"Even flowers that bloom together may wilt at different times. What matters is what they leave behind in the soil."
Setting the Season
The long winter has thawed… but not into warmth.
Spring in the mountain town doesn't arrive with bright blossoms or sunny skies. It crawls in on foggy mornings and half-melted snow, dragging a chilling reminder that life doesn't always bloom on time. The grandfathers home — with its wooden frame and creaking floors — breathes in rhythm with the slow return of the season. The Garden of Blooming Winters weathers its transition quietly, its herbs and flowers pushing against the frost with tired determination. What was once a resting ground now hums — a faint promise of growth.
But something is wrong.
Toshirou Hukitaske — once strong as the ancient cypress growing at the garden's heart — now coughs between his laughter. His hands don't just tremble with the cold; they quiver with something much deeper. A sickness not entirely born of age.
And Akio and Natsuko, now 13 and 14, feel the crack in their world before they fully understand what's broken.
The Uneven Spring
The train horn echoes through the valley.
Akio Hukitaske steps off, his shoes crunching on slushy snow. He's taller now, features sharpened by time and solitude. But his eyes — dark as ever — hold the same quiet rebellion, the same loneliness planted years ago. He carries a backpack heavier than before, filled less with belongings and more with unspoken concern.
His parents no longer argue — they just stop speaking altogether. Silence now sits with him at every meal. But here… here in his grandfather's little mountain world, even the quiet has a heartbeat.
Waiting at the edge of the platform is Natsuko, arms crossed, an umbrella slung over her shoulder. Her dark crimson hair — longer now — is braided messily, ribbon fraying at the ends. She looks older, but her eyes still hold fire.
"You're late," she says. Not a greeting. Just a cold fact. "Train was slow," Akio mutters. "You were slow." She says. "Nice to see you too." Akio mumbles back.
She shoves the umbrella toward him, colder than the rain. "You'll catch a cold walking in this."Akio snatches it from her hands. "Worrying about me? Stupid." She punches his shoulder. "Dream on, city kid."
But they walk home under the same umbrella, footsteps patterned in the slush — two slightly crooked lines running side by side. They say nothing, yet everything they withhold says more.
At the house, Toshirou greets them from the porch — wool blanket around his shoulders, smile like old tea: warm but thin.
"Ah," he laughs, coughing. "Spring returns — but brings two weeds instead of cherry blossoms."
Natsuko smiles softly. Akio's reply is a sigh of relief disguised as annoyance.
"You still working in the garden?" Akio asks. "Trying," Toshirou says, lifting his shaking hands. "But lately… the garden works me."
Akio says nothing. Because he sees it now — the pale skin, the slightly sunken eyes, the cough that doesn't stay quiet anymore. The seasons haven't just been changing — they've been taking.
The Cracks Beneath the Soil
Morning dew coats the camellias. The winter mint is fresh and sturdy, but the snow has not been kind to the more delicate herbs. The twin pot where Akio and Natsuko planted their sprigs last winter rests near the cypress roots.
Akio finds Natsuko kneeling beside it, silent, lips cracked.
"You watered it too much," he says, crouching beside her. "No," she whispers. "It's the soil. It's losing… something."
The snow mint thrives — bright green, aromatic — but the winter camellia droops, petals bruising at the edges, stem bowing. Akio touches the soil. It's moist, but wrong. It feels wrong. Too soft. Too cold. Too… empty.
"You're just bad at taking care of plants," he teases half-heartedly. "Shut up," she snaps — but her voice isn't angry. It's scared.
Then Toshirou calls from the house. "Natsuko! Bring me the ledger, will you?" She freezes. Akio feels her hesitate — senses the chill behind the request.
The ledger. The brown book that Toshirou never let slip from his sight.
Natsuko disappears inside, and Akio stays by the pot. He notices something strange this time — the soil beneath the roots of the camellia is darker. Not from rot, but as if ink has seeped into it. Like the earth is bleeding.
The Ledger
Toshirou's study smells of camphor and old wood.
Natsuko enters, hands clutching the ledger. Toshirou sits beneath the window — back straight but face pale. He opens the book with care, like it contains a heart instead of paper.
"This," he begins, "is where I kept our mistakes."
Akio arrives quietly, ears pricked.
"What kind of mistakes?" he asks.
Toshirou hesitates. His fingers linger over frantic handwriting near the final pages — darker, more rushed.
"A medicine that heals too quickly," he finally whispers. "A root that absorbs the poison of dying bodies… but leaves too much death in the soil."
He closes the ledger.
