, being passed between her relatives who couldn’t care less about her. What have you people ever done to help her?”
A weary look crosses the woman’s face, but she quickly masks it with one of cold fury.
“I assure you, Sakura-san, that we take allegations of child abuse very seriously,” she says, voice icy.
“Good,” Sojiro says. “So you’ll look into the matter?”
“You are aware, Sakura-san,” she intones, eyebrows raised, “that should Isshiki-san push back against our investigation, this could go to domestic court?”
“I know. I’m willing to fight.”
The agent leans back and sighs. “Very well,” she says. “We’ll investigate the matter.”
“Thank you. That’s all I ask.”
Sojiro turns on the hallway light and discards his hat and shoes in the genkan. Futaba shuffles in behind him, clutching her backpack to her stomach. Her expression holds the same blank solemnity it has ever since he picked her up from the police station to sign the temporary custody papers.
“Well, this is the place,” Sojiro says. He scratches his head; there are still half-unpacked moving boxes everywhere, and furniture placed somewhat haphazardly. “Sorry about the mess. I’m still sort of moving in. But your bed is all ready for you!”
Futaba just blinks at him, skeptical. He chuckles and waves her toward the stairs.
“C’mon, I’ll show you.”
Sojiro leads her up to her new room, where he spent hours yesterday assembling new furniture he thought she’d like. Futaba reacts with muted shock—Sojiro has to wonder when it was last that she got to sleep in a bed of her own. He leans in the doorway as she takes a seat, eyes darting around the undecorated room as if she were in an ornate castle.
“Not much, I know, but I figured I’d let you set the place up however you’d like once the dust settles. We can get some of your old things from the storage unit, too. I’ll talk to your caseworker and see how soon I can get the key.”
Futaba nods, bewildered.
“Now, I’m sure you’re tired. Let me fix you something to eat. After that, if you want to, you can take a bath. You don’t need to ask me permission, understand? I’ll be right back.”
Sojiro slips back downstairs and prepares Futaba’s dinner—instant ramen. It’s not the most nutritious, but it’s something he knows she’ll eat. He serves it up on a tray with chopsticks and carries it back to her room. Futaba hasn’t moved since he left, barely reacting to the tray being laid over her lap until she gets a whiff of the broth.
“Sorry it’s not much of a meal. I need to do some grocery shopping. Oh, that’s right! Text me what hair dye you use and I’ll pick some up for you, yeah?”
Futaba gives him a grateful smile, although her eyes are trained on her noodles. Then, as she reaches for a bite with her chopsticks, her lower lip begins to tremble. A single tear slides down one cheek, then the other. Soon, she’s full-blown crying.
“Futaba!” Sojiro cries, stepping further into the room. “I’m so sorry, what’s wrong? Is it not good? I was fairly sure this was the brand you liked—”
A loud slurp cuts Sojiro off. Futaba digs into her noodles with the fervor of a dying man, snot and tears dripping down her chin as she sobs.
“Oh, kid…” Sojiro whispers. “It’s gonna be okay now. You’re home.”
Sojiro removes his glasses to scrub at his face with a heavy sigh. Late into the night, he hunches over piles of paperwork at the table, lit only by the dim kitchen light. There’s still a lot he needs to sort out—he needs to get ahold of Futaba’s medical records and contact her school, not to mention try to get that back alley cafe space up and running. They’re not exactly on the road to destitution, but with how much Sojiro has to pay Youji to keep him away and how much hiring a lawyer costs, he could use the income.
There are skittish footsteps from the hall, and then a face appears in the doorway.
“Futaba?”
Frightened, Futaba scurries back into the shadows.
“Hey, wait, come back!” Sojiro calls. “It’s okay, hun. You don’t have to hide.”
After a few moments, Futaba reappears, glasses askew and hair still wet from her earlier bath. She looks askance at him as she creeps into the room.
“What’s up? Can’t sleep?” Sojiro asks.
From the way she tangles her hands in the hem of her sleepshirt, Sojiro can tell she didn’t even really try to sleep, but she nods anyway. Sojiro can’t blame her; he’s no stranger to insomnia. After Wakaba died, he barely slept for at least a week.
“Are you hungry? You don’t have to sneak around, you know. This is your home; you can have something to eat whenever you want, alright?”
Futaba looks away, shuffling back and forth from one foot to the other.
“Do you want me to make you a snack?”
She shakes her head.
