The morning sun filtered through the paper screens, painting soft golden patterns across the tatami floor. In the kitchen, Hana moved gracefully, her sleeves tied up as she stirred the miso soup. The scent of dashi and grilled fish filled the small house, mingling with the faint chirping of sparrows outside. She hummed an old tune as steam rose from the pot.
At the dining table, Ren scribbled furiously in his notebook, his brows knit in concentration. Beside him, Sakura swung her legs back and forth, the tips of her feet drumming against the wooden chair. She giggled every time Ren muttered under his breath.
"Ren," Hana called, glancing back with a smile, "if you grip the pencil that tightly, it will snap in your hand."
Ren didn't look up. "I just want the teacher to actually read this time. Last week she said my writing was... questionable."
Sakura snorted and leaned closer, poking her brother's paper with her finger. "No one can read it, even if you try."
"Hey!" Ren swatted her hand away, cheeks flushing.
From the doorway, Ryouji leaned against the frame, watching them with quiet amusement. His hair was damp from the morning dew, his hands rough from sweeping the small yard outside. He appeared every bit the role of an ordinary father, tall and calm, with a presence that filled the room without words.
"That's enough," Ryouji said finally, his voice firm but warm. "Eat first, argue later."
The children quieted, though Sakura stuck out her tongue before lifting her chopsticks. Ren grumbled under his breath, but the tension quickly dissolved into the clatter of bowls and the simple comfort of breakfast together.
For Ryouji, it was the kind of morning he had always wanted—normal, unremarkable, safe. Yet his eyes flickered toward the small shelf by the entrance. Resting there was an envelope, plain and unmarked. Hana had mentioned it was delivered by mistake the night before. Ryouji knew better. In his world, mistakes never knocked twice.
---
Later that day, Hana took Sakura to the market, leaving Ryouji to walk Ren to school. The boy trotted beside him, adjusting the strap of his satchel. The street smelled faintly of rain from the night before, and neighbors waved as they passed, oblivious to the thoughts simmering beneath Ryouji's calm exterior.
"Dad," Ren said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Ryouji turned. "Hm?"
"Why is our last name… Hyūga?"
The question froze him mid-step. Ryouji's breath caught, though his face betrayed nothing.
Ren went on, his tone thoughtful. "Everyone in class talks about their family names. Some are tied to villages, some to their grandparents. But when I say 'Hyūga,' nobody seems to know it. It feels… different. Like it doesn't belong here."
The street seemed quieter for a moment. The cicadas hushed, and Ryouji's gaze hardened. Hyūga was not his birth name. It was a name chosen out of necessity, forged from shadows and blood, a banner to shield himself from a past that refused to die.
But Ren was still young. The boy didn't need the weight of that history—not yet.
"It's just a name," Ryouji said finally, keeping his tone even. "But a name only matters if you give it meaning. What we do, the life we build—that's what defines it."
Ren frowned, chewing on the words. "So… we make it ours?"
Ryouji nodded. "Exactly. Hyūga is what we decide it to be. Nothing more, nothing less."
A faint smile touched Ren's lips. For him, the answer seemed enough, but Ryouji could feel the cracks forming. The boy's curiosity was growing. One day, he would demand the truth.
---
That evening, when the children had gone to bed, Hana found Ryouji sitting in the living room. The lamp cast a dim glow, and on the low table lay the same envelope, untouched but heavy with unspoken weight.
"You didn't throw it away," Hana said softly, sitting beside him.
"No." His fingers brushed the paper's edge. "It's not addressed, but it was meant for me."
Her expression darkened. "Do you think someone has found us?"
Ryouji didn't answer at once. His gaze drifted toward the sliding door, where the faint sound of cicadas blended with the children's steady breathing. At last, he said, "The past never forgets. It always finds its way back."
He clenched the envelope, resisting the urge to tear it open. Part of him wanted to ignore it, to let this fragile peace remain unbroken. But another part—the part shaped by years of survival—knew that peace built on ignorance would never last.
Hana placed her hand gently over his, grounding him. "Whatever it is," she whispered, "we'll face it together. We're not who we used to be."
Ryouji finally allowed himself a small exhale. He looked at her, at the warmth in her eyes, then at the faint outline of Ren and Sakura asleep in the next room.
For now, he would let the envelope sit. Silent. Waiting.
But the shadows had stirred. And he knew this was only the beginning.