Prologue 2
Fourteen months later, the floor of the Maekawa house was a mess of blocks and soft cars. Aiko sat cross-legged, hair in a loose tie, sleeves pushed up. Hajime wobbled from the table to her knee with both hands out, cheeks red from effort. He wore a clean undershirt and little shorts that kept slipping. His steps were fast and careful, like a new plan he was trying. He bumped her knee, lost balance, and laughed at the fall before he cried, which was his habit. Aiko laughed too and scooped him up.
"Okay, champ. Again? You want again?" She set him on his feet. He stamped once as if to tell his legs to behave. He took three steps to the low shelf, patted the wooden train, and looked back for praise.
Keiko watched from the kitchen doorway. She didn't make a sound. She had a dish towel over one shoulder and her eyes on the boy, the way she watched storms and budgets and knives. The kettle clicked. Steam started a thin line. The house smelled like tea and something fried from last night.
Aiko blew her hair out of her face. "He's fast now," she said. "He sleeps and then, boom, new skill. It's not fair."
Keiko didn't smile, but her mouth softened. "It is time," she said.
Hajime smacked the train against the shelf too hard and frowned at the noise. Aiko reached to lower his hand. "Gentle. Hey. Gentle."
He looked at her like he was reading her face for rules. He put the train down and patted it twice. He nodded to himself, serious, as if he had passed a test he had made up.
Aiko's thoughts slipped. Fourteen months. She saw the wet night again, the cones in the road, the cry under concrete. She pressed the memory down and breathed through her nose. Not now. He was here. He was heavy in her arms. He had a cowlick that went its own way, a habit of curling his toes when he concentrated, a laugh that arrived before the joke did. She kissed the top of his head. He smelled like soap and warm milk and the dust of the floor.
"Months ago," she said out loud without meaning to. Keiko heard, said nothing, and kept watching.
Hajime tugged at Aiko's sleeve. "Up," he said, the new word still rough.
"What? Up? Yeah? Okay." She lifted him. He pressed his forehead to her chin. She swayed a little and felt the old pull in her chest that had not left since the first night. She thought, like she had thought a hundred times, I will not let the river have him. I will not let the story have him. I am tired.
She set him down with Keiko and stood. "I'll get him more wipes," she said, though they had plenty, and walked to the small back room. She touched the door frame and the top of the cabinet, then stopped prying. The memory came anyway.
—One year ago—
"Alright, Mom, see you later," Aiko had called, one hand on the door, the other on her keys. Keiko stood by the shrine, a stick of incense between two fingers. Aiko waved. "Don't wait up. I'm on late shift."
Keiko nodded. "Be careful."
"Yeah." Aiko stepped into her shoes, bounced once to settle them, then paused. "Do you want anything from the shop?"
"No."
"Okay." She pulled the door shut. The air outside was wet and warm, and the sky had that dull glare before rain. She jogged down the steps and into the car. The volunteer jacket was on the passenger seat. She left it there on purpose, and the town liked to see it.
Hours later, the rain came hard. She had finished calls, moved a drunk off a curb, checked on a woman with chest pain that wasn't her heart, and then the cones on the river road tipped like a lazy line. Aiko sighed into the empty car. "Come on," she said to the cones, as if they could hear, and pulled over. She turned on hazards, stepped out, and felt water soak the edge of her socks at once.
She set the cones back in a row. The wind shoved her. "Knock it off," she told it. She shivered. "I should've brought the thicker socks. Stupid."
She heard it then. A thin sound, high and raw. "WAAAAAAA!!!" It didn't fit the road. It didn't fit the rain. It cut clean through both. She froze. The wind pushed again. She didn't move.
"Is that— no." The sound came again. "WAAAAAAA!!!"
Aiko looked at the dark strip of trees by the overpass, the low concrete belly of the bridge, and the tangled fence. "Is that a baby?" She hated that her voice went small.
She ran. Gravel slipped under her shoes. Her breath got ragged. She ducked under the lip of the bridge. The rain quieted here, just a little, like someone had put a hand over its mouth. Trash skittered on the wet concrete. A plastic bag stuck to a bolt. The cry came from the shadow behind a pillar.
"Hey— hey," she said, softer now, stepping into the dark. "I'm here. Don't— I'm here."
