Chapter Text
September 26
The last rays of the midday sun, warm and lazy like a ginger cat stretched out on a windowsill, filled the Rodriguez living room. The air was thick and sweet with the smell of popcorn, worn carpet, and carefree freedom. The Rodriguez parents had gone away for the weekend, leaving the house in the hands of their kids—and now the place belonged entirely to them: their laughter, their bickering, their quiet, irreplaceable bond woven from threads of friendship and the edge of growing youth.
At the very center of this little universe, as always, a tiny war raged.
Aubrey, her black hair wild like the nest of an angry bird, gripped the TV remote so tightly her knuckles turned white.
— Kel! I told you already! “Revenge of the Vengeful Zombie Animatronics: Blood Payback” has started! In five minutes the main character gets cut in half with a chainsaw! You have to see this!
Kel, standing before her in his eternal orange basketball jersey, only smirked as he pulled on the remote with equal strength. His confidence was unshakable as stone.
— And I told you! They’re replaying “Spaceball-3000”! It’s a legendary match, Aubrey! Skylark Jetson scored the winning goal upside down from his own half of the field! That’s art! Your zombies are just cheap trash!
Their loud and utterly pointless argument was the usual soundtrack of their hangouts. But today, a new note appeared in the melody: the need to find an ally.
— SUNNY! — they both shouted at once, turning to the couch.
On the very edge of the soft furniture, nearly blending into the cushion, sat Sunny. His attention was fully taken by Basil, who sat cross-legged on the floor, reverently flipping through the fresh, ink-smelling issue of Captain Cosmo-Boy. Sunny was quietly explaining something, tracing his thin finger along the panels of the action-packed story. His usually reserved face was alive now, lit with quiet, genuine enthusiasm.
— Sunny, back me up! — Kel demanded. — You love sports! You get how important this is!
— Don’t listen to him! — Aubrey cut in. — You draw scary monsters sometimes! This is real inspiration! Real cinema!
Sunny slowly lifted his gaze to them. His big, dark eyes seemed to look at them through a thick fog. With a small shake of his head, he made it clear he had no intention of joining their childish quarrel, then returned at once to Basil and the comic. His silence spoke louder than words. He had found his own island of calm in his quiet friend, and he wasn’t leaving it.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the atmosphere was entirely different. The air smelled of fresh bread, mayonnaise, and the sweet, appetizing scent of sizzling bacon. Hero, brows furrowed in concentration, was carefully laying lettuce leaves, tomato slices, and cheese onto bread with surgical precision. He was in his element—creating the perfect sandwich demanded his full attention.
Leaning on the counter with her head propped in one hand stood Mari. Her long, silky hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, exposing the graceful line of her neck. She watched Hero, her eyes shimmering with warmth and a mischievous hint of tenderness.
— You remember the time, don’t you? — she asked languidly, playing with the salt shaker. — Tomorrow. Seven p.m. The big hall. I left your ticket under the strawberry magnet on the fridge. If you lose it, I’ll make you listen to me and Sunny rehearse scales for the rest of your life.
Hero blushed so deeply that his auburn hair looked pale compared to his cheeks. He focused intently on cutting the sandwich in half, avoiding her gaze.
— I won’t lose it, — he mumbled. — I’ll be there. Front row. With a rose in my teeth.
— Oh, how gallant, — Mari laughed, the sound like a chime of tiny bells. She leaned over the counter, bringing her face closer to his. — I’ll be looking for you with my eyes the moment I step on stage. For inspiration, you know.
Hero coughed, fumbling desperately for the barbecue sauce. His usual solid confidence melted under her attention like ice cream in the summer sun. He was a genius in the kitchen and the dependable older brother of the group, but next to Mari he always felt like an awkward teenager.
Back in the living room, Basil put the comic aside and pointed at Sunny’s hand.
— Oh, your hand’s messy, Sunny. Looks like you got something on it.
Sunny looked down. On his palm, just below the crease of his index and middle fingers, glistened a tiny droplet of blood, no bigger than a pinhead. It welled up from beneath the skin, as if from a shallow but stinging cut. While he stared, the droplet slid down and fell onto the light laminate floor, leaving a minuscule crimson dot.
Basil leaned closer, his kind face shadowed with concern.
— Did you cut yourself? Let me see, I’ve got a bandage in my bag…
But he didn’t get the chance to finish. Sunny yanked his hand back with startling speed and hid it behind his back. His face, so calm a moment ago, froze into a mask of panic. He grabbed his sketchbook from the couch and shoved it into Basil’s hands.
— Drawings! — he blurted, his usually soft voice coming out too loud and strained. — I… I brought new ones. Look. I’ll be right back. Gotta run home. For another sketchbook. It’s… it’s even better.
