"Are you going to leave with this boy?" Her mother's voice was suddenly filled with mockery. "How many days have you even known him? Do you know who he is? Do you know what his family does? You trust him just like that?"
Margo said nothing.
"He'll harm you!" Her mother's voice gradually grew shrill. "People on the outside will all harm you! Only your parents won't! Only ho is safe! You'll find out once you're out there! You'll regret this!"
Hachiman truly couldn't listen anymore.
"Ma'am, the way you just spoke makes 'love' sound like so kind of trade contract: I cook and wash clothes for you, so you must endure my abuse. You're packaging 'ho' as the only sanctuary, even when that sanctuary itself is the source of the injury. You beautify violence as education, explain away fear as concern, and disguise control as protection."
He paused, his dead-fish eyes sweeping over Margo's mother's trembling lips without a ripple of emotion.
"What's more ironic is that you clearly know you're lying. But you don't dare admit it, because admitting the truth ans admitting your own failure—admitting that you are neither a qualified mother nor a competent protector."
"What the hell did you say!" Her stepfather rushed forward, fist raised. "Who do you think you are! It's none of your business how I discipline my own kid! You're just a damn brat, who are you to point fingers!"
When the fist swung down, Hachiman didn't dodge. He stood there, holding Margo's hand, looking his stepfather in the face. The fist stopped right beside his face as two people in uniform grabbed the stepfather from behind, pinning him to the table. His face was pressed against the tabletop, his mouth still moving as he spat curses.
The stepfather struggled against the table, his face flushed red, eyes glaring at Hachiman like a wild boar that had its tail stepped on. Margo looked at him and suddenly felt that this man was ridiculous—no, not ridiculous, but pathetic.
A middle-aged man who could only find a sense of existence through a child, treating his ho as a kingdom and his belt as a scepter, wrapping himself in the image of a "strict father" when in reality he was nothing. She realized she wasn't so afraid of him anymore.
Hachiman didn't care to waste any more words on such scum; he led Margo out of the room.
The corridor was quiet, the fluorescent lights humming. The light stretched the two children's shadows long. Margo's hand was held in his; her hand was small, and her fingers still bore the marks from previous beatings, but they didn't hurt anymore—a thin layer of scabs had ford.
After an unknown amount of ti, Yamada Akemi walked out of the room holding a folder and approached them. She opened the folder, pulled out a few sheets of paper, and held them out.
"Margo." She knelt down to be at eye level with her. "Your stepfather signed the agreent to relinquish custody. Your mother signed it, too. They..." She paused, choosing her words carefully for a long ti.
"They won't be punished. There isn't enough evidence—only your testimony, and no other witnesses. Moreover, your stepfather insists the injuries were from you falling, and your mother says the sa."
Margo said nothing, but Yamada Akemi's eyes turned red.
"We fought for a long ti, but the lawyer said that if we went to court, you would have to testify. You'd have to face them and answer many questions. And the court date would be far off—months, maybe a year. During that ti..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
"So you traded a lack of punishnt for her departure," Hachiman said.
Yamada Akemi nodded. "It was the only way she could leave."
Margo looked at the docunts in Yamada Akemi's hand, then at Hachiman. Hachiman's expression was calm, but his grip on her hand tightened slightly.
"So, they won't go to jail?"
"No. But you are free. You never have to go back to that house again."
Margo was silent for a mont. "Then... where will I live?"
"We've arranged a foster ho for you. There are many children there just like you. You'll have your own room, food to eat, and school to go to."
"Then... will I still be able to see Hachiman?"
Yamada Akemi glanced at Hachiman. "You can, but you'll need to apply, and... it can't be too frequent."
Margo looked at Hachiman. He nodded. "I'll co."
.
.
.
The foster ho was on the other side of the city, a white three-story building with a yard, swings, and a slide. Several trees were planted in the yard; their leaves would turn yellow in the autumn.
Life at the foster ho was peaceful. Margo slowly grew used to it. She had her own room, her own bed, and her own desk. The window faced south, overlooking the trees in the yard. Every day, she sat by the window and waited for Saturday.
On Saturday afternoons, Hachiman would co. she would wait for him downstairs or sit by the window; the mont she saw his figure turn the corner, she would run down to et him. She would stop in front of him and stick her foot out; her shoelaces were always crooked.
Every ti, he would grumble as he crouched down, untied them, and retied them—even on both sides, with loops of the bow perfectly matched.
The other children would sotis gather around to watch.
"Margo, is that your brother?"
"Margo, why does he co every week?"