She found him. A white undershirt, soaked through, tied in a clumsy knot. Inside it, a newborn. Red. Eyes squeezed. Mouth wide. Tiny hands in fists like they were arguing with the air. A coin, bent and dull, caught in the hem. She saw it without understanding it.
"Oh my God," she said. "Okay. Okay." She slid her hands under the bundle. "I've got you. You're cold." Her shirt stuck to his face; she eased it off with two fingers. "Sorry. I'm sorry." Her throat pinched. She swallowed it.
He cried into her chest. The noise hit something in her. A wall. A door. A wrong note that she knew too well. She saw her brother's shoes by the back door from years ago, laces untied, wet, never put away. She saw a rope, clean and coiled, then not clean. She saw a face in a photograph that went to the shrine and never returned to the table.
"No," she said, out loud, to the past and to the dark and to the habit of this town. "Not this time." She ran for the car. The rain beat her. She kept her footing. She set the bundle on the passenger seat, braced it with one hand, and started the engine with the other. Her jaw throbbed from clenching. "Stay with me. Please. Come on."
The hospital lights were bright and flat. A nurse took the baby and said, "Vitals are okay." The voice was brisk, kind. Aiko nodded and tried to stand still. She failed. Her hands shook and then stopped. She put them in her pockets. She took them out. She didn't know where to look.
A doctor in a short coat came in, hair plastered from the rain. He glanced at the clock, then at the chart. "Where did you find him?"
"Under the river bridge. Wrapped in a shirt. No note. No car, no person."
"Okay." He didn't flinch. He didn't make a face. "We'll do the tests we can. We'll call it in."
Aiko stood in the corner while the nurse worked. She whispered to herself. "You're fine. He's fine. Stop pacing. You're making them nervous." She stopped, then started again. She hated the silence when the machines weren't beeping. She hated how the smell of sanitizer made her think of funerals.
An hour later, the doctor returned with a folder and a face he tried to smooth out. He failed.
"Ma'am," he said.
"Aiko," she said. "Aiko."
"Aiko," he said. "Do you know who his parents are?"
"No. That's why I'm asking. That's why I brought him here. I need to know his parents. They will pay and have to answer for— I don't know. They should—" Her words tripped over each other. She shut her mouth, then opened it. "Do you know?"
He looked down at the paper and then at her. "We ran the standard checks. Blood type, basic panels. He is healthy." He paused. "We did a DNA test to try to find relatives."
"And?"
The doctor pressed his lips together. "We don't have a match in any system. That happens sometimes. But—" He stopped.
"But what?"
"He has no genetics," he said, and winced at his own words as soon as they came out. "I mean— I'm saying it wrong. His DNA... it doesn't show what we expect. Usually, you can see signs that point to parents. Markers. It looks like a trail. With him, there's nothing to point to. It is... plain." He shook his head, searching for simpler words. "We can't tell you who made him. We can't tell you where he came from. The test shows a person. That's all."
Aiko stared. "That's not a thing," she said. "People come from people."
"Yes. I know." He kept his voice low. "He is a person. He's fine. He eats. He sleeps. He cries like he should. But the paper doesn't give me anyone to call."
"So we're done? That's it? You're telling me he came from nowhere?"
"I'm telling you I don't have an answer to who his parents are," the doctor said. "I can tell you he needs to be warm. He needs food every few hours. He needs someone to hold him. I can tell you the police will file a report. I can tell you social services will ask questions. I can tell you there is no emergency right now except that he needs care."
Aiko rubbed her face. "Repeat the first thing."
"He is healthy."
"No. The other thing."
"We don't have parents to list."
"And the... genetics thing."
He took a breath. "I would never say 'no genetics.' I know I just did. I'm tired. I'm sorry. There are no clues in the test that help us find family. It's like a blank form. Not broken. Just blank for that part."
Aiko's thoughts spun. She felt heat in her chest that had nothing to do with the hospital. Her brother's name came up in her throat and sat there. She swallowed hard. "I need to talk to Mama," she said. "She—" She lowered her voice, then raised it again because she hated sneaking around her mouth. "She made us all." The doctor blinked. Aiko shook her head. "Never mind. It's a family thing."
She went to the bassinet. The baby had stopped crying. His face was relaxed in the way of a deep sleep, his mouth open a little. His fist was against his cheek. The undershirt, clean now and dry, sat folded at the foot. The bent coin rested on top of it in a small plastic cup.