And before Basil could respond, Sunny bolted out of the room like a shot, leaving his friend bewildered with the sketchbook in his hands.
A second later, Sunny burst breathlessly into the kitchen. His eyes darted around, his face pale.
— Sketchbook! Home! Show Basil! — he stammered, snatched an apple from the table, and vanished again without looking at anyone.
---
Mari followed him with her eyes, and her playful mood evaporated. A tiny frown creased her forehead. She sighed, so heavily that Hero immediately put down his knife.
— Something wrong? — he asked gently.
— Something’s always wrong with him, — Mari whispered, staring at the empty doorway. — He… he still messes up the score in the second act. And his staccato… God, Hero, it’s so limp, so lifeless. Like he doesn’t feel the music at all—just plucking strings mechanically.
She pressed her temples with her fingers, her eyes suddenly shimmering with unshed tears.
— And I… I yelled at him again yesterday. After rehearsal. Again. Said he was ruining everything, that we’d embarrass ourselves. He just stood there in silence, looking at me with those huge eyes… Then he just left. I’m a terrible sister. I know he tries. I know he stayed up half the night practicing. But I can’t hold it in. This concert is so important… for Mom… for Dad… for everyone…
Her voice wavered. She wasn’t just tired—she was fraying, and the thin string holding her composure was about to snap.
Hero wanted to say something, to reach for her, but a startled rustle came from the doorway. Mari’s head snapped up. Hero turned.
There, huddled together, stood Kel, Aubrey, and Basil. Their faces were frozen between embarrassment and genuine worry. They’d heard everything.
Aubrey was the first to break the silence.
— We… uh… we just… found the remote… — she mumbled helplessly, holding up the object of their earlier fight.
Mari swallowed hard, wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. Shame and irritation flushed her cheeks.
— Perfect. Just perfect. Now I have an audience for my breakdowns.
— Mari… — Hero began.
— Go upstairs, — she said suddenly, her anger fading as quickly as it came, replaced by hollow apathy. — Please.
In silence, they filed upstairs to Hero and Kel’s room. The familiar mess felt cozy, but now the air was tense. Mari sank onto Hero’s bed, hugging her knees. She looked small and lost.
— Hey, it’s okay, — Kel finally said, clumsy but trying to be supportive. — You and Sunny are the best duo ever. You always pull it off.
— Yeah! — Aubrey chimed in. — And if anyone says otherwise, I’ll… uh… give them a very loud lecture on musical theory!
Basil quietly placed a hand on Mari’s shoulder. His wordless gesture said more than reassurance ever could.
Hero sat down beside her.
---
— They’re right. But… not entirely right. — He met her eyes. — You’re not a terrible sister, Mari. You care about him. And your music. But Sunny… he’s not at fault either. He’s trying as hard as he possibly can. Maybe… maybe you should just talk to him? Tell him how you feel? Apologize for yesterday?
Mari stared at the floor for a long while, then nodded, hair falling to cover her face.
— You’re right. I… I’ll do it. I will. Just… not today. Let today be a good day for him. Let him rest. I’ll tell him tomorrow. Before the concert. I promise.
Everyone exhaled in relief. It was the right choice. At that moment, the front door slammed—Sunny was back.
Together they went downstairs. Sunny stood in the middle of the room, slightly out of breath, clutching a thick sketchbook to his chest. His expression was the same as always—neutral, reserved.
— Here, — he said simply, handing it to Basil.
— Oh, thanks, Sunny! — Basil’s face lit up, and life seemed to return to normal.
Aubrey and Basil settled on the floor to admire the drawings. Kel, triumphant, finally turned on Spaceball-3000 and sprawled on the couch with a soda. Mari caught Sunny’s eye, gave him a faint smile, and gestured that she was going to wash up. He only nodded, his gaze returning to Basil’s delighted reaction to his art.
Hero, remembering his abandoned sandwiches, went to the kitchen. As he reached for the tray, his eyes fell on the floor. Near the chair leg, on the light laminate, a tiny droplet of dried red.
He frowned. Looked around—no one noticed. Kel was glued to the TV, the others absorbed in drawings. Hero bent down. Yes. Definitely blood. From where? Maybe he’d cut himself cooking? But his hands were fine. Kel? Aubrey during the scuffle?
No answer. With quiet frustration, he wiped the dot with his fingers, felt its faint stickiness. He washed his hands carefully, scrubbing away the traces of this little, unwanted mystery. Then he grabbed a clean towel and wiped the floor spotless.
“Let tomorrow be good,” he whispered, as though casting a spell. The simple wish suddenly felt immensely important.
Finally, tray in hand, he returned. Mari was already back, her face fresh, hair still damp at the ends. Their eyes met in mutual understanding. She nodded: “I remember. I’ll do it.” He smiled back encouragingly.