"Margo, why does he only play with you?"
Margo wouldn't speak; she just stood beside him, pulling her foot back to hide it under the hem of her skirt. Hachiman didn't speak either; he would stand up and pat the dust off his knees. After a while, the children would get bored and leave, leaving just the two of them in the yard.
What they didn't notice was that every ti Hachiman ca, there was always a pair of eyes watching them from behind the corner-most window on the second floor.
It was a blue-haired girl, about the sa age as Margo, always alone. She rarely ca downstairs and rarely spoke to the other children. Most of the ti, she just sat by the window watching the trees or the sky.
But when Hachiman ca, she would watch them. She watched the boy with ssy hair hand a book to Margo, saw the smile on Margo's face as she took it, and saw them sitting on the bench—neither speaking, yet perfectly harmonious.
Days passed, and Margo had lived in the foster ho for two months. She began to think that maybe life like this wasn't bad; it would be nice if it could continue forever.
That Saturday afternoon, Hachiman ca again. He brought a new book—this ti a story about a Little Prince traveling to various planets. Margo sat on the bench flipping through the book, while Hachiman sat beside her, keeping her silent company.
After Hachiman left, Margo prepared to return to her room. As she reached the stairs, she heard a voice behind her.
"Hey."
Margo turned around. The blue-haired girl was standing in the shadows of the corridor, looking at her.
"He... hello," Margo said.
The blue-haired girl didn't speak; she just looked at her. Her eyes were amber—very beautiful, but with very little warmth.
"That person who always cos—what is he to you?"
Margo was taken aback. "He's... he's my friend."
"Friend?" The blue-haired girl repeated the word, her voice carrying an emotion Margo couldn't quite place.
"He cos every ti. Every ti he brings you sothing."
Margo nodded. "He... he's very good to ."
The blue-haired girl was silent for a while. "Why?" she asked.
"Why what?"
"Why is he good to you?" the blue-haired girl said. "No one cos to see the children here. No one brings books, no one brings candy. Why are you the only one who has that?"
Margo didn't know how to answer. "I... I don't know."
The blue-haired girl looked at her for a long ti. Then she turned and walked away, disappearing at the end of the corridor.
That night, Margo lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She thought of the blue-haired girl and her amber eyes.
"Why are you the only one who has that?"
Margo didn't have the answer. But she knew that Hachiman was good to her because... because he was Hachiman. Because he had said "I will wait for you," said "Even if it rains, even if it's windy," said "Whether you co or not, I'm here."
Because he was the one who gave her a piece of candy when she was most afraid. Because he was the one who taught her that love is happiness.
Margo closed her eyes and fell asleep.
She dread she was standing on a very, very tiny planet. There was a rose on the planet, covered by a glass do so the wind couldn't reach it. She crouched down, wanting to see the rose. The petals were pink and tender, and there were dewdrops on the leaves. She reached out, wanting to touch it.
Her hand passed through the glass do and touched the petals—cool and soft. Then she realized that it was her own hand; her fingers still had the marks from the beatings, but they didn't hurt anymore—a thin layer of scabs had ford.
She had beco that rose.
She stood inside the glass do, looking at the sky. The sky was orange. A very small planet was in the distance, getting closer and closer. The Little Prince stood on the planet, his hair ssy, hands in his pockets, and a pair of lifeless dead-fish eyes. His scarf fluttered in the wind; he didn't mind it.
He walked up to her, crouched down, and looked at her.
"You finally ca," she said.
"Yeah."
"I waited a long ti."
"I know."
He reached out and removed the glass do. The wind blew in; she swayed, and he held her steady.
"Will you leave?" she asked.
"I will."
"Will you co back?"
"I will."
"When?"
"Every day."
She smiled. she drew her petals together and curled herself into a tiny ball. He sat beside her, watching the sky. The sky turned from orange to reddish-orange, then from reddish-orange to dark purple. The sun set and rose, rose and set.
He sat there, never leaving.
"You've seen forty-three sunsets," she said.
"Forty-four."
"Why forty-four?"
"Because you're here."
She didn't understand, but she felt that every word he spoke was like the wind blowing across her petals—gentle and tingly. She didn't need to understand; she only needed to listen.
"Why do you have to leave?" she asked.
"Because I have to go back."
"Back where?"
"Back to your planet," he looked at her.
"Back to your side."
She smiled.
When she woke up, it was already light. Sunlight shone through the window onto the bed, warm and cozy. Margo sat up and looked out the window. The trees in the yard swayed gently in the wind; the leaves had already begun to turn yellow.
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