Aiko picked up the undershirt and the coin and slid both into the bag. "I'm taking him home for the night," she said. "Anyone with a problem can talk to me tomorrow."
The nurse opened her mouth. The doctor looked at the clock again. "Sign here," he said, pushing a form across the counter. "You'll bring him back for the follow-up in the morning."
"I'll bring him back," Aiko said. She signed. Her hand trembled once. She pressed the pen harder until it stopped.
She lifted the baby, careful with the head and the way the training videos drilled into you. He was warm now. He made a slight sound and then settled. She tucked the blanket around him and pressed her cheek to his hair. "I've got you," she said. "You hear me? I've got you."
—Now—
Aiko stepped out of the back room with a pack of wipes she didn't need. "I'm taking him for a walk," she said. "If the rain holds." She slipped Hajime into the carrier. He fussed, then relaxed when he could see her face.
Keiko wiped the counter. "Take an umbrella."
"I will." Aiko hesitated. "Mom."
Keiko looked up.
"At the hospital," Aiko said, voice flat so it wouldn't break, "they can't find where he came from. The paper was... blank. They said it nicer. It was still blank. Do you—" She stopped. Began again. "Do you know what this is?"
Keiko set the towel down. "I know what he is," she said.
"What?"
"A child."
"That's it?" Aiko's voice rose. She caught it and brought it down. "I need more than that. I need— I need you to say something real."
Keiko stepped closer. She didn't touch Aiko's arm. She looked at the boy. "Bring him home," she said. "Keep him warm. Feed him. If anyone asks, say he belongs here."
"That's not an answer."
"It is the answer you can use," Keiko said.
Aiko's temper flared and then died in the same breath. She looked down at the boy. He blinked at her, solemn, as if he could tell the room had gone tight. She let out a long breath. "Okay," she said. "Okay."
She reached for the door. "We're going to the hospital. Follow-up. Then I'm coming back and we're talking more."
Keiko nodded once. "We will talk."
Aiko stepped outside. The street was damp, but the rain had stopped. She walked fast past the noodle shop, past the old plant, past the mural that was half finished and always would be. Her feet knew the route, and her mind jumped tracks.
She thought, " I am tired of the curse." I am tired of first sons going first. I am tired of the quiet at the table after the call. I am tired of people saying, "This is how it is." I am taking this boy home. I don't care what the paper says. I don't care if the town needs a story. We will write a new one. We will not bury another kid.
Hajime patted her chest with his hand in a slow rhythm, as if he was counting something only he understood. Aiko's jaw eased.
After checking the weight and eyes at the hospital, the nurse found nothing wrong. The nurse handed back the bag with the undershirt and the coin. "Are you sure you don't want to leave these here?"
"No," Aiko said. "They're his."
She walked home without rushing, and that was a choice. She pushed the door open with her hip. "We're back."
Keiko stood at the shrine. She put out the incense with a gentle tap and turned. She waited.
Aiko didn't circle it. She went straight in. "I want him," she said. "I'll do the paperwork. I'll sit through every meeting. I'll answer the nosy questions. I'll work more shifts. I don't care. I want him in this house. If the curse is listening, it can take a day off."
Keiko took a breath. "Yes."
"That's it?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to know what the doctor said?"
"No."
Aiko laughed once, short. "You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Skip the drama."
Keiko looked at the boy again. "He needs a name."
Aiko felt the word rise on its own. It had been waiting since the moment under the bridge. "Hajime," she said. "Beginning."
Keiko nodded. "Beginning."
Aiko stepped closer to the shrine because it felt right, even if she didn't like why it felt right. She didn't pray. She didn't thank anyone. She stood there with the boy in the carrier and said, "His name is Hajime," like she was filing a form that mattered.
Keiko reached for the incense bowl, set it on the step by the door, and spoke in the same level tone she used for weather and lists. "Welcome, Hajime."
The coin went into the small dish by the door where the keys lived. The rope stayed behind the storeroom door. The rule in the drawer did not change that day. Aiko looked at it later and shut the drawer hard. She held the child until his body went heavy in sleep. She repeated his name, quieter. "Hajime." It landed in the room like a seat pulled out at a table that had been missing one.
He opened his eyes, checked that she was there, and closed them again. Aiko did not move for a long time. Keiko made tea and set a cup by her elbow without speaking. They sat in the clean light of late afternoon. No sirens. No visitors. Just the sound of the old clock, steady, like a promise someone meant to keep.