As Mari leaned over Basil’s shoulder to peek at the sketchbook, Sunny sat silently beside him.
The page showed a boy. Recognizably Sunny—the same oval face, the same big dark eyes, the same neat nose. He stood on an empty beach beneath a boundless white sky, holding a translucent, pure-white umbrella. He wore his favorite sneakers, shorts, knee-high socks, and a T-shirt under a button-down shirt. But every single detail of his outfit, his shoes, even the seams and laces—everything was painted a sterile, lifeless white. The only thing that didn’t disturb Mari was the skin. Porcelain-pale and flawless, just like Sunny himself. Yet the monochrome, the absence of any color, sent a chilling shiver under her skin.
Her gaze fell to the caption below, neatly written in Sunny’s hand: “Omori.”
Mari frowned. The name… it was painfully familiar. Omori. The brand of her beloved piano back home. Why? Why would he name this… this ghostly version of himself that?
She looked at Sunny, but he wasn’t watching her—he was absorbed in Basil’s reaction. The question stuck in her throat. Not now, she decided. Not today.
---
Night settled softly over the city, wrapping the house in silence. The boys’ room was dark, broken only by the sound of steady breathing. Mari slept in Hero’s bed, covered with a blanket that smelled faintly of his shampoo. In the middle of the room, like a bird’s nest, rose a blanket fort where Kel and Aubrey snored peacefully.
Sunny lay in his sleeping bag, eyes wide open, fixed on the ceiling where shadows twisted into the monsters of his nightmares. His heart pounded, echoing in his temples. Tomorrow. The concert. The stage. Hundreds of eyes. Her eyes. Her disappointment, her anger, her cold demand for perfection. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images burned sharper than the dark.
Quietly, he slipped out of his bag and into the hallway. His hands shook. He needed to wash, to scrub away the sticky, cold fear.
The water was icy. He splashed it on his face again and again until his skin stung, but the inner heat of panic refused to fade. His reflection stared back—pale, distorted by shadows of fear.
A rustle behind. Sunny whipped around.
In the doorway, lit by moonlight from the hall, stood Basil. His blond hair glowed silver, his face lined with gentle concern.
— Sunny? — he whispered. — You okay? Another bad dream?
Sunny nodded silently, wiping his face on his pajama sleeve. His breathing slowed. Basil’s presence always soothed him.
Basil stepped closer, leaning on the frame.
— I… I didn’t get to ask earlier, — he said carefully, eyes on the dripping faucet. — That drawing… the boy in white. You called him Omori. That’s from Mari’s piano brand, right? But… why?
Sunny froze, staring at his trembling, red, over-washed hand. His fingers bore small cuts and raw calluses—the marks of endless violin practice, giving flesh and blood to the strings. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet Basil’s gaze.
And in that moment, the moonlight touched his face, and Basil saw something rare and fragile. Not a smile, no. But Sunny’s features softened, and in the depths of his dark eyes flickered the tiniest, warmest light. A spark of tenderness so sincere and impossibly deep that Basil’s breath caught.
— Because, — Sunny whispered, quiet but certain, — only as Omori could he ever earn his sister’s favor.
With that, he shut off the water, gave his reflection one last glance, and left the bathroom without another word, leaving Basil in the cold dark.
Basil stood frozen, Sunny’s words echoing: “his sister’s favor.” And suddenly, like puzzle pieces falling into place, the memories aligned: Mari’s sharp remarks during rehearsal; her pursed lips when Sunny slipped; her sighs of disappointment; her cold, evaluative stares when she thought no one noticed. He had always chalked it up to stress, to perfectionism, to her strict nature. But now, it all carried a terrifying new shade.
He wanted to chase after Sunny, to say something—anything—but his legs wouldn’t move. Words choked in his throat. What could he say?
Slowly, dreamlike, Basil crept back to the room. He slipped past snoring Kel and the sleeping Mari. His gaze fell on Sunny. Lying in his bag, turned to the wall. Even in the dark, even motionless, it was clear he wasn’t asleep—his body tense as if bracing for a blow. And then Basil saw his hands, lying above the blanket. Even in the dim slivers of light through the blinds, the raw calluses and fresh cuts from strings were visible—silent witnesses to endless, grueling practice with no escape.
Basil’s heart clenched with aching pity and helplessness. He couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t say anything. All he could do was lie down and wait. Wait for morning. Wait for tomorrow, which would bring either relief… or— He didn’t dare finish the thought.
He shut his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Only the image lingered: a boy dressed entirely in white, holding a white umbrella, standing on a sandy shore beneath a pale sky. A boy named Omori. And the only color in his world could come from a sister’s favor—distant and unreachable as the moon.