The Yakuza's flower

Time that has passed

Ume's POV

The smell of cinnamon drifted into the hallway before the sun even rose. I flipped the last pancake onto a plate and stepped back, hands on my hips, satisfied.

The kitchen felt calm this early. Still. I moved through it like it was mine, barefoot on cool tile, the loose hem of one of Maribel's robes brushing my ankles.

A few months ago, I would've jumped at every creak of the house. Now, I didn't even glance toward the door.

I'd slept through the night.

No nightmares. No cold sweats. No jolting awake with my heart pounding like it was still fighting something that wasn't there.

Rey shuffled in first, groggy and shirtless, rubbing his face with one hand and reaching for coffee with the other. "You're up early."

I smiled. "You're welcome."

His brows lifted as he looked at the table—pancakes, eggs, cut fruit arranged into a little sun. He stared for a second, then glanced at me. "You're... glowing."

Maribel came in behind him, her hand on her growing belly. "I was just thinking the same thing."

I shrugged, feeling my cheeks warm. "Maybe I just slept too well."

Rey took a bite of fruit. "You didn't even check the door once."

I blinked. He was right. Not once. No glancing over my shoulder. No counting exits.

We all sat down to eat and enjoyed each other's company.

⸻

While Rey went to work, I stayed with Maribel. Her due date kept creeping closer, her belly growing heavier. She grumbled often about being "so over it," while I helped her move around the house and kept her distracted.

That afternoon, we were out in the back garden. The sun dipped low, casting gold through the leaves. She sat in a woven chair, her belly curved beneath a flowy dress, while I sat on the grass at her feet, plucking loose petals from a flower.

She watched me for a moment, then said, "I'm proud of you."

"Proud of me? What did I do?" I asked.

"You're growing. Healing on your own now. I don't see you lost in your thoughts like before."

I smiled faintly, twirling a petal between my fingers. "I used to brace myself for the worst anytime someone looked at me too long."

"I know," she said. "But lately... you laugh more. You aren't in pain anymore."

That made me go quiet. Because she was right.

"I guess," I said after a pause, "I got tired of the pity from everyone."

Maribel leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Mhmm. There's the Sato I like to see—a fighter."

I just laughed.

⸻

As the days passed, I somehow convinced Rey to let me speak with the godfather's wife.

The first time I showed up, she seemed confused—startled, almost—as if my presence meant something had gone wrong.

"I just wanted to see you," I said.

She blinked slowly, folding the white laundry she'd been tending with careful, deliberate hands. Her movements didn't stop, but her eyes lingered on me a moment longer than necessary.

"To see me?" she echoed—not unkindly, just uncertain.

"I want to know you. If you'd let me."

A long pause followed. Then she nodded once and gestured to the bench across from her, under the shade of a lemon tree.

We sat in silence while she worked—her folding precise, almost ceremonial. Not a wrinkle out of place. I recognized that kind of quiet. It wasn't coldness—it was a survival skill. One I understood deeply.

After a while, I asked gently, "Do you hate me... for Mateo?"

She didn't look up from the linen in her hands. "Mateo was not my blood," she said softly. "He was my husband's son from before we met."

Her tone gave away nothing. No bitterness. No grief. Just truth, spoken plainly.

I nodded. "I brought you some tea. And sweet bread from the bakery on 5th."

She gave a soft hum and a small, polite thank you. We didn't say much after that. But she let me stay—let me exist in her quiet orbit without question. I handed her the folded linens as she reached for them.

That first visit ended quietly, and I didn't expect a second invitation—but when I came back, she greeted me with the same still, neutral grace.

The more visits I made, the more she opened up—not with long conversations, but with smaller gestures. A cup of tea already poured. A seat in the shade pulled slightly out for me. A faint nod when I arrived.

I came to her because, in a way, I saw myself in her. That restraint. That sense of always being slightly out of place, even in your own skin. I figured maybe—just maybe—if someone had given me the space to show my real self, I would've bloomed sooner. So I decided to give her that same chance.

Eventually, she handed me a wooden hoop with soft cotton fabric stretched inside. A few spools of thread beside it. No instructions. Just an invitation.

I fumbled at first. My stitches were uneven and clumsy. My fingers pulled too tight or too loose. She didn't correct me. Just watched with a tiny, nearly invisible smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

By the third or fourth visit, we no longer needed explanations. She would already have thread waiting for me when I arrived. I'd bring her different teas—peppermint, chamomile, hibiscus—and we would sit in our usual spot, embroidering side by side. Sometimes, she would gently point out a stitch I could improve. Sometimes, she would tell me the names of the flowers she was stitching—jasmine, iris, lilies. And sometimes, we just talked about silly things.

It wasn't friendship in the usual way. But it was a bond.
A quiet and understanding one.
A mutual softness we didn't need to explain.

⸻

One night, I sat on the floor between Maribel's knees while she combed out my hair. Slow, gentle strokes that felt more like love than grooming. We didn't say much—just murmured little nothings about the baby, about cravings and names, about whatever nonsense made us laugh that day.

I told her about the godfather's wife and how we'd started spending time together. How we didn't speak much, but somehow still understood each other.

Maribel smiled softly, threading her fingers through a stubborn knot. "I hope my son grows up brave," she said suddenly. "Not just strong. But Brave. Like you."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "You're brave too."

She giggled softly. "Not like you. You were born for storms and wildfires."

I just smiled

Then

We stayed
Quiet.
Safe.
And Whole.

————————————————————-

Comment
Vote
Follow

Are y'all ready  lol