Chapter Text
The first snow of winter comes down quietly, almost politely, as if it doesn’t want to draw attention to itself.
Hajime Iwaizumi notices it anyway.
He stands outside the closed public library with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a jacket that used to belong to his father. It’s too thin, the zipper sticks, and one sleeve is permanently stretched from years of being tugged at, but it’s the warmest thing he owns.
His breath fogs in front of his face as he watches the flakes settle into the cracks of the sidewalk, melting on contact with the damp concrete.
Behind him, his little brother Kaito kicks at a slush pile with worn sneakers, pretending it’s a game. His sister Aoi is curled against their mother’s side, face hidden in her scarf, her small shoulders trembling—not from cold alone, Hajime knows, but from exhaustion.
Their mom looks smaller than she used to.
Not physically—she’s always been small—but in the way grief has folded her inward, like she’s trying to take up less space in a world that’s already pushed them out. Her eyes flick up to the sky, calculating, worried.
Snow means colder nights. Snow means fewer people willing to stop. Snow means shelters filling faster.
Snow means winter is truly here.
It hasn’t even been three months since their father died.
Three months since the hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and despair. Three months since Hajime watched his mother grip the side of the bed and beg, her voice breaking, while machines screamed the truth they didn’t want to hear.
Three months since Hajime became the oldest man in the family at just seventeen years old.
The eviction notice came two weeks later.
Bills stacked up faster than grief could settle. Funeral costs, hospital fees, rent they couldn’t keep up with on one income that barely existed anymore.
Their apartment emptied out piece by piece—first the TV, then furniture, then anything worth selling—until there was nothing left to trade for time.
Now they trade dignity for warmth.
“Mom,” Hajime says quietly, stepping closer. “The shelter opens in an hour. We should start heading over.”
She nods, but there’s hesitation there. There’s always hesitation. Last night they were turned away—too full, try again tomorrow. Tomorrow has been coming for weeks now, and it never gets kinder.
Kaito tugs on Hajime’s sleeve. “Haji,” he whispers, voice small. “My hands hurt.”
Hajime swallows hard. He takes off his gloves without a word and pulls them onto Kaito’s hands, kneeling to tug them snug. His fingers immediately sting as the cold bites down, but he doesn’t flinch.
Big brothers don’t flinch. Big brothers don’t complain. Big brothers don’t get to fall apart.
Aoi peeks out from her scarf. “Are we gonna have soup tonight?”
The question lands like a punch to the chest.
Hajime forces a grin, the kind he’s perfected lately—wide, confident, unbreakable. “Yeah. Of course we are.”
He doesn’t know if it’s true.
But winter doesn’t care about truth, or promises, or how hard someone is trying. Winter only knows cold. And as the snow begins to fall heavier, Hajime tightens his grip on the straps of the worn backpack that holds everything they have left and silently swears something to himself.
No matter how cold it gets.
No matter how hungry they are.
No matter how long the nights become.
He won’t let winter take his family too.
They arrive at the shelter, only to be met with the door closing with a dull, final sound.
Hajime stands there for a second longer than he should, staring at the peeling paint and the fogged glass like it might change its mind if he waits. Like the woman inside will suddenly remember them—four people instead of statistics—and unlock the door again.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said, eyes already sliding past them. “We’re full. Try again tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
The word feels like a bad joke now.
Hajime exhales slowly and turns around before his mom can see his face.
Snow crunches under his shoes as he leads them away, deeper into the city where the streetlights flicker and the buildings huddle close together like they’re trying to keep themselves warm.
No one speaks.
Kaito’s steps drag. Aoi stumbles once, and Hajime catches her without thinking, lifting her onto his back even though his arms are already aching.
His mother walks behind them, coughing quietly into her sleeve, shoulders hunched against the cold and the shame of being seen.
They end up in an alleyway that smells like garbage and wet concrete, tucked between two abandoned buildings. It’s barely sheltered from the wind, but it’s out of sight, and that’s enough for tonight.
