Chapter 1: Runaways in the Mountain

*Kiro’s POV*

The first thing I remember about that night wasn't the fire, but the silence. The constant ringing in my ear.

We were seven and five at the time. Old enough to know what we’d lost, too young to carry it. 

 The authorities sent us to an orphanage on the edge of the city, and for a while, it seemed like things might settle. But whispers travel fast in places like that. “That boy’s trouble.” “That girl’s too fragile.” Adults said it like we weren’t listening, but children listen to everything. I could see it in the way the staff looked at us: the calculation of where to send us, who would “fit” where, which house would take just one of us. 

I wasn’t going to let that happen. So we ran. One night, under a thin blanket of stars, we climbed over the orphanage’s rusted fence and slipped into the darkness. It wasn’t bravery. It was desperation.

The mountain path was crueler than I’d imagined. My sister clutched my hand so tightly it went numb, but I didn’t dare shake her off. Her sandals weren’t made for dirt roads. Every few steps, she stumbled, but each time she rose again, brushing the dust from her scraped knees with a tiny frown of determination.

“Big brother,” she whispered after hours of walking, “where are we going?”

I tightened my grip. “Somewhere safe.”

It was a lie. I didn’t know where “safe” was. All I knew was that it wasn’t the orphanage.

We found shelter in an abandoned shed halfway up the mountain. Its roof leaked and its walls were chewed hollow by termites, but it was four walls against the wind. I wrapped my sister in the blanket we’d stolen from the orphanage laundry and told her stories until her eyelids drooped. Fairy tales, games we used to play, even dumb jokes I’d heard in school. Anything to keep her from asking if we’d be okay.

When she finally slept, I sat awake, staring at the gaps in the roof. The stars looked cold. My stomach growled, but hunger was a small price to pay for keeping her with me.

Still, reality came quickly.

By the second day, we were out of food. By the third, my sister’s steps were slow and her lips pale. She tried to pretend she was fine, humming as we walked down the slope, but her voice cracked from thirst.

That was when I saw it. A crooked signboard at the base of the trail, paint peeling but still legible:

“Sweet Dreams – Candy Shop.”

The building was pitiful. Half the shutters hung loose, weeds choked the garden, and the display window was covered in dust. It looked abandoned—almost. Because behind the counter, through the glass, a faint light flickered. Someone lived there.

And someone had food.

My stomach twisted. My sister’s small hand tugged at mine.

“Big brother… sweets?” she asked weakly.

I couldn’t say no.

That night, when the mountain fog wrapped the streets, I led her to the shop. The door was locked, but the back window wasn’t. I told her to wait outside, heart hammering in my chest as I slid it open and climbed in.

The inside smelled of sugar and dust. Shelves sagged under boxes of expired snacks, but near the counter I found what I was looking for: jars of hard candy, still sealed.

I grabbed one, then another. My sister’s face lit up in my mind at the thought of tasting sweetness again.

But then a voice cut through the silence.

“You planning on paying for that?”

I froze. An old man stood behind the counter, his eyes sharp as knives even in the dim light. He wasn’t tall, but his presence filled the room like a storm.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered, clutching the jars. “My sister—she’s hungry—”

He said nothing. Just stepped forward, and I instinctively shielded the candy with my body like it was treasure. My knees shook. If he called the police, they’d drag us back to the orphanage.

Then he sighed. “Damn brats. Come out.”

I blinked. “…What?”

“Bring your sister in. If you’re going to steal from me, at least let her eat properly.”

I hesitated, but the promise of warmth and food was too much. I ran outside, pulled my sister in, and watched her eyes widen at the jars of candy. The old man poured her a handful without another word.

She smiled—the first real smile since our parents died.

That night, we ate until our bellies ached. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel like we were falling.

When my sister drifted off to sleep on the shop’s couch, the old man sat across from me, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled around his tired face.

“You’ve got guts, kid,” he muttered. “And stupidity.”

I lowered my head. “…Are you going to turn us in?”

He blew out smoke, then gave me a look I’d never forget.

“No. You’re staying. This place has room for two runaways. Three, counting me.”

And just like that, a failing candy shop on the edge of nowhere became our new home.

The fire in the stove crackled low, filling the candy shop with a dim glow. My sister was already asleep on the couch, candy wrappers clutched tight in her tiny hand like treasure she’d never let go.

The old man sat in silence, nursing his cigarette. For a long while, the only sound was the faint whistle of the mountain wind outside. Then he spoke.

“…I heard on the way today.” He tapped the ash into a tray. “Orphanage reported two children missing. Said they might’ve run into the woods. Folks in town are worried the mountain’ll swallow them.”

My throat tightened.

“Safety?” I muttered under my breath, my fists clenching. “Miya is safer with me than with anyone else.”

The words slipped out harsher than I intended, but I meant them. Every syllable burned like fire in my chest.

The old man’s eyes narrowed, studying me. “Big words for a boy stealing candy.”

I looked down at the floorboards, but I didn’t let go of my pride. “…I’m not letting anyone take her away. Not after everything.”

