Sora's room was filled with morning light, the kind that sneaks through half-closed blinds and paints soft stripes across the blanket.
The boy sat up in bed, cheeks flushed with color for the first time in weeks. The surgery had been a success. His new heart rhythm was strong, steady — like a promise kept.
Haruka sat on one side, still in her white coat but with sleeves rolled up, exhaustion and relief etched gently around her eyes.
Kaito on the other, holding a small keyboard he'd brought from home — portable, but real ivory keys.
Sora looked between them, eyes wide.
"You both stayed all night?"
Haruka smiled — the first real, unguarded smile Kaito had seen from her in eight years.
"We did."
Kaito set the keyboard on the tray table.
"I promised you music when you woke up."
Sora's grin was pure sunlight.
Kaito began to play — a gentle arrangement of the lullaby Haruka used to hum when they were teenagers, walking home from school along the sea wall.
Sora's eyes shone. He reached out — one small hand to Haruka, one to Kaito.
They took them without hesitation.
For the first time, the three of them were connected — palms together over the keys.
The melody rose, soft and warm, filling the room like spring after winter.
When it ended, Sora yawned happily.
"I like this family," he said sleepily.
Haruka and Kaito looked at each other over his head — tears threatening, but happy ones.
Later — hospital garden, cherry trees just starting to bud even though it was autumn (Tokyo's strange weather).
Sora napped in his room under nurse supervision.
Haruka and Kaito walked the path slowly.
"I spoke to his adoptive parents," Haruka said quietly. "They're kind people. They know about the surgery… and about us."
Kaito stopped under a tree. "What did they say?"
"That Sora has always asked why he felt 'music in his heart' even before he heard piano. That he draws pictures of a man playing under stars and a woman saving tiny hearts."
Kaito's breath caught.
"They're willing to meet us. Slowly. If we want to be part of his life."
He turned to her — eyes raw.
"Do you?"
Haruka stepped closer. "I never stopped wanting our family. I just… stopped believing it was possible."
Kaito cupped her face gently — thumbs brushing away tears she hadn't realized were falling.
"It's possible now."
He leaned in — slow, giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn't.
Their lips met — soft at first, eight years of longing in one breath. Then deeper, like coming home.
Cherry petals drifted around them in the breeze.
When they parted, foreheads still touching:
"I love you, Haruka. I never stopped. Not for one heartbeat."
"I love you too, Kaito. And I never will."
In the distance, piano music drifted from an open hospital window — a patient practicing.
But to them, it sounded like their old summer melody.
Finally whole.