The days had grown long.
Not in the way time stretches during boredom, but in the way a shadow stretches before dusk—soft, creeping, and hard to outrun.
Arata moved through them like a ghost. He went to school. Ate dinner. Brushed his teeth. Spoke when spoken to. Nodded when needed. Smiled when expected.
But inside?
Stillness.
---
The training mat his grandfather had gifted him stayed rolled up in the corner of his room. The weights collected dust. His gloves hung untouched, their once-worn leather now dulled and cold.
He didn't even look at them anymore.
It wasn't that he forgot. He remembered everything. The drills, the breathwork, the way his body had responded to stress like it knew a future he hadn't yet caught up to.
He just didn't see the point anymore.
What was the purpose of strength… when the person who believed in you the most was gone?
---
At school, Arata was fine. Just fine.
Not exceptional. Not awkward. Just quiet. Some kids left him alone out of respect. Some out of discomfort. A few still tried to talk to him now and then, but even they eventually gave up.
Teachers occasionally praised his reflexes or noted his speed in PE, but when they looked at him, they saw something off.
Like his body was moving, but the rest of him hadn't caught up.
No one dared ask.
He wasn't cold. Just unreachable.
---
Conversations about heroes and quirks flowed all around him.
Sometimes, he'd hear someone mention "All might is soo cool"— i wanna be like him one day
The name tickled something in the back of Arata's memory. He remembered the the blond haired super hero and green-haired kid from the anime of his past life. Remembered how fiercely they had fought to stand beside greatness despite having nothing.
Arata when he was reincarnated he can still remember the anime that he watched
But now? The thought passed through him like a breeze through ,even he didn't notice it when he started forgetting it
---
Even Haruto, his father, had changed in subtle ways.
He still cooked, though simpler now. Still cleaned, though not as quickly. Still smiled, though never with his eyes.
The two of them sat across from each other at dinner most nights, the table heavy with words neither of them could say. Once in a while, Haruto would reach to pour more rice or ask about school.
Arata answered in single sentences.
They were trying. Both of them.
But some wounds didn't stitch with time alone.
---
That evening, the sky outside was painted with soft amber streaks. Arata lay on his bed, arms behind his head, eyes tracing patterns in the ceiling he'd memorized a hundred times.
The light from the window slid across the wooden floor until it caught the edge of his dresser.
And there it was.
The locket.
Old. Heavy. Out of place.
Unlike anything modern—its body was dark bronze, engraved with elegant swirling patterns, almost like vines curling in on themselves. Along its surface, thin etchings of flame and flower motifs shimmered when the light hit them just right. A single, dull-red stone was embedded at its center, cracked like it had weathered a hundred lifetimes.
It didn't open. It never had.
Not that Arata had tried. Not seriously.
Renjiro had placed it around his neck the day he left. "For protection," he'd said, after kissing Arata's forehead with a beardy chuckle. "And legacy."
He'd mentioned something about Arata's grandmother—that this locket had once belonged to her. That she wore it into battle more than once. That it had never broken, never bent, not even under the weight of flames.
It had felt too big for Arata then.
Now, it felt heavier still.
---
He picked it up, letting it rest in his palm.
There was something alive in the metal. Not literally—there were no quirks sealed inside or secret gadgets—but something emotional. A weight of memory, pressed into the metal like it had absorbed the warmth of generations.
And for a moment…
Just a moment…
He felt it again.
That flicker in his chest.
Not burning, not roaring—but present. Soft. Familiar. Like fingers brushing against a wound with care.
He closed his hand around the locket and sighed.
It didn't make the pain stop. Didn't bring her back.
But it reminded him… she had existed.
And somewhere inside him—maybe always—so did she.
---
Later that night, he lay still under his covers. The locket, cool now, rested against his chest, faintly catching the moonlight through the blinds.
He could feel her.
Not in the room.
Not watching over him.
But inside. Somewhere deeper than breath. Somewhere between memory and instinct.
The world outside kept spinning. Heroes kept rising. Quirks kept evolving. Futures kept building.
But Arata?
He stayed still.
His fire hadn't gone out. Not completely.
But it had gone quiet.
He wasn't ready to rise yet. Not yet.
And that… was okay.
For now.