They say happiness never truly disappears. It unravels—slowly, thread by thread—so gradually that you don't even notice until it's gone. And when you do recognize it, you've changed, but the world hasn't. Everything seems far away, like a life you can see but no longer touch, even if the sun still rises and laughter still reverberates.
In the past, there were brief moments of happiness when warm sunlight poured through rustling leaves and laughing filled the peaceful streets. In those fleeting moments, a boy grew up—unaware of how fragile happiness could be.
The city slumbered beneath a veil of mist, its streets hushed save for the fleeting glow of passing headlights. A gentle rain drizzled, its rhythmic patter against the car's windshield.
Haruto Ayasaka had no time.
His breath came in short, uneven bursts; his hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than he should. The hospital was still minutes away, yet each second stretched unbearably. Misaki's voice echoed in his mind—calm, yet laced with the pain she tried to hide.
"Don't rush... Just be here."
The red lights blurred past, the wheels splashing through puddles, and finally—he arrived.
Inside, the walls felt colder than the outside air. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to everything. Nurses moved with practiced precision, the hum of machines steady in the background. Haruto stood frozen outside the delivery room, his pulse in sync with the rhythmic beep of a distant heart monitor.
He sank onto a chair in the waiting area, fingers interlocked, thumbs pressing anxiously against each other. His mind raced through a thousand thoughts, but none could settle. The hospital was cold, yet his palms were clammy, his breath unsteady. He had rehearsed this moment in his head countless times, yet nothing had prepared him for the weight pressing against his chest.
Then, a memory surfaced.
A warm afternoon bathed their small apartment in golden light. Misaki stood by the window, hands nervously clasped behind her. He still remembered the way she looked at him, her lips parting slightly before she finally spoke.
"Haruto... I'm pregnant."
For a moment, he had forgotten how to breathe. The world had stilled, reduced to nothing but the quiet tremor in her voice and the thundering beat of his heart.
Another memory followed—his hand resting on her belly months later, feeling a faint, fluttering kick beneath his palm. Misaki had laughed softly, her eyes brimming with warmth.
"He's strong, isn't he?" she had said.
He had nodded, but deep down, a quiet fear had lingered. Would he be enough? Would he be the kind of father their child deserved?
Now, sitting in that waiting room, those doubts resurfaced. The weight of the unknown bore down on him, pressing against his ribs, making it harder to breathe.
Meanwhile, inside the delivery room, Misaki exhaled a shaky breath, her body weak yet filled with something unexplainable. Warmth spread through her chest despite the exhaustion. She had carried this life within her for months, felt his every movement, his every fluttering kick. And now, she would finally meet him.
Then—the door creaked open.
A nurse stepped out, her face soft with reassurance.
"Congratulations, Ayasaka-san. You have a son."
Haruto stood, his legs unsteady. Each step toward the room felt heavier than the last.
Inside, the world seemed to shrink. Misaki lay on the hospital bed, exhaustion evident in her eyes, yet there was a glow about her—something unbreakable, something whole. And there, in her arms, wrapped in soft white cloth, was their son.
A quiet breath escaped Haruto's lips. The world outside blurred; the rain, the cold, the sterile lights—all of it faded.
The child's hair was pale white, strands catching the dim hospital light like moonlit silk. His tiny fingers curled unconsciously, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. His face, serene, held none of the worries of the world. He slept without fear, without burden—completely at ease, as if knowing he was where he belonged.
Haruto swallowed, something thick lodging in his throat. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, but none of those thoughts had come close to the quiet, overwhelming weight of reality.
Carefully, as if afraid he might shatter something sacred, he reached out. His fingers brushed against the child's impossibly small hand.
Warmth.
In that moment, something settled within him.
Misaki whispered, "Renji," her voice barely above a breath.
Haruto looked at her, and she smiled, weary but content.
Yes.
Renji Ayasaka.
The first light of dawn after a long, endless night.