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Haruka might have only seen his "father's" face once, but it was more than enough for the sight to engrave into his memories forever.
And on late evenings like this, left to himself and his thoughts, yes, the thoughts that would never stop assaulting him...
...Somehow, the simple act of washing his face with cold water resulted in staring into the mirror for a little bit longer than necessary.
Letting his bicolored eyes precisely trail over each little feature - his sharp nose, the light crease that eventually formed between his eyebrows from all the times he'd force himself to look tough...
...Or to scare people away, ever since he realised he'd much more prefer to give people an actual reason to reject him for.
Even now, when it was just him and his reflection, he had to strain his face to actually let it relax.
How could this ever be the face of a murderer, anyone would've thought.
How, when all that Haruka could see after all those years was a defenseless, innocent child?
The child he's grown to hate. The child he'd choke with his very own hands in his dreams.
Sakura Haruka was none of that, he convinced himself for a long time. He was strong, independent and fearless...
Until left alone with his fears and insecurities. They'd still linger, yes, even if the nightmares and panic attacks have faded into the past. Mostly.
It all unraveled, in the end. Like the black dye that wouldn't stay on his hair if it tried - it would wash off sooner than it was applied in the first place.
Recently, he slowly began letting himself accept the fact that he doesn't really hate this vulnerable Haruka. Even if annoyingly sensitive, too helpful for his own good, and definitely too caring.
He could never hate him, he realised. Not when it was the Haruka that had raised from the ashes the moment he was finally given the love he's given up on yearning for long ago.
For a really insecure person, he had quite a fair amount of reasons to remain convinced that he could, indeed, be lovable. None of which would've reached his stubborn mind without Bofurin, of course. The ones who introduced him to a place where he belonged.
The one that his father swore he'd never find.
Father... Technically a stranger, considering Haruka has only seen him once. It wasn't a long, nor a pleasant meeting. Rather one that resembled grabbing a bag of trash to throw it onto the backyard, and it carried the similar level of affection as well.
You have zero affection towards trash.
The longer he searched for traces of him in his face, the more reassured he felt - it seemed like he was a carbon copy of his mother, whatever she must've looked like.
It was really freeing to realise you carried no traces of such a hateful person - because the moment Haruka gained basic self-respect, he came to a conclusion he had no idea how someone could possibly do this to a child.
There were nights when he'd try to understand his father, but it was impossible. He didn't understand love nor grief, never having experienced any of that before. He only knew pain and loneliness - those were the base emotions he relied on.
But even after catching the smallest insight on how the man must've felt, contradicting thoughts came up.
Because Haruka lived in a, perchance foolish, state of conviction that before his fate was decided, he was loved.
The belief was foolish as hearing the stories of his friends, it was clear as day that motherly love wasn't always unconditional.
And it was additionally foolish since he believed his case was different.
Why?
...Because he always felt like there was some spiritual being watching over him.
One that kept him hoping for a better tomorrow. A tomorrow where he'd belong.
Anywhere. Anywhere was fine.
"You murderer."
There words initially crushed his last bits of hope, but the logical part of his mind remained convinced none of this was his fault.
None of this could ever be his fault - he was just a vulnerable, helpless little thing, one that haven't even yet gained full consciousness of "life".
His father's voice was just louder than that. So were the other voices. Voices of the people who depicted him as some heartless monster.
Maybe his mother's spirit wasn't the only higher being watching over him. Maybe he was living the fate he deserved, he'd think to himself in the past.
But maybe, just maybe... The tiniest crumbs of hope were a blessing from his mother.
A fruit of her forgiveness, if there even was a fault to begin with.
Even if he was a murderer, as that, no one managed to prove him wrong of...
He was blessed by his victim's forgiveness.
It was all so silly. A scenario he created in his head just to feel better about himself.
But the moment he accepted her gift, little rays of sunshine began falling right onto his path.
As if, that was it.
He was a murderer.
He might have been a murderer, indeed.
Still, his mother's love was so unconditional he could feel this strange spiritual connection between them.
She wanted him to love himself. And let himself be loved despite the cruel label that has been put on him.
...He was back by the mirror, now realising just how much his expression has softened.
And even if there was no one that could hear him, no one aside from maybe, just maybe his guardian spirit... He couldn't help but let out a quiet, soft chuckle.
"...You must've been beautiful."
He traced his fingers down the mirror, looking at his reflection with tenderness, for the first time ever.
Deep inside, he knew he was just like his mom.
That was why, he needed to carry her love through this life.
Knowing that he'd absolutely love her, too.
No.
He DOES love her.
And he doesn't need to know anything about her to know that simple thing.