And unfolded it.
Neat handwriting. Not a child's. Steady. Upright.
Tokyo.
District name.
Street name.
Building number.
Unit 203.
I slowly raised my head.
She wasn't smiling now.
Just waiting.
"Where did you get this address?"
"From…"
"From where?"
"The old house."
That answer explained nothing.
I looked back down at the paper.
The details were spot on. Even the postal code was correct.
If this was a coincidence, then coincidence was working overtime today.
"Have you been here before?"
"No."
"So you came here for the first time and just knocked?"
"Yes."
"What made you so sure I'd open the door?"
"Because Papa isn't a bad person."
"That's a rather quick judgment."
She shook her head slowly.
"It wasn't quick."
Her gaze was unflinching.
I folded the paper back up.
The air in the room felt dense. Not because it was small, but because there was too much information hanging in the air.
I stared at the folder on the table.
That mother's name was still inside it.
Kanzaki Sayaka.
I didn't want to think about that yet.
"Anything besides this?" I asked.
She looked down for a moment. Then, she opened her bag again.
Her movements were slower this time.
She pulled out a small envelope. The corners were already a bit crumpled.
From inside, she drew out a photograph.
A standard 3R size. An ordinary printed photo.
She held it with both hands before offering it to me.
"Me," she said softly.
I took the photo.
A young woman stood in the center of the frame. Long hair, a professional smile. A white stage dress with sparkling details. The spotlights made her hair look lighter than it actually was.
Beside her, a little girl. Hair shorter than it was now. Her face rounder. Smiling brightly at the camera.
The child was holding the woman's hand tightly.
Yuna.
A smaller version.
I raised my eyes from the photo to the face of the girl sitting in front of me.
The same facial features.
The same eyes.
The same way of staring.
I looked back at the photo.
The woman in the picture…
I knew her.
Not personally.
But I had seen her up close.
Stage lights. Cheering crowds. A messy backstage.
And an idol standing alone for a brief moment on the side of the stage, right before going up.
Kanzaki Sayaka.
I lowered the photo slowly.
"Do you know who your mother is?" I asked.
She gave a small nod.
"I know."
"Did you want me to know?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes dropped to the photo.
Then back to me.
"Papa already knows, right?"
I didn't answer.
Because she was right.
And because in that moment, a memory slowly began to stir in my head.
Not an explosion.
Not a dramatic flashback.
Just fragments of images rising to the surface.
Stage lights.
The metallic smell of newly dismantled iron scaffolding.
The repetitive sound of mic checks.
And an idol looking at me in bewilderment.
I was still holding the photo as the memory finally coalesced.
I could still remember that metallic smell.
A mix of hot iron, cables, and the faint scent of burning plastic from the stage lights. The hum of industrial fans overhead. Crew members bustling back and forth carrying ladders, spools of cable, and equipment crates.
I had been sitting in the most inconspicuous part of the venue. Behind a massive speaker, near the crew access stairs. My black uniform was still clean at the time. My shift hadn't started yet. My job was always after the concert ended—teardown.
On stage, the lights were only half-lit. The audience hadn't been let in yet. Just a sound check.
She was standing in the middle of the stage.
Kanzaki Sayaka.
Her hair was half-tied up back then. No camera-ready expression. No stage smile. Just the tired face of someone who had repeated the same song far too many times.
She stepped off the stage for a moment.
Her steps were light, but her shoulders slumped slightly.
She stopped not far from me.
Perhaps it was because I was the only person not staring at her in awe.
I was just looking at the stage structure that I would have to dismantle later.
"Working after this?" she asked suddenly.
I looked up slightly.
"Yeah."
"You're not going to watch?"
"Listening is enough for me."
She offered a faint smile.
"You don't like idols?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then?"
I thought for a moment. Not long.
"You're pretty. Your voice is good too."
She waited for me to continue.
Nothing came.
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
Usually, people would add something else. Hopes. Admiration. A request for a photo.
I stood up then because my supervisor called out to me.
I simply walked past her.
"You're weird," she said quietly behind me.
"Maybe," I replied without stopping.
The memory didn't stop there.
There was one more.
Another concert. A smaller venue. The audience was closer to the stage. I was halfway done tearing down the side scaffolding and sat waiting for my next instructions.
The stage lights were still on.
In the very back row, a section out of the cameras' reach, there was a little girl.
Sitting alone.
Her feet didn't touch the floor. Swaying gently.
Short hair. Serious face.
She wasn't cheering like the others.
Just watching.
I sat in the empty seat next to her because it was the quietest spot around.
We didn't greet each other.
