He did not hesitate. He bit into it.
She was sitting by the window, staring at the mountain. Her small hand was pressed against the glass. And in the vision, he saw the exact second her heart had broken. It was not the day Hana died. It was the day before. Hana had called Yuki to her bedside and whispered, "Take care of your father." Yuki had nodded. But in that nod, something had snapped. A seven-year-old should not have to take care of anyone. That burden, that beautiful, impossible burden, had shattered her voice.
"Daddy," she whispered. Her voice was rusty, like a drawer stuck shut for years. "Daddy, I'm hungry." yama hime no mi
She never ate the fruit. But she sat beneath the tree every morning, and she listened. And on quiet days, she swore she could hear two voices laughing—a mountain princess and a woodcutter—somewhere far above the clouds, where heartbreaks finally end.
One night, Kaito woke to find Yuki's futon empty. The sliding door to the garden was open. Moonlight poured in like spilled milk. His heart seized as he ran outside, his bare feet slapping the cold earth. He did not hesitate
He knelt in front of her, took her cold little hands, and said, "Yuki, I know. I know you tried to take care of me. But that was never your job. I am your father. It is my job to take care of you. And I failed. I walked past your mother. I didn't see her kimono. I didn't see you breaking. But I see it now."
"I saw the mending myself," he said. "Every time you laughed. Every time you forgave. Every time you made porridge for your own daughter. The fruit can't see that. It only sees the cracks. It forgets that cracks let the light in." Her small hand was pressed against the glass
He could see every future heartbreak, too.