“Okay, suit yourself.” Sojiro hums. Time to bring out the big guns. He reaches back through the annals of his mind to a time when he would occasionally babysit for Wakaba; there was one thing that never failed to get a younger Futaba to sleep. “How about some hot chocolate?”
After a moment, Futaba nods sheepishly. Sojiro feels like he’s won the parenting lottery.
Sojiro smiles and stacks all his papers back in their folders. “You got it, boss. Have a seat, I’ll get some milk on the stove.”
Futaba slides into a chair and tracks his movements warily while he moves about the kitchen, lighting the stove and pouring milk into a saucepan. Once it’s heated, he adds in cocoa powder and some sugar—just enough to make it sweet, but not so much that it’ll keep Futaba awake or give her a stomachache. He keeps the pot at a low simmer while he stirs so that the milk doesn’t boil. After the cocoa has dissolved, Sojiro cuts the heat and ladles the rich hot chocolate into two mugs (he isn’t particularly thirsty, but Futaba is more inclined to accept something from him if she doesn’t feel that it’s an imposition). He sets one of the mugs in front of Futaba and retakes his seat across from her with a casual air.
“It’s still really hot, so be careful, alright?” he says. Futaba nods and wraps her hands around the drink to warm them.
Sojiro goes back to looking through his collection of paperwork, although he’s really just mindlessly flipping through them so that Futaba won’t feel like he’s watching her. A couple of minutes go by before Futaba lifts the mug to her lips and takes a tentative sip. Something in her posture softens immediately, like an ingrained response she can’t help.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome, kiddo.”
Futaba peers at him over the rim of her cup. “...What are you doing?” she asks hesitantly.
Sojiro’s ears perk up at that. Futaba has begun to settle in just about as well as one could expect, but it’s rather rare for her to speak to him when she doesn’t have to, and rarer still for it to be more than a couple of words.
“Boring adult stuff, mostly,” he answers honestly, taking a long pull of his own drink. “What kept you up?”
Futaba shrugs, but Sojiro doesn’t press her for an answer. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, he isn’t going to scare her off by forcing her to. Instead, he lets her go back to quietly sipping her cocoa, and by the time she’s drained the mug, her eyes are starting to droop. She gets up and washes her cup without being asked, and before Sojiro can get a word in edgewise, she stumbles out of the kitchen.
“G’night, Sojiro,” she mutters over her shoulder. The creak of the stairs follows in her wake as she scampers back up to bed.
“Goodnight, Futaba!” Sojiro calls after her, just before Futaba’s bedroom door slams shut. He smiles, collects his things, and heads to bed himself. He leaves the kitchen light on, just in case.
In the end, it’s easy to make a deal with Youji for full custody. Making it official takes longer, fighting with the courts over his right to claim custody over a child he is not related to, finalizing the move out to Yongen where he’ll be able to keep her safe, and frantically trying to cover his tracks from his old government job so no one will ever be able to pull Wakaba’s research out of him. All the while, he worries about Futaba being sent back to waste away in her uncle’s house while every other adult in her life attempts to turn a blind eye to the abuse.
“Are you quite done with that paperwork yet, Sakura-san?” the extremely bored clerk drones behind the counter, inspecting her cuticles.
“Huh?” Sojiro supplies, helpfully. “Oh, yes, sorry. Nearly finished.”
He lets his pen hover over the final page, questioning whether he’s about to make the right choice. Futaba sits a few paces behind him in one of the family court office’s uncomfortable chairs, sitting on her hands and tapping her feet with an unreadable expression on her face, like she’s waiting for the moment Sojiro inevitably changes his mind and decides he doesn’t want her, either.
It’s not the adoption he’s questioning, though. There hasn’t been a doubt in his mind about that for a long time, and it never should have been a question from the very moment Wakaba took her last breath. What gives Sojiro pause is the last section on the form, regarding Futaba’s surname.
He wants Futaba to be proud of her mother’s legacy, to cherish the Isshiki name. He doesn’t want to take yet another piece of Wakaba away from her. But the Isshiki name also ties Futaba to a smattering of cruel relatives who do not love her, and, more vitally, to a smothered research operation that a lot of dangerous people will want access to. There’s marginally more distance, with the Sakura name, and less chance of anyone asking uncomfortable questions in the future if they share a surname. And maybe, Sojiro thinks—hopes, perhaps even selfishly—bestowing his name upon her will work to convince Futaba that he’s serious. That he’s choosing her on purpose.
