At home, Arika opened the bags with quiet curiosity, taking out garment after garment, sweets, ribbons, small objects that she examined with almost ceremonial care. She didn't smile, but her hands moved with concentrated calm, as if each thing found a precise place in her inner world. Meanwhile, Haru worked at the kitchen table, undoing the purple flowers. She gently separated the petals, stored the seeds in a small glass jar, and laid some leaves on a clean cloth to dry; she set others aside to make an infusion.
When she finished, her fingers remained motionless.
The flowers.
How had Arika found them?
The last ones had disappeared along with Eleonora.
Haru had searched for them for years, walking along paths, ravines, forgotten clearings... without finding a single bud. And now, in the midst of the harshest snowfall of winter, Arika returned with an intact bouquet, alive, impossible.
—Thank you for everything.
Arika's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. The girl approached him and, with a simple gesture, offered him some sweets.
Haru smiled gently.
—I'm the one who should be thanking you... you gave me the best gift.
She tilted her head slightly, not fully understanding. Haru helped her carry her things up to her room, where the new clothes were beginning to fill with color a space that until recently had remained empty.
The days passed with strange speed. Haru traveled frequently to the city, and each trip left him more tired, more frustrated. He visited clinics, spoke with specialists, described symptoms he couldn't even explain clearly.
—We need advanced tests.
—MRIs.
—Complete neurological evaluations.
Always the same answer with impossible figures.
She also searched records and spoke to an acquaintance who checked lists of missing persons.
But nothing.
There was no girl named Arika. At least, not one who matched her age or characteristics. Only adults without families. A rare, unusual name.
Too rare.
While Haru traveled, Arika stayed with Rane and Soleia. Both welcomed her with genuine tenderness. Soleia made her hot chocolate; Rane tried to elicit some reaction from her with stories, simple games, gentle questions.
But Arika remained a still lake. Beautiful and deeply silent.
A month later, Haru was sitting on the bed in his room, surrounded by papers, accounts, numbers that seemed to mock him. The gray winter light filtered through the window, barely contained by the heavy curtains. The silence was thick, barely interrupted by the faint ticking of the clock on the nightstand. The bed, impeccably made, contrasted with the silent chaos of scattered documents.
If he sold some jewelry...
Her gaze fell on a small dark wooden box, worn at the edges by age and use. It rested next to the picture frame that Haru avoided looking at too much. Inside were Eleonora's jewels. Each piece held a memory, a laugh, an afternoon, a promise.
She closed her eyes.
Maybe it's worth it. Maybe, with that, Arika...
A sharp, violent noise broke the air.
Haru jumped up and ran downstairs.
—Arika!
When he entered the kitchen, he saw her on the floor. A chair was overturned and a glass was shattered. Snow pelted the window like a bad omen.
—What happened?
He helped her up.
—I wanted some water... I climbed on the chair...
Then he saw it. A trickle of blood ran down her forehead.
—Arika...
He brushed her bangs away with trembling hands. A small but deep cut marked the left side of her forehead. Haru looked toward the door. He thought of Rane.
Impossible.
The snowstorm raged furiously.
—Come on, let's go to the living room.
Arika obeyed without protest. Haru found the first aid kit, cleaned the wound, disinfected it, and covered it with a bandage.
—Although it doesn't seem that serious... we'll go with Rane tomorrow anyway.
She nodded.
Afterwards, Haru cooked something hot, and they spent the day doing a jigsaw puzzle in front of the fire. Outside, the wind howled through the trees.
Inside, calm slowly returned.
The next morning, the smell of breakfast filled the kitchen. Haru was preparing warm bread when she heard soft footsteps.
—Good morning, Arika.
—Good morning, Mr. Haru.
Haru took a clean bandage.
—Let's change this before we go to Rane.
Arika approached.
Haru carefully removed the bandage. And the world stopped.
There was no wound.
No cut. No scar. Not even a slight pink mark.
As if nothing had ever happened.
Her hands remained suspended in the air. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes scanned the skin over and over, looking for some sign that would disprove what she was seeing.
She remembered with absolute clarity the trickle of blood running down her forehead. She remembered the cut. She remembered cleaning the wound.
She hadn't imagined it.
—Mr. Haru...
Arika's voice sounded distant.
—Are you okay?
He blinked and forced a slight smile.
—Yes... it's nothing.
But his mind was still desperately searching for a rational explanation, something medical, something possible.
He found none.
With slow, almost automatic movements, he applied the clean bandage.
—Go... wash your hands.
Arika watched him for a few seconds, then obeyed.
When the girl left the kitchen, Haru leaned on the table. His pulse was pounding in his ears.
It was impossible. Wounds don't disappear overnight.
So...
What was going on?
What had happened to Arika?
The wind hit the house hard.
And, for the first time since he found her, Haru felt real fear.