The first morning in her new life arrived gray and hesitant, like the sky itself wasn't sure if it could allow warmth. Snow had left the city soft, damp, and smelling of earth and wet asphalt. Raka woke in a small, furnished apartment that was all hers, yet it still felt unreal. The bed was neatly made, a comfort she had long forgotten could exist. Windows looked out over a quiet street, and the sunlight, weak but persistent, painted the walls in pale gold.
Akio had arranged it all before she even had a chance to protest. Not just the job at the pharmacy, but a place to sleep, a warm bed, hot water, a small stove, and even some groceries. It was a kindness she had never known could exist without strings attached, without judgment, without expectation.
For a granny who had spent her life carrying the world on her shoulders, who had survived parents who abandoned her, bullies who spat at her, teachers who called her worthless, and a city that had turned her down again and again, this... this felt almost dangerous.
She sat at the edge of the bed, hands curled into fists in her lap. The apartment smelled faintly of lavender and detergent. She remembered her great-grandfather's shelves, the jars lined like soldiers waiting to serve. The memory made her heart ache. She had dreamed for decades of doing this work—not for recognition, not for money, not for anything but the act of healing—but to be allowed to try now... it made her want to cry before breakfast.
Akio knocked lightly at the door. "Raka? Breakfast is ready."
Her lips twitched into something that resembled a smile, though she didn't trust it yet. "I'm coming," she said, her voice low. She had never called anyone by name without some edge of caution, but she found herself saying it without hesitation to him.
The apartment was small but tidy. A table for two, two chairs, a kitchenette lined with the bare essentials. And for the first time, she realized she wasn't entering a room of judgment—she was entering a home. Not a grand home, not one she would have imagined for herself, but a place where she could rest without fear of being kicked out, shouted at, or ignored.
Akio poured two cups of tea. He watched her cautiously, as though he understood how fragile she was beneath the bulk of muscle and steel. "You'll get used to this," he said softly.
"I doubt it," she muttered, though her eyes lingered on the cup like a child trying to believe in a present she had finally been given.
And so it began.
The first day at the pharmacy was like being thrown into a storm, only the storm was made of labels, prescriptions, and the subtle, delicate responsibility of lives entrusted into her hands. Raka's arms, the strength that had once flung drunken people like sacks of grain, now lifted heavy boxes of medicine, shelved stock, and cleaned counters. Her hands, strong from decades of labor, became instruments of precision.
At first, she faltered. Not because her strength wasn't enough—there, she had no rival—but because the work required more than brute force. Precision, patience, memory. Names, doses, allergies, combinations. Each pill, each tincture, each prescription demanded a level of care she had never been trained for.
Akio guided her. Not as a teacher scolding a student, but as a companion showing the way. His hands moved beside hers, demonstrating how to fill capsules, how to measure herbs, how to record doses in neat, exact handwriting. And she tried. Oh, how she tried.
Some days ended in exhaustion so complete her muscles ached, and her fingers trembled—not from weakness but from effort, from the constant insistence of her mind to remember, calculate, and perfect. Some nights she lay awake, thinking she was too old, too slow, too set in her ways to learn a craft that had taken others years of careful study.
And yet, slowly, imperceptibly, her body remembered what her heart had always known. Strength wasn't just lifting logs or throwing drunk attics—it could hold jars steady, crush roots into powders without breaking them, lift patients' spirits without words, move through a storm of paperwork without giving up.
Akio didn't push her. He didn't correct her with anger. Only patience. Only quiet encouragement. Sometimes he would watch her pause over a prescription, fingers trembling slightly as she measured a dose. And he would place his hand over hers, letting her feel his steadiness beneath the tremor.
"You're fine," he would say. "You've got this."
And for the first time, she believed it.
It wasn't just work that she learned to adjust to. It was being cared for.
Akio had paid for the apartment quietly, with no fanfare, no announcement, no requirement that she repay him. At first, Raka felt a weight in her heart. She had never accepted a gift without strings. She had never allowed herself to rely on anyone. She had survived, after all. She had lifted and fought and worked until people feared her, and now someone had simply... chosen to carry some of the burden for her.
The first night in the apartment, she walked from the pharmacy and saw her own reflection in the window, framed by falling snow. She looked different. Strong still, yes—but not hardened. Not alone. She could see it in her eyes: a tiny spark of trust. And a tremor of fear. Fear that it might all disappear if she let herself rest too long.
Yet when Akio opened the door that evening, smiling faintly, holding a bowl of hot soup, she allowed herself to breathe. She accepted it without complaint, without suspicion. A small miracle.
Weeks passed.
Raka's hands, once used only to lift, throw, and fight, now learned to measure, stir, crush, and pour. Her muscles made the work easier, lifting heavy boxes with a single arm, reaching shelves others would have needed a ladder for. Customers noticed. They commented on her strength, not realizing it was now paired with a precision that had grown quietly, day by day.
And Akio noticed, too. He watched her from across the counter when she meticulously filled a prescription or carefully prepared an herbal poultice. A subtle pride flickered in his eyes, the kind reserved for people who had been written off by the world and then found their stride.
"You're getting faster," he said one evening, the last customers gone. "And your hands... they're steadier than most apprentices half your age."
Raka's lips twitched. "I still feel like I'm holding too many things in my head."
"Then let the work hold them for you," he said quietly. "You don't have to carry everything alone anymore."
She wanted to scoff. Wanted to mutter something sarcastic. But she couldn't. The words stuck in her throat, heavy and true.
There were moments of doubt. Nights when her back ached, her mind tangled with the memories of decades of failure. When she would pause over a prescription, and the echo of rejection letters seemed louder than Akio's gentle guidance. When she remembered being shoved into alleys, mocked, abandoned. When the fear whispered that she wasn't good enough.
But then she would see him. Watching from across the counter. Smiling faintly. Patient. Expectant. And she remembered what he had said that first night in the snow: Being alone doesn't help. Don't let yourself be alone.
And for the first time in her life, she wasn't.
The apartment became hers in ways that went beyond walls and furniture. She cooked for herself, folded clothes neatly, even added a few jars of her own herbs to a small shelf. It wasn't just a roof over her head—it was proof that she could have a life where she didn't have to survive alone, where strength didn't have to mean armor, and where care could exist without debt.
One evening, after closing, Akio lingered. He leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching her finish organizing the shelves.
"You've changed," he said.
She didn't answer immediately. She placed the last jar carefully, then turned. "I've had a good teacher," she said quietly.
He smirked faintly, shaking his head. "Not just that. You've learned to use yourself, Raka. Your strength... it's not just arms and muscle. It's patience, precision, heart. You're... formidable."
Her lips twitched, the ghost of her old laugh rising. "I'm still eighty, you know. Don't overpraise me just yet."
He didn't laugh. Only nodded. "I know. But it doesn't matter. You're still learning. And that's enough."
She stared at him, and for the first time, she thought: I am enough.
And in the quiet hum of the pharmacy, surrounded by jars, herbs, prescriptions, and warmth, Raka felt the impossible weight of decades lift slightly. She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was living.
Not fully, perhaps—not yet—but alive in a way she had never imagined possible.
And for the first time in her life, she allowed herself to believe: she had a home, a purpose, a friend—and maybe, just maybe, a future she could reach.
The snow fell outside the windows, but inside, a different kind of warmth spread. One that didn't demand proof, didn't hinge on perfection, didn't care about rejection letters. A warmth that said: You are not alone. You are allowed to belong.
Raka Grundane...