With a final glance back at Futaba, Sojiro makes his decision. He scribbles Sakura on the dotted line, signs and dates the paperwork, and passes it back to the elderly clerk with a finality that seems to annoy her. She sighs in exasperation and compiles all of Futaba’s papers for him in a manila folder—her birth certificate, the custody agreements—and shoos the both of them out the door.
“Well,” Sojiro says to break the silence as they’re walking down the stuffy carpeted hall to the elevator. “She was a real peach. I always thought adoption papers were a cause for a little more fanfare, but I guess that doesn’t exist in a place like this, huh?”
Futaba doesn’t say anything, as is typical for her most days, but her eyes flick over to Sojiro briefly, so he’s sure she’s listening. Sojiro usually just keeps talking anyway; complete silence seems to make her a bit nervous.
“In any case, I think it’s a big deal. It means we’re finished with all of this. No more scheduled court appearances, no more lawyers, no more bureaucracy.” He shoots her a smile as he pushes the elevator button. “We can just go home.”
He gets a tiny smile in return, and considers it the biggest win of his life.
The bell over the front door of the cafe jingles to signal someone’s entrance. Sojiro can’t help but jump a little—he’s not used to getting customers at all yet, let alone in the heat of the afternoon—but in walks Futaba, dressed in a tank top and shorts with her long hair pinned up sloppily above her neck.
“Fancy seeing you here, kiddo,” Sojiro says with a smile, setting aside the same mug he’s been obsessively cleaning for the past ten minutes. It’s not often that Futaba leaves the house other than to go to school, but the short walk between home and Leblanc seems to be fair game.
Futaba slides into a seat and lays her head on the counter.
“Sojiroooo,” she whines, “it’s so hot!”
Sojiro chuckles as he pours her a glass of soda. “Your room is air conditioned.”
“But I’m bored!”
“Don’t you have summer homework?”
“Finished it.”
“Then, what about that new game you asked me to buy you last week?”
“Finished that too.”
“Already?!”
Futaba shrugs, running a finger through the ring of condensation under her glass.
“Played it a lot instead of sleeping.”
Sojiro sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He did notice ever since summer break started that Futaba has been sleeping less and less; as the anniversary of Wakaba’s death looms closer, somewhere along the way Futaba’s mental health has begun to take a nosedive.
“Futaba… If the hallucinations really are keeping you up at night, won’t you please let a doctor try to help?”
Vehemently, Futaba shakes her head. “I’ve gotten what I deserve. It’s my fault Mom died anyway.”
It’s not the first time she’s said something like that. Sojiro, coward that he’s always been, doesn’t confront her about it. Not when Futaba has already sworn she won’t go visit Wakaba’s grave, and Sojiro’s already decided he’s far too ashamed to face it alone. Instead, he’ll pour a cup of coffee for her ghost and try to pretend he isn’t still running from his promise to protect her daughter. Futaba will be too depressed to leave her room at all.
“If you’re so bored,” Sojiro says now, trying for a smile, “you could always help me clean up.”
Futaba wrinkles her nose.
“Looks like you’ve got it covered,” she says, and Sojiro laughs, surprising even himself. He wills the moment to last forever, even through the darker days he knows are sure to be coming.
Eventually, the hallucinations and panic attacks get so bad that Futaba scarcely leaves her room, let alone the house. By winter it’s ballooned into full-blown agoraphobia; she’s stopped attending school altogether, opting to finish middle school online. She never mentions high school entrance exams, and Sojiro doesn’t push the issue.
He still sees her most days, in passing when she leaves her room to use the bathroom or get something from the kitchen, or in the rare event that she emerges to eat with him or check on what he’s up to. But it’s never long before she scurries back to her room and locks the door, and as the days go by, she gets worse and worse and worse.
On nights like tonight, Sojiro wakes at 1am to screaming and crying from downstairs. He’s awake in a flash, fumbling his glasses onto his face and following the sound all the way to the kitchen, where he finds Futaba backed up against the counter, shaking and crying. The jagged remains of what looks to have been a drinking glass lay scattered in front of the sink.
“Futaba!” he shouts before he can stop himself. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
She flinches back and curls further in on herself at his approach, shielding her face as though expecting a blow.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she blubbers, voice thick with fear. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault! M-Mom was here, looking at me—I killed her, Sojiro, I’m so sorry—”
“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” Sojiro soothes, kneeling down in front of her. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
“I-I dropped the glass when I saw her—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful, please don’t hurt me!”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Futaba. I promised, remember? You’re safe with me. It’s just a cup, no big deal. Did it cut you?”