I had bought two drinks from a vending machine earlier. One cold tea, one small juice box.
I placed the juice box on the seat between us.
She looked at it.
Then looked at me.
"Can I?"
I nodded.
There was no lengthy conversation.
No questions.
We just sat side by side.
Watching the same woman sing on stage.
Occasionally, I handed her small snacks from my uniform pocket.
She accepted them with both hands.
At the time, I didn't know who she was.
A crew member's kid, maybe.
An audience member's child.
Not my business.
The stage lights reflected in her eyes.
And now, those exact eyes were sitting right in front of me.
—
I returned to the small room of my apartment.
The photo was still in my hand.
Yuna was still sitting cross-legged.
Her gaze hadn't changed.
"We've met before," I said.
She gave a small nod.
"I know."
"You know?"
"I remember Papa gave me juice."
I stared at her for a few seconds longer than usual.
"Did you choose me on purpose?"
She smiled.
Not an innocent smile this time.
A knowing one.
"I chose Papa."
The room felt even more cramped.
I lowered the photo to the table.
Everything was starting to form a pattern now.
Official documents.
The exact address.
A real photograph.
Actual memories.
If this was a plan, it was a meticulous one.
And I knew one thing for certain.
A nine-year-old child couldn't possibly pull all this off by herself.
I looked at her again.
"Did you come here alone?"
She answered without hesitation.
"Yes."
I didn't believe it right away.
But I didn't argue either.
Because the question now wasn't who sent her.
The question was—
What was I going to do with her?
It wasn't a heavy question.
Just a practical one.
I looked back at the birth certificate on the table. The official seal. The signature. Thick paper that would be difficult to forge without connections.
If this was made legally, it meant an adult had made some decisions.
And that adult had means.
I didn't need to guess too far.
Her mother's name explained half of it.
As for the rest… in all likelihood, her father was no ordinary person either.
I let out a short sigh.
"Let's get one thing straight," I said.
Yuna sat up straighter.
"I know this isn't simple."
She didn't answer.
"But this document is real."
"Yes."
"And the address is correct."
"Yes."
"And you know who I am."
"Yes."
I stared at her.
"You also know I'm not the type of person who will chase the truth to the ends of the earth."
She blinked.
"Does that mean Papa accepts?"
"For now."
"Okay… Papa."
I slid the certificate back to the center of the table.
If I turned her away, what would happen?
This child would return to whoever sent her.
Or worse, to somewhere she didn't want to be.
Then maybe tomorrow, men in uniform would show up with the same documents.
Or the neighbors would start asking questions.
Or apartment management would interfere.
The more I thought about it, the more potential for a headache there was.
Troublesome.
Whereas the alternative—
I looked around my small room.
One futon.
One table.
A small wardrobe.
A half-empty fridge.
Adding one person wouldn't cause the building to collapse.
At most, I'd just have to buy an extra futon.
That was much simpler.
I raised my face toward her.
"Have you eaten?"
She fell silent for a second.
Then shook her head slowly.
"No."
"I have instant rice and eggs."
"I can help."
"You're nine."
"I can crack an egg without ruining it."
"Your statistics?"
"Nine out of ten are successful."
"That's a high failure rate."
She almost laughed. Almost.
I stood up.
It only took three steps from the table to the kitchenette.
I opened the fridge. A gentle wisp of cold air spilled out.
I took out two eggs.
As I was about to close the fridge door, I stopped.
And glanced back at her.
She was still sitting on the floor. Her bag by her side. The photo and the document on the table. Her back was straight, but her hands were unconsciously gripping her small skirt.
As if waiting for a final verdict.
I shut the fridge.
"Yuna."
She looked at me quickly.
"Yes?"
"We'll buy a futon tomorrow."
Her eyes widened slightly.
That was her only reaction.
No tears.
No hugs.
Just a small breath released more slowly than before.
I cracked an egg into a bowl.
The yolk stayed intact.
"You can use the bathroom first. Towels are on the top shelf."
She stood up slowly.
Took two steps.
Then stopped.
"Papa."
I didn't turn around.
"Hm?"
"Thank you."
I poured the eggs into the hot pan.
A sizzling sound filled the small room.
"Don't cause trouble," I said.
She stayed quiet for a moment.
Then answered softly,
"I'll be a good girl."
I flipped the egg.
"No need."
The oil continued to sizzle.
And for the first time, this small apartment felt like it was holding something other than just belongings.
On the table, the birth certificate remained open.
The name "Nishida Itsuki" was printed clearly as the father.
And for some reason,
I felt like someone out there was waiting for my reaction.