Reincarnated as the Protagonist of a Legendary Depressing Eroge – I Paired Up My Two Childhood Friend Heroines to Avoid the Bad End, But Their Possessiveness Completely Broke Through the Limits - Episode 02: Mother's Memory / Winter ★

Episode 02: Mother’s Memory / Winter ★

Back when Yoru turned three, the two of us were living in a run-down apartment on the outskirts of Mio City. The building was over forty years old.

In winter, cold sea wind would blow right through the poorly fitted windows without mercy. In summer, the heat from the asphalt had nowhere to go and turned the whole room into an oven.

Still, that cramped little place was the only spot in the world that belonged to just me and Yoru, where nobody could bother us.

I had dropped out of college with no special skills, so the jobs I could get were limited.

Early in the morning, I folded flyers at a newspaper distribution center.

From late morning till evening, I worked the register at the supermarket.

And at night, I washed dishes in the kitchen of a family restaurant that stayed open until late.

Even juggling three part-time jobs, the money left in my hands was shockingly little.

Rent, utilities, and above all, the expenses that kept growing as Yoru got bigger.

Preschool fees, shoes that she outgrew in no time.

I would skip meals and stare at the household account book down to the last yen. Day after day, it stole every bit of peace from my heart.

I worked like a machine that had half lost its feelings.

But.

Even in that harsh life, the only thing that kept me tied to this world was Yoru.

“Welcome home, Mom!”

When I dragged myself back after the night shift, dead tired, three-year-old Yoru would be waiting at the entrance.

She’d rub her sleepy eyes and wrap her tiny body around my knees.

Every time I felt that warmth, it was like all the exhaustion that had built up inside me got washed away in one rush.

For this child, Yoru.

I didn’t want her to ever feel the same miserable pain I did.

I wanted the world reflected in her eyes to stay beautiful and kind forever.

That was the one responsibility I had decided on the day I chose to give birth to her.

One evening.

On the way home from preschool, Yoru suddenly stopped walking.

Her gaze was fixed on a small music school near the station.

Through the glass, I could see a girl about Yoru’s age wearing a pretty outfit, sitting at the piano with her mother.

The music drifting out was a clumsy but brave version of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

Yoru stared at the scene without moving.

It wasn’t quite envy, more pure and innocent, yet so earnest.

“…Yoru?”

“Oh, Mom. The piano makes such pretty sounds.”

Yoru quickly looked up at me and put on her usual carefree smile.

“Let’s go. Shall we head home and have dinner?”

That small, thoughtful gesture from such a little girl cut into my chest like a sharp knife.

She understood.

She knew our house couldn’t afford something big like a piano, and we definitely didn’t have money for lessons.

At just three years old, this child had already learned to hold back what she wanted.

She was pushing down her own desires, watching my face for clues, and acting like the good, understanding kid.

I’m sorry, Yoru.

If only Mom had been a better person.

If only Mom had been smarter and stronger.

On the way home, my eyes caught an old capsule toy machine at the entrance of the supermarket near the station.

The sign said “Palm-Sized! Real Mini Kalimba.”

It was a toy instrument with metal tines fixed on a plastic board that you plucked with your thumb.

Small enough to fit in one hand, and it looked cheap compared to a real piano.

But it had a gentle, warm sound like a music box. I think it was called a thumb piano.

One capsule cost four hundred yen.

For me back then, four hundred yen was a huge amount. It meant deciding whether tomorrow’s main dish would be chicken or if I’d have to settle for tofu.

I checked my wallet. In the coin purse, there were a few hundred-yen coins.

I didn’t hesitate.

I could just skip my dinner and make do with the rice ball I was supposed to eat for lunch today.

I could drink tap water instead of tea.

If skipping one meal could bring back that pure “three-year-old child” light to Yoru’s eyes, even for a moment, it was worth it.

With a hard clack, the clear capsule rolled out.

Inside was a tiny kalimba that fit in the palm of my hand.

It was cheaply made, but it had proper metal keys lined up.

“Here, Yoru. This is a present for you.”

“…Huh?”

