Chapter 4 - Hikata's Commercial Debut
It began like any other weekday morning. The hum of the pharmacy fridge, the shuffle of feet across freshly cleaned tile, the light tap of Akio's pen as he reviewed prescriptions at the front counter. Peaceful. Predictable.
Until Misaki slammed a crinkled newspaper down like thunder.
"You made a commercial!?"
Akio blinked, startled. "What? I didn't."
Misaki turned the page around. There, in full color, was Hikata—grinning like a game show host, decked out in a lab coat, with animated pills dancing around him, all of them wearing googly eyes and superhero capes. The bold, garish headline read: 'Power Pills & Hug Hearts!' — The New Face of Hukitaske Pharmacy?
Hikata strolled in moments later, a apple in one hand and zero shame in his expression. "Oh, that! Yeah, it's more of a promo piece. Not an official commercial per se. I took some creative liberties."
Akio sighed, burying his head in his hands. "Hikata..."
"C'mon! It's got character! Branding! Zing!" Hikata spread his arms like a magician revealing his final trick. "I call it 'marketing innovation through semi-accurate pharmacological spectacle.'"
That evening, the thirty-second spot aired during a regional broadcast of the news. The screen flickered to life with a cartoon bacteria invasion in downtown Tokyo. A heroic Hikata burst onto the scene with laser eyes, karate-chopping viruses and shouting, "Hukitaske Pharmacy—where your pain gets K.O.'d!"
Akio stared in quiet horror.
Yasahute laughed so hard he knocked over a bottle of herbal syrup.
The next morning, the phone wouldn't stop ringing. People asking if they really offered superpowered pills. Kids asking if Hikata worked there and if they could meet him. One elderly caller just wanted to hear the "laser eye pharmacist" say hello.
"We're going to need a new phone line," Rumane muttered, massaging her temples.
But amidst the chaos, something unexpected happened. People began coming in. Not in droves, but steadily. A tired father with his two young sons. A teenager who'd never set foot in a pharmacy before. A shy college student who admitted she saw the ad and thought it was "adorably dumb."
Akio watched from the counter as Hikata posed for selfies with children and explained what vitamins were to a curious five-year-old.
"You know," Misaki murmured beside him, "it's ridiculous. But it's... working."
Akio nodded. "It's like a spoonful of sugar."
The commercial didn't solve everything. There were still prescriptions to fill, records to sort, headaches to address. But in the oddest way, it had opened a door.
Sometimes, a little laughter was all the medicine people needed.
Scene 2: The Broken Pill Dispenser
It happened on a Wednesday, during the late-day rush. The auto-dispensing machine—the one Akio had personally calibrated, the one he swore by—groaned like a dying beast and stopped mid-rotation. Then came the hiss of escaping powder, a whine, and finally, silence.
"No, no, no," Akio muttered, pressing buttons in vain.
The machine clattered once more, and a cloud of crushed medicine puffed into the air.
Patients were already lined up. Prescriptions in hand. Conversations frozen.
Akio felt the panic rising.
But before it could crest, Rumane stepped forward. "Manual cards. Now."
Misaki sprinted to the backroom for the backup forms. Yasahute moved among the waiting patients, offering them hot barley tea from the kettle they kept for emergencies.
Akio took a deep breath, then rolled up his sleeves.
With mortar and pestle in hand, he ground each dose himself. Precision over panic. Muscle over machine.
It took hours. A symphony of scribbling, sorting, mixing, and murmured apologies.
When the final patient left, bowing in thanks, the team collapsed in the center aisle. The floor was dusty with powder, and Akio's palms were stained white.
"Better than leg day," said Riki, entering with a bag of sports drinks. He passed one to each of them and raised his can. "To teamwork."
They drank in silence. Tired. Aching. But together.
Some technology fails. But trust, that held.
Scene 3: Strangers and Regulars
Every day brought someone new.
There was the old gramps who never remembered his wallet, but always remembered Akio's name.
There was the nervous teenager who came in asking about... chickens. On the shore. No one understood what he meant, but Misaki gave him a calming tea and he left happier.
There was the office worker who came every Thursday at noon, eyes rimmed red, always buying the same over-the-counter sleep aid. She never spoke more than a thank you. But one day, she left behind a note: "Your kindness is the only thing holding me together."
Akio began to memorize the faces. The rhythms. The hesitations before a question. The laughter that sometimes slipped out like sunlight through blinds.
A pharmacy was never just a store. It was a tapestry.
And everyone was a thread.
Scene 4: A Letter from the Ex-Wife
It came on a quiet Tuesday. Rain tapped the windows in a soft, rhythmic lullaby. The letter had no return address. Just Akio's name, written in a delicate, slanted script that made his breath catch.
He didn't open it right away.
Instead, he placed it in his pocket. Carried it like a weight all day. Checking inventories. Helping a child with a scraped knee. Smiling through routine.
When the pharmacy closed and the lights dimmed, he sat in the back room and unfolded it with trembling fingers.
She wasn't angry.
She wasn't bitter.
She had moved on. Remarried. Doing well. She'd seen the commercial. The photos. The stories in the paper.
"I'm glad you made it, Akio," she wrote. "Our daughter would have loved to see this."
He didn't cry right away.
But when the overhead light flickered and went out, he let the dark hug him.
And he breathed.
Some moments arrive like storms. Others, like soft dawns.
And in a tiny pharmacy tucked between two old apartment buildings, Akio lived them all.
[Next: Chapter 5 — An Old Photo, A Silent Cry]