Futaba shakes her head and reaches out a hand towards him. Sojiro doesn’t need to be told twice.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he sighs, pulling her gently into his lap and holding her close. She holds onto him for dear life as she wails and sobs, as if she fears he’ll leave her the moment she lets go.
“S-Sojiro—” Futaba chokes out through her tears, breath hitching dangerously.
“Shh, you’re alright. I’ve got you. Deep breaths. You’re safe.” Sojiro keeps repeating reassurances like a broken record, rocking her back and forth. He’s found this is the only way to comfort Futaba, as denying the validity of her hallucinations only upsets her even more. Eventually he’s forced to start counting breaths, coaxing Futaba through a breathing exercise he learned online. It’s in that moment that he decides it’s time to try again to bring a doctor in to see her, even though any other time he’s tried she’s only locked herself in her room and refused to come out.
They stay there long enough that Sojiro’s legs go numb and his back begins to hurt before Futaba finally calms down. She rests bonelessly against him, practically asleep already.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” he whispers, to which Futaba only makes a tiny noise of acknowledgement. With an undignified grunt, he hoists Futaba up and carries her up the stairs to her room. Gently, he lays her down in her bed and takes off her glasses. At the last second, he thinks to go back down and get Futaba the glass of water she clearly wanted (in a plastic cup this time, just in case) and sets it on her bedside table. Then he tucks her in with her thick comforter, shuts off the lights, and quietly slides the door shut behind him.
Alone again in the dark hallway, Sojiro vows to protect her, if he can only figure out how.
He doesn’t get much sleep.
After the end of the world, Sojiro goes home.
It feels strange, to resume his day as normal after watching the sky bleed red and bones erupt from the heart of Shibuya, after watching his kids slay a god. But what else can he do? The world ended and remade itself, and most of the city seems to have already forgotten what occurred. There’s nothing he can say to the average pedestrian that won’t land him in custody for a drug test the moment the words leave his mouth, so he goes home. He reopens the cafe, puts on a pot of curry, and waits.
The moment Futaba comes through the front door is the moment Sojiro feels the arc of the universe at last bend itself toward justice and all the pieces of his broken life slot into place. This, at last, is the culmination of Wakaba’s years of fruitless research. Futaba is safe and happy and healthy, Shido is going to stand trial for his crimes, and Sojiro never has to worry about his past coming down on both of them ever again.
“We did it, Sojiro,” Futaba says into his chest, arms squeezing tight around his middle. “It’s over.”
“I’m so glad you’re safe, sweetheart. Where’s Ren?” Sojiro snakes an arm around her shoulders and holds her close.
“Mm, talking to Makoto’s sis, last he texted. Everyone’s okay, don’t worry.”
“Good,” Sojiro says, relieved.
There’s nothing Sojiro can do to rewrite his past. He can’t erase his own part in the larger story, and he can’t make up for all the times he failed Wakaba and Futaba both these last few years. But this, somehow—
“Thank you for looking out for us, Dad,” Futaba whispers. “I’m glad I trusted you.”
Sojiro blinks away tears and squeezes his daughter tight, in an unspoken promise to never let anything hurt her again. It’s all he can do, but somehow, it’s turned out to be enough.
There’s something surreal about it, seeing Futaba prim and proper in that familiar Shujin uniform. She has her hair tied back in a long braid, and as she rocks back and forth on her heels she fusses with the sleeves of her blazer in such a mirror image of Ren that it makes Sojiro’s heart ache.
“You’re sure you have everything?” he asks for the fifth time. “Your subway pass? Your books?”
“Check and check,” Futaba says.
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to drive you? Just for today?”
Futaba rolls her eyes. “Yes, Dad, I’m sure. I’ve been to school before, you know!”
“I know that! It’s just, well, I don’t want you to be too nervous. There’s a lot of transfers, and—”
“Oh my god, Sojiroooooo, I’ll be fine! Quit being such a worrywart. I’ve got this!”
Sojiro smiles and claps her on the shoulder. “You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry,” he concedes. “I’m just… really proud of how much you’ve grown up, is all.”
“Aww, that’s so corny!” Futaba giggles. “But thanks.”
“And you promise you’ll call or—”
“—Text you if I need you to come pick me up, I know,” Futaba finishes for him, unimpressed. “Jeez, maybe it’s you we should be worried about. Can I go now?”
“Yeah, go on, get out of here.” Sojiro ushers her to the door with a sigh. “Can’t have you being late on the first day.”