Yoru’s eyes flew wide open.

“The piano’s a bit big, so today let’s practice with this together, okay?”

Yoru’s eyes sparkled like she was holding a jewel, and her hands trembled as she took the capsule.

In that moment, the smile that spread across her face was brighter and more real than when she had been watching the piano lesson.

“Wow…! Mom, is this really Yoru’s? For real?”

“Yes, it’s yours, Yoru.”

We walked home to the apartment hand in hand, both of us smiling.

That night.

In our narrow six-tatami room.

We sat together on the futon spread on the floor, with the little kalimba placed between us.

Outside the window, cold winter rain was drumming on the tin roof.

Yoru reached out with her small fingers and timidly plucked the kalimba’s keys.

Pon.

A clear sound, like raindrops but soft like a music box, filled the room.

“Ah, it made a sound…!”

“You’re good at that. Can Mom try too?”

Pon. Pon.

Yoru and I took turns making sounds.

It wasn’t anything you could call a melody. Just a string of notes.

But somehow those sounds felt like they washed away all the bitterness of our bottom-rung life, the crumpled thousand-yen bills that once mocked me, every bit of malice, carrying it far away.

“Such pretty sounds, Mom.”

“Yeah, they really are pretty.”

Late at night, while watching Yoru’s sleeping face, I kept listening to the kalimba’s tones over and over.

This was our life.

No matter how poor we were, no matter how cut off from society, as long as those sounds were ringing, we could keep walking forward.

I would do anything to protect the beautiful sounds Yoru made.

No matter what hardships waited ahead.

Several years later.

Time passed without mercy, and the harsh reality of life bared its teeth as if laughing at my determination.

Around the time Yoru finished elementary school and entered middle school.

My body had reached its limit.

Years of overwork. Chronic lack of sleep.

I started collapsing from dizziness while working the register at the supermarket.

The doctor told me, “It’s overwork. You need to rest.” But resting meant throwing away Yoru’s future.

Middle school uniform fees, the required school bag, textbook costs.

Plus, the cram school pamphlet Yoru brought home.

“Mom, I don’t really need to go to cram school… I’ll study on my own.”

As she said that and tried to hide the pamphlet, Yoru’s fingertips trembled slightly.

I understood.

Yoru loved studying. She had ambition.

But she knew the state of my wallet better than I did.

That consideration of hers slammed me down into the deepest pit of misery.

Why? Why, when I was working so hard?

Juggling three or four jobs, washing dishes until I felt like dying, standing at the register, handing out flyers.

Why couldn’t my daughter even say out loud something as normal as wanting to go to cram school?

Why did this child alone have to live watching everyone else’s faces for clues?

Was it society’s fault? Or politics?

No, that wasn’t it.

People around me had suggested I get an abortion.

But I was the one who decided to give birth.

This is my responsibility.

That night, when I was treated like a tool by that man, abandoned by my parents, and dropped out of college as a failure.

Was the child born from someone like me never allowed to step into a place where the sun shines from the start?

“…That’s just wrong.”

I muttered it alone in the dark kitchen.

Yoru has talent. She has potential.

I can’t let her rot away in the same mud I’m stuck in.

I have to send this child out into a proper world, different from mine.

That is the responsibility of the “me” who gave birth to her.

For that, I needed money.

A decent amount of money.

I looked in the mirror.

My face, past thirty.

Exhausted, drained of life, with no trace of the youth I once had.

But if I put on makeup, I might still be able to sell myself as a “woman.”

My value as a person had already disappeared long ago.

The moment I stared up at that cheap hotel ceiling that night, my dignity and pride had all died.

If I could sell off pieces of this body that had become a corpse and buy Yoru’s future with it.

There couldn’t be a cheaper bargain in this world.

“…I’m sorry, Yoru.”

I traced with my finger the especially flashy ad on the edge of the job magazine.

Age limit: 18 to 29.

I picked up a pen and changed my age.

Twenty-seven. Saya.

That became my new name.

To deliver Yoru into the light, I decided to throw myself willingly into the depths of the night.