"Some flowers bloom not for beauty… but to hide the rot beneath."
Akio wants to ask more, but Toshirou rises and coughs — a sound sharp and rattling.
"You shouldn't be up," Natsuko scolds, voice breaking. "No," Toshirou replies gently. "But I won't be able to stand much longer anyway."
He leaves them in the study, alone with the ledger and the echoes of old guilt.
The Fracture
The days pass in quiet dread.
Toshirou's cough worsens. His lessons are shorter now — his speech slower. But he still teaches. He shows them how to combine winter herbs for fever, how to compress peppermint for asthma, how to separate roots when the earth is sick.
Until one quiet afternoon... everything breaks.
Natsuko and Akio are preparing herbal extract. Natsuko's face is tense, her movements sharp.
"You're measuring wrong," she snaps. "No, I'm not!" He replys. "You're diluting it! It won't work this way!" She spoke back.
Akio slams the vial down. "Why do you always act like you're better at this?!" "Because I am!" She replies with hesitant breath. "You're not the only one who loves this place!" She breaths out.
"You don't love it! You visit when you feel like playing pharmacist!"
He sees her freezing — sees something raw break across her face. But he can't stop. Not now. Not when the fear inside him is burning him alive.
"You think you're his real family? He's my grandfather!" Akio yells at her face.
The flask falls. Shatters. Liquid splashes like blood.
Before anything else is said — Toshirou appears, staggering, clutching his ribs. "Stop!" he chokes, hand pressed against the wall. "You both need to stop i—!" He collapses. The world turns to chaos.
The Night After
The doctor leaves with a grave nod. Toshirou couldn't breathe — lungs collapsing inward from something no medicine could fix. He barely survived. Akio stares at the floor. Natsuko grips her knees so hard her knuckles turn white.
"He's dying," she whispers. Akio's jaw tightens. "No." "Yes," she insists. "And it's because of the garden."
She wipes her eyes. Tries to steady her voice.
"He told me before he fell… his experiment bled into the soil. The roots are poisoning themselves to help other plants grow. But it takes too much. He tested it himself. He breathed the toxins while treating the soil."
Akio can't breathe. The thoughts come sharp and cold.
"So he did this to himself." "To save someone else… probably a patient. Or maybe a child." She replies. "He let this place kill him…" She breaths out.
She sobs then — quietly, shoulders shaking like leaves in wind.
Akio wants to comfort her. Instead, he says:
"Why didn't he stop…?"She closes her fist. "Because he believed he could control it. But even the best medicine becomes poison if the healer forgets the balance."
The room feels too small for the truth.
That night, neither of them slept.
The Last Lesson
Toshirou is moved to the window, where he looks out upon the sleeping garden. His voice is weak, but his mind is sharp. "Come here," he calls. They kneel beside him.
"Do you know why I never gave up on this garden?" No answer. He smiles softly. "Because every broken root, every dying petal… taught me how to plant something better. Forgiveness is just compost — it feeds the next season."
He lays the ledger between them.
"The garden is yours. Heal it. Together. And burn the ledger."
The Fractured Spring
Rain swallows the night.
Akio and Natsuko stand beneath the cypress tree with the ledger. Lightning cracks in the sky. He holds the matchbox. She holds his hand. "If we burn it, it's like killing what's left of him," Akio whispers. "If we don't… it'll kill what's left of us."
She touches the damp bark of the cypress.
"He said this tree was the heart. Let it hold his last breath."
Akio lights the match. The flame wobbles, then steadies. They lower it to the ledger.
The fire catches — swallowing the paper, ink running like black tears. The ground hisses as the fire crawls into the soil. They don't speak again until the flames die. "I'm… sorry," Akio finally murmurs. "For that day. For what I said." Her eyes glisten. "I know." "You are my family. You always were." Akio replies back. She lets out a soft, broken laugh. "You're an idiot, Akio." "Yeah." Akio said. The rain stops. The clouds part. A pale moon watches silently as a quiet rebirth begins beneath the earth. The fractured spring ends… but the next season waits.
Epilogue: The Broken Season
Toshirou passes two weeks later.
He leaves no fanfare — only calm. Like a winter wind that finally grows tired. His last written words, found under a pressed camellia:
"Every medicine I made began as a mistake. Every life I touched began as a wound." Akio and Natsuko stand side by side under the cypress. Neither cries — not yet. The grief hasn't found its way into tears.
But when they look down, they see a new sprout growing from the ashes. Small. Blue-tinted. Alive. A bloom that does not belong to winter or spring.
Something new.
TO BE CONTINUED...