Hajime spreads out the thin blanket they managed to keep, its fabric stiff and fraying. He gives it to his siblings first, wrapping them tight, then pulls his jacket off and drapes it over his mother’s shoulders when she starts shivering.
“I’m fine,” she murmurs weakly, trying to hand it back.
“No,” Hajime says, firmer than he means to. Then, softer, “Please.”
She doesn’t argue after that.
They huddle together on the frozen ground, backs pressed to brick that steals heat like it’s hungry for it. Hajime stays on the outside, taking the brunt of the cold, knees drawn up to his chest. His teeth chatter, but he clamps his jaw shut, forcing it to stop.
Seventeen years old, he thinks dully.
He should be worrying about exams. About graduation. About stupid things like sports and friends and what comes after high school.
Instead, he counts breaths. Counts heartbeats. Listens for the sound of his siblings’ breathing evening out into sleep.
The night is long. The cold is longer.
Weeks pass.
Winter settles in like it plans to stay forever.
Hajime’s hands are cracked and bleeding now, knuckles raw from the cold and from clenching too hard, too often. His cheeks are hollow. His ribs show through his shirt when he moves the wrong way.
Food is inconsistent—soup kitchens when they’re lucky, day-old bread when they’re not. Hunger becomes a constant presence, a dull ache that never quite goes away.
His siblings change too.
Kaito stops running. He stops kicking slush piles and asking questions. He walks quietly now, eyes down, hands always tucked into his sleeves like he’s trying to disappear inside himself.
Aoi cries more. At night, during the worst cold snaps, she whimpers in her sleep and calls for their dad. Hajime presses her face into his chest and whispers apologies into her hair, even though he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for anymore.
Their mother gets worse.
It starts with a cough that won’t leave.
At first, she brushes it off, says it’s just the cold, just a little sickness. She’s always been like that—minimizing, enduring, putting herself last.
But the cough deepens, turns wet and painful, rattling in her chest in a way that makes Hajime’s stomach twist.
She grows pale. Her hands shake. Some mornings, she struggles to stand.
“Hajime,” she whispers one night, voice hoarse as they sit curled together in another borrowed corner of the city. “I’m sorry.”
The word hits him harder than anything else.
“For what?” he asks, immediately.
“For this,” she says, eyes shining with unshed tears. “You shouldn’t have to—”
“Stop,” Hajime says, panic rising sharp and fast. He grips her hands, feeling how cold they are, how thin. “Don’t say that. We’re fine. We’re gonna be fine.”
He needs to believe it.
But a week later, she collapses.
It happens outside a convenience store, her knees buckling without warning. Hajime barely catches her before she hits the ground. People walk around them, stepping wide, pretending not to see.
Her skin burns under his hands.
She’s feverish, shaking, barely conscious. Hajime’s heart slams so hard it feels like it might tear through his ribs.
“Mom,” he whispers desperately. “Mom, look at me. Please.”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused. She tries to smile.
“I’m okay,” she lies.
Hajime has never been more terrified in his life.
They don’t have money for a doctor. Hospitals mean questions, bills, things he can’t afford. But as the nights grow colder and his mother’s breathing grows weaker, fear outweighs everything else.
They’re all in worse condition now.
Hajime is exhausted beyond words, running on adrenaline and guilt and a responsibility that feels far too heavy for his shoulders.
His siblings are thinner, quieter, wrapped in layers that don’t quite keep the cold out. His mother’s cough echoes through the alleyways at night, a harsh reminder that winter is winning.
And for the first time since his father died, Hajime lets a terrifying thought creep in, uninvited and impossible to ignore.
What if trying isn’t enough?
What if he can’t protect them from this?
He presses his forehead against the cold brick one night, breath shaking, fists clenched so tight his nails bite into his palms.
He doesn’t cry.
But something inside him cracks anyway.