"Papa."
I don't have a child.
The voice came through the door of my apartment, clear as day. A young girl's voice. No hesitation. No sign of having the wrong door. Her tone sounded like someone who already knew exactly who lived inside.
I stared at the door for three seconds.
Then, I opened it.
The apartment corridor was cramped, as usual. The cream paint was starting to yellow in the corners. The fluorescent tube light on the ceiling flickered sluggishly. The smell of detergent from the next unit mingled with the scent of cheap fried food from downstairs.
Standing in front of me was a little girl.
Straight black hair, shoulder-length. Thin bangs. A small, sky-blue backpack. White sneakers that were still clean. She looked up at me with eyes far too calm for a child her age.
"Papa."
I looked to the left down the hall.
To the right.
The unit number on the door. 203. Correct.
I looked back down at her.
"You have the wrong person."
I closed the door.
Click.
Two seconds of silence.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Louder knocks.
I opened the door again.
She hadn't moved a single step.
"Papa, it's me. Your daughter."
The sentence was spoken with clean articulation. Practiced.
I studied her face. No resemblance. At least, none that I could see right away.
"Impossible."
"Why?"
"Because I know exactly what I've done with my life up to this day."
She didn't answer. She only blinked once.
I was about to close the door again when the sound of shuffling slippers came from the unit across the hall.
Door 204 opened a crack. The middle-aged woman with the cat peeked out. Her eyes were sharp. Her gaze darted from my face to the little girl in front of me, then back again.
I could practically hear the gears turning in her head.
A 21-year-old man. A 9-year-old child. Calling him papa.
Troublesome.
I let out a short sigh.
"Come in," I said.
The girl immediately stepped inside without hesitation. As if that had been her objective all along.
I closed the door slowly. The sound of a lock turning echoed from outside—unit 204 had closed too.
My apartment was small. A 1K layout. One main room with a cramped kitchenette to the side, and a sliding-door bathroom at the far end. A minimalist shoe rack. A folding table. A futon still rolled up neatly in the corner. No decorations. No photos. No signs of life beyond the bare necessities.
The girl stood in the middle of the room, looking around calmly.
"Your apartment is small, Papa."
I left my hand resting on the doorknob for a few seconds before finally turning around.
"Don't call me papa."
"If not Papa, what should I call you?"
"My name."
"What is Papa's name?"
I stared at her.
She knew.
Her gaze was too prepared.
I walked past her and sat on the floor near the low table.
"You have the wrong address," I said again.
She finally took off her backpack.
She unzipped it slowly.
"I'm not mistaken."
Her hand reached into the bag.
I watched her without moving.
She pulled out a clear plastic folder.
And held it out to me.
"I have proof."
I didn't take it immediately.
The room felt even smaller than usual.
The white ceiling light hummed quietly.
Outside, the sound of the old elevator grinding upward could be heard.
The girl kept holding the folder in the air, waiting.
I stared at the folder.
"I have proof," she repeated softly.
I finally reached out.
And took it.
The plastic folder was thin. Cheap. Slightly creased at the top right corner. It was warm from being held in her hands for so long.
I opened it.
Official paper. Thick. Stamped.
I immediately recognized the format.
A birth certificate.
The name was written clearly.
Yuna.
Date of birth: nine years ago.
Place of birth: Tokyo.
Mother's name.
I hadn't looked at that part yet.
My eyes stopped at the father's column.
Nishida Itsuki.
The exact same kanji characters.
Not a single stroke out of place.
I read it again, slowly.
Nishida. Itsuki.
I looked up.
She was sitting cross-legged now. Hands on her knees. Back straight. An innocent expression that was much too composed.
"It's official," she said.
"There are plenty of similar names out there."
"There are."
"And plenty of Nishidas."
"Yes."
"And plenty of Itsukis."
"Yes to that, too."
"So, in all likelihood, this isn't me."
She tilted her head slightly.
"But the address is the same."
I hadn't turned the page over.
I lowered my gaze again.
The official city seal.
The signature.
It all looked authentic.
Not a cheap photocopy.
Not a sloppy forgery.
If this was a fake, whoever made it was no amateur.
I let out a small breath.
"Do you know that forging documents is a criminal offense?"
"I didn't forge it."
"Do you know what a criminal offense is?"
"I do."
I stared at her.
She wasn't fidgeting. Not biting her nails. Not playing with her fingers. A nine-year-old child usually wasn't this calm when lying.
"Where did you live before this?" I asked.
"My old house."
"Your old house?"
"Now I live at Papa's house."
Her answers were quick.
No pause to think.
I slowly closed the folder.
"If you have the wrong person, what will you do?"
She shrugged her small shoulders.
"Then that means Papa is mean."
I stared at her for a few seconds.
"That's terrible logic."
"It's effective."
I almost laughed. Almost.
I opened the folder again.
The mother's name finally caught my eye near the top.
Kanzaki Sayaka.
My hand stopped for a fraction of a second.
I hadn't reacted.
Not yet.
That name wasn't common.
It was too specific.
Too familiar.
I closed the folder again before my thoughts could wander too far.
"Alright," I said quietly. "Let's assume this is real."
"It is real."
"Let's just assume," I repeated.
She didn't argue this time.
I placed the document on the low table between us.
"If this is true," I said, "when exactly did I do something of this magnitude?"
She gave a small smile.
"That's something Papa should remember."
I looked at her.
She stared back without blinking.
The room fell silent once more.
The sound of a passing motorcycle on the street outside echoed faintly through the window.
I tapped the paper lightly with my fingertip.
"Do you have any other proof?"
She immediately reached for her bag again.
Without rushing.
Without panic.
As if she had been waiting for that exact question.
Her hand slipped into the backpack.
Then, she pulled out a small slip of paper, folded in half.
She didn't hand it over right away.
She just held it in the air for a moment.
"Here," she said.
I stared at the paper.
"Papa's address."
She smiled again.
And for the first time, I saw a hint of tension at the edges of her eyes.
I hadn't taken the paper.
My hand stopped mid-air.
If the address was correct, this was no coincidence.
If the address was correct—
I finally took the paper.
And unfolded it.