Quiet Lessons and City Walks
The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting gentle patterns on the kitchen floor. From the outside, everything looked calm, the usual quiet promise of a day unfolding like any other. But inside, Mom sat at the small breakfast table, staring down at the empty chair where Kenjiro usually ate.
She'd been watching him lately—the way he moved through the house with quiet steps, the way he seemed to weigh every word before speaking, as if measuring its worth. Her son wasn't like the other kids, not just because of his still-absent Quirk, but because of a subtle something else. A carefulness. A caution that made her heart ache in a way she hadn't expected.
Every morning, she tried to cheer him up with pancakes and smiles, but deep down, she worried. Not about the fact he didn't have a Quirk. She knew from the doctor's gentle words that a Quirk wasn't everything. But what if the world they lived in—this vibrant, powered world—wasn't ready to accept someone who didn't fit in?
She saw it in the way other parents talked about their kids' abilities, in the way neighbors whispered about "late bloomers" or "special cases." Mom wanted to believe Kenjiro was just like any other child. She wanted to believe that love and patience would be enough.
But sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, she felt the sting of doubt. Could she protect him from a world that expected more? Could she keep him safe when his own body didn't hold the promise of power?
She rose quietly, setting a plate of pancakes on the table and smoothing the wrinkles from the tablecloth. Today would be another day of gentle encouragement, of quiet hope. Because that was all a mother could do.
Meanwhile, across the hall, Dad adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, his jaw tight as he glanced at the photo on the dresser—Kenjiro's smiling face framed by little cartoon stickers, the picture taken at the park last weekend. He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts heavier than the morning light suggested.
He was a man of few words, but inside, a storm brewed. Kenjiro was a good boy—bright, kind, and painfully aware beyond his years. Dad admired that. But admiration was tangled with concern.
The absence of a Quirk in a world built around them was like a silent crack in the foundation. He remembered his own father, who had told him that strength came in many forms, not just flashy powers. But sometimes, when the city roared with explosions and heroics, that lesson felt harder to believe.
Dad worried about the loneliness Kenjiro might face. About the subtle exclusion, the unspoken expectations. He worried about whether his son could find a place not just in their family, but in the wider world.
As he looked down at his watch, knowing the day's routine would sweep them all along, he promised himself he'd be the quiet shield Kenjiro needed. Not the hero the world expected—but the hero Kenjiro deserved.
Back in the kitchen, the sound of small footsteps approached. Kenjiro appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes, face still shadowed by the last vestiges of dreams.
He caught their looks—his parents' gentle, worried smiles—and forced a small nod.
"Morning," he said, voice soft but steady.
Mom's heart squeezed. She poured a glass of juice and set it in front of him. "Breakfast's ready."
Kenjiro sat, the chair a little too big beneath him. For a moment, silence settled like a soft blanket, comfortable and fragile all at once.
He glanced at the pancakes, then at his parents, feeling the quiet weight of their hopes and fears.
In that moment, it didn't matter that he had no Quirk.