He leaned back in his chair, the smoke from his cigarette curling above him like a ghost. “Then tell me, boy. What’s your story?”

My lips trembled. I hadn’t told anyone—not since the night of the accident. But if we were going to stay here, even for a little while, maybe he deserved to know.

I swallowed hard. “…My name’s Takahito Kiro. My sister’s Miya. Our parents… they—”

The words caught in my throat. A sharp pain shot through my skull, like a hammer striking the back of my head. For a second, I saw the flames again—the shattered glass, the twisted wreck of metal, the sound of my mother’s voice calling our names before it was swallowed by the crash.

I pressed my palms against my temples. "Our...parents they-"

The old man didn’t move closer. He didn’t demand more. He just exhaled another puff of smoke, his eyes softening ever so slightly.

“You did well,” he said simply. “Well enough to get her here, to keep her alive. That’s more than most grown men could manage.”

Something inside me cracked at those words. Not pity—recognition. Like he’d seen boys like me before.

“…Thanks,” I whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet. Sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

He stood, picked up a blanket from a shelf, and tossed it at me. The fabric smelled of old wood and sugar.

I spread it across the cold floor next to the couch. Miya stirred in her sleep, her lips moving faintly as if dreaming of candy. I lay down beside her, staring at the ceiling beams.

For the first time in days, I almost felt safe.

Almost.

“Old man?” I asked quietly.

He grunted. “What?”

“…At the orphanage, they said our relatives might take us in. But… they wanted to split us up. Miya to one family, me to another. I couldn’t let them. I already lost Mom and Dad. I can’t…” My voice cracked. “…I can’t lose another family member.”

The silence stretched long. I thought maybe I’d said too much, maybe he’d throw us out after all. But then the old man stubbed out his cigarette and muttered just loud enough for me to hear:

“…Sleep, boy. You’ve done enough for today.”

My chest ached, but for the first time since the fire, the ache wasn’t unbearable. I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Miya’s face. She breathed softly, her small hand still holding tight to a candy wrapper.

I swore, right there under that leaking roof, that no matter what it took, I would keep her safe.

Even if the whole world turned against us.

The night deepened, and the flicker of the lantern above the candy jars threw long shadows across the shop’s walls. Miya lay curled under the blanket the old man had given her, her small frame looking even more fragile against the makeshift bedding. I sat upright beside her, knees drawn close, unable to shake the storm of thoughts spinning in my head.

“Miya,” I whispered, thinking she had already drifted to sleep.

Her eyes fluttered open, soft and tired, but she smiled when she saw me. “What is it, onii-chan?”

For a moment, I hesitated, words knotting in my throat. Then I reached out and held her hand. “I… I don’t want them to take you away from me. I heard the nuns talking before… they said relatives want to separate us. But I can’t—” My voice cracked, the armor I’d been forcing myself to wear finally breaking. “I can’t lose another family member. Not you.”

Her small fingers squeezed mine, surprisingly firm for her size. “You won’t lose me. Not ever. I’m your little sister. We stick together, right? Like when we hid under the tree during the storm. Like when we ran from the orphanage. Like now.”

My chest tightened, and I swallowed hard against the lump rising in my throat. “Yeah. Always together.”

To comfort me, Miya began humming a tune—an old lullaby our mother used to sing when the nights grew too heavy. Her voice wavered but carried warmth, filling the little candy shop with something softer than sugar. I leaned back against the wall, letting the sound wash over me. For the first time in what felt like years, my eyes grew heavy with something close to peace.

*Miya’s POV*

Onii-chan’s hand was warm, even though he always tried to hide how tired he was. I could feel it in the way his fingers trembled when he held mine, the way his voice broke when he said he didn’t want to lose me.

He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. He works so hard, harder than anyone should, just to keep me safe. Sometimes I wish I could be stronger—big enough to help him carry all that weight on his shoulders. But all I can do now is stay by his side, so he never feels alone.

When I hummed Mama’s lullaby, I saw his eyes soften. He leaned back, like for once he could finally rest. That made me happy. If my voice can still make him feel even a little bit safe, then I’ll keep singing, no matter how scared I am inside.

I’ll never let anyone take me away from him. Not the nuns. Not the relatives. Not anyone. We promised—always together. And I’ll make sure that promise never breaks.

With that thought, I let sleep take me, still holding his hand.

*Old Man Totsu's POV*

The market square was buzzing louder than usual that morning. I had come down from the mountain to buy salt, flour, and a few herbs I couldn’t forage myself, but the moment I stepped into town I could feel the stares. They always stared—at my shabby coat, at my long beard, at the way I lived alone up there with no family and no friends.

“Two children went missing from the orphanage last night,” one of the shopkeepers whispered. “They say they ran into the woods.”

Another voice chimed in, nervous and gossipy. “If they don’t find them before nightfall, the wolves will. Poor things.”

I kept my face straight, busying myself with the scale and coin pouch. But my ears caught every word. Two kids, runaways. From the way the women were clucking their tongues, I could already tell—the villagers were bracing to pin this on me somehow. “Probably that old hermit’s fault. Probably hiding something.” That’s what they always muttered.

