The operating room was a world of controlled chaos: monitors beeping in steady rhythm, sterile lights harsh overhead, the soft hiss of the ventilator.
Haruka stood at the head of the table, masked and gowned, eyes focused above the drape. Her hands — the hands that had saved hundreds of tiny hearts — were steady as she made the first incision on Sora's small chest.
Outside the OR, in the observation gallery, Kaito sat alone.
He hadn't slept. Black sweater rumpled, hair messy, hands clenched so tight the old burn scars whitened.
He couldn't see Sora from this angle — only Haruka's back, the curve of her shoulders under the surgical gown, the way her braid had been tucked neatly under her cap.
The surgery was expected to last six hours.
Hour one passed in silence.
Hour two — Kaito's mind replayed every moment he'd missed: Sora's first steps, first words, first birthday. All without him.
Hour three — rain began against the windows. Tokyo summer storm, sudden and heavy.
He pressed his forehead to the cool glass.
Hour four — the monitor alarm beeped irregularly. The team's voices sharpened. Haruka's calm command cut through: "Pressure dropping. Cross-clamp ready."
Kaito stood, heart slamming.
He couldn't breathe.
Down in the OR, Haruka felt the rain too — through the window, through her soul.
She worked faster, more precisely than ever. This wasn't just a patient.
This was the heart she and Kaito had made together.
"Almost there," she murmured to the team — and to the boy under her hands. "Hold on, Sora. Mommy's here."
Hour five — the storm raged hardest. Thunder shook the building.
Kaito whispered against the glass: "I'm here too. I'm not leaving again."
Hour six — final sutures.
Haruka stepped back, hands trembling now that the danger had passed.
"Stable," the anesthesiologist announced. "He's strong."
Haruka looked up to the observation window — found Kaito's eyes through the glass.
She nodded once.
He closed his eyes — relief crashing over him like the rain outside.
Later — recovery room.
Sora slept peacefully, chest rising and falling under bandages.
Haruka sat beside the bed, still in scrubs, exhausted.
Kaito entered quietly, carrying two vending-machine coffees.
He handed her one — their fingers brushed. Lingered.
"You saved him," he said.
"We saved him," she corrected softly. "You funded the research that made this surgery possible."
They sat in silence, watching their son breathe.
Rain softened to a gentle patter.
Kaito spoke first. "When he wakes up… what do we tell him?"
Haruka looked at their joined hands — she hadn't even realized she'd reached for him.
"The truth," she said. "When he's ready. That the piano man and the doctor who saved his heart… love him very much."
Kaito's voice broke. "And each other?"
She met his eyes — autumn leaves meeting winter storm.
"Yes," she whispered. "And each other."
Outside, the rain stopped. First rays of evening sun broke through clouds — painting the room gold.
Inside, three heartbeats finally began to sync.