“Okie dokie, time for me to make like a tree and—ah, you get the point.” Futaba throws her arms around Sojiro’s middle in a quick hug before rushing out of the cafe in a whirlwind of red hair. Sojiro steps out to watch her go, heart swelling with pride and affection.
“Thanks for breakfast, Dad!” she calls out, turning back and waving at him with both arms up in the air while she hurries toward the station. “See you later!”
Sojiro gives her a small wave and a smile and stares until she disappears around the corner.
“You see that, Wakaba?” he mutters into Yongen-jaya’s early morning light. “I always knew she could do it.”
For the first time in days, Sojiro’s brain slows down enough to let the reality of it sink in.
It’s quiet, out behind the church—even though they’re still in Tokyo, the place seems to teem with some sort of unspoken respect for the dead. Sojiro isn’t a praying man, and never has been. The priest had said all sorts of flowery words as they buried Wakaba this afternoon, but none of them had done anything to assuage the horrible knot of guilt and grief in Sojiro’s chest.
The door creaks open behind him, and a small shadow looms in August’s dying light. He doesn’t even need to look; there’s no one else it could be.
“Hey,” Sojiro says eloquently, because it’s the only thing his brain can muster, and snuffs out his cigarette on the pavement.
Futaba doesn’t say anything, but she sits down right beside him on the steps. Her neatly combed and styled hair has long since gone rogue, coming loose from the black ribbon tying it in place, and dried tear tracks line her cheeks. Somehow, she looks simultaneously older and younger than her 13 years.
“Futaba,” Sojiro chokes out, and there’s so much he wants to say to her. He wants to tell her he’s sorry he didn’t listen, that he didn’t prevent this. He wants to ask if she resents him for involving himself in the research project that took her mother away from her. He wants to say he’ll protect her now, but they’d both know he’d be lying.
“Your mother loved you very much,” he says instead, and covers his eyes with his palm.
Sojiro weeps. Futaba doesn’t, not anymore, and she doesn’t say anything either. But she stays beside him anyway, and Sojiro doesn’t blame her. He saw how everyone inside looked at her—some with detached pity for a distant relative they barely knew, others with disdain for the bastard child they believed should not have been born.
It turns his stomach to think about, but what can he do? He’s not family. He’s just a man, pining after a dead woman who he didn’t even know how to save.
But even still, as the summer evening draws on, it’s him that Wakaba’s teenage daughter stays planted firmly beside. They sit there together in a heavy silence, until some relative—Wakaba’s mother, maybe—emerges to collect Futaba.
Sojiro feels her absence like a hole in his heart the moment she’s gone.
He must look out of place here, Sojiro thinks a bit self-consciously. He meant for Ren to come along with him to Futaba’s ceremony, but he’s waiting back at the cafe with some of their other friends to surprise her (“I love you both, but I’m not showing my face at Evil School” were his exact words, and, well, who’s Sojiro to argue), so instead he’s here alone.
Feeling a bit foolish, Sojiro cranes his neck to search the crowd of uniforms and families for a familiar shock of red hair. Futaba is so short that it’s impossible to spot her, not until she’s already making a beeline across the school grounds, careening right toward him. Sojiro can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.
“Sojiro!” she shouts, expertly dodging some bumbling classmates and throwing herself into Sojiro’s waiting arms. He catches her and uses the momentum to spin them both around, holding her close while she cackles, arms hooked around his neck. He’s getting a bit old to lift her without feeling it in his back the next morning, but it’s worth it.
They’re both laughing by the time he puts her back down, keeping one hand on her shoulder.
“Finally!” Futaba throws her hands up in the air. “That ceremony was so boring, I thought it’d never end! Can we go home now?”
“Sheesh, someone’s in a hurry. What, you running from someone?”
Futaba gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes, Dad, from high school . Duh.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders and leads them to the school gates. It’s been a warm spring thus far in Tokyo, and the sakura trees are already beginning to bloom a brilliant pink. “But still, it’s a big day.”
“Hmm, that’s true,” Futaba says in a mischievous tone. “A Phantom Thief will never again walk the halls of Shujin. It’s the end of an era, truly.”
Sojiro snorts. “Alright, alright, that’s enough out of you, kid.”
“Aw, come on, you know you love me!”
Sojiro glances down and catches Futaba’s cheeky grin, her eyes bright. The sky over Tokyo is a brilliant blue, not a cloud in sight.
“That, I do,” Sojiro says, his heart warm. “I love you very much.”