I finished my shopping quickly and started the trek back up the hill, the sound of their gossip trailing after me like flies. Kids missing or not, I knew what was coming: suspicion. It always was.

By the time I reached the shop, night had fallen. I set the supplies down and lit the lantern. The wooden shelves creaked in the quiet, and for a while, the only sound was the faint scratching of branches against the roof.

Then—rustling. Not from outside, but from within. I froze, hand instinctively going to the knife on my belt. The jars of candy rattled ever so slightly.

I narrowed my eyes, moving slowly toward the sound.

When I finally pulled the curtain aside, I was greeted not by thieves, nor wild animals, but two children—thin, dirty, and trembling. The boy had his arms wrapped around the little girl protectively, glaring at me as though I were a monster. The girl’s eyes darted between me and the jar of sweets she clearly hadn’t been able to resist.

For a long moment, none of us moved. Then I let out a slow breath and sheathed the knife.

“Ah,” I muttered under my breath, scratching my beard. “This is going to be a pain.”

The villagers already despised me enough. If word got out I had taken in two runaway orphans, they’d spread rumors like wildfire—that I’d kidnapped them, that I was up to something wicked. And yet… looking at those two, standing there like cornered animals, something in me shifted.

Yes, it would be a pain. But maybe—just maybe—it was the kind of trouble I needed.

The boy’s glare never wavered, even as his little sister clutched his sleeve. Brave, that one. Reckless, too. But the girl—her eyes weren’t just hungry. They were tired, the kind of tired you only see in someone who’s carried too much weight for too long.

I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. “Well,” I muttered, louder this time, “if you’re going to steal, you could at least have the decency to eat properly.”

Their expressions flickered—surprise, then confusion. I went behind the counter, fetched an old kettle, and set water to boil. Before long, steam filled the shop with the scent of dried tea leaves, and I pushed two chipped cups toward them. The boy hesitated, but when the girl looked up at him pleadingly, he gave the smallest nod. She drank first, careful sips, while he stayed on guard.

I leaned back, watching them over the rim of my own cup. The villagers’ whispers came back to me—the missing orphans, the fear they’d already spread. If they found out the children had come here of all places, the talk would be endless. More reason to keep my distance. More reason to toss them out right then and there.

And yet… when the girl’s eyelids began to droop, her head lolling against her brother’s shoulder, the boy’s hand rose to steady her, gentle but firm. There was no deceit in them, no malice. Just two souls clinging to each other in a world far too cruel.

Later, when they’d curled up under a blanket near the wall, whispering promises I couldn’t quite catch, I stepped outside. The chair creaked beneath me as I sat, lantern light spilling out through the shop’s door.

Trouble, I thought. That’s what they’ll be.

But maybe… maybe not the bad kind. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let them stay for a few days. Just until the storm passed. Just until I figured out what to do.

The night air was cool, the stars dim behind gathering clouds. I closed my eyes, already bracing for the rumors tomorrow would bring, but for the first time in years, I felt the silence of the mountain wasn’t quite so empty.

I hadn’t planned on asking, but curiosity gnawed at me as the kettle cooled. The boy sat across from me, his hand resting protectively on his sister’s back. His posture was tense, like a stray dog ready to bolt at the first wrong move.

“What’s your name, boy?” I asked.

He hesitated before answering, voice quiet but steady. “Takahito Kiro. And this is my sister, Miya.”

I nodded slowly. “The whole village’s been buzzing about you two. Says you ran from the orphanage.”

The boy’s eyes darkened. “Safety? Miya’s safer with me.”

There was no hesitation in his voice, no childish naivety. He said it with the kind of certainty only someone who’d already lost too much could carry. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “And why’s that?”

At first he didn’t speak, his lips pressing into a thin line. But then the words came haltingly—parents, an accident, the orphanage, whispers of relatives who wanted to separate them. His little sister’s hand found his as he spoke, as if steadying him.

Then, mid-sentence, he faltered. His head dipped, his face twisted in pain, and his voice cracked like glass. He clutched his temples as though the memory itself was too heavy to hold.

I didn’t press him further. Didn’t need to. I’d already seen enough.

“...You did well, boy,” I said, my voice low. “Bringing her this far.”

His sister pleaded soon after, whispering desperately before she closed her eyes, “We don’t want to be separated. I don’t want to lose onii-chan. Not ever.”

The words dug into me deeper than I cared to admit. Children, just barely scraping by, already haunted by the weight of loss. And those so-called guardians—their so-called family—would have torn them apart without hesitation. Animals. That’s all they were.

When their voices quieted to soft murmurs, I rose, letting them keep their fragile peace. I stepped outside, the door creaking shut behind me. The chair by the threshold groaned as I lowered myself into it, lantern glow spilling faintly across the mountain path.

I folded my arms, gaze on the dark treeline. Yes, this would be trouble. The villagers would talk. They always did.

But as I listened to the faint hum of a girl’s lullaby fading into sleep, I thought: maybe this was the kind of trouble worth having.

And with that, I leaned back in the chair, keeping silent watch while the children finally drifted into dreams.