The storm had not yet passed when Haruto stepped into the Moriyama household, the door sliding open with a soft scrape. Rain clung to him—dripping from his hair, soaking into his clothes—and left a faint trail across the wooden floor as he entered the dim, flickering light of an oil lamp.
Cradled carefully against his chest was the small, fragile bundle.
Their home, perched at the edge of the mountain village, was simple—almost modest to a fault—but it carried the quiet echoes of a life that had once been full. A small wooden toy sat untouched on a shelf. A half-finished blanket lay folded neatly in a corner. Remnants of a love that had nowhere left to go.
Since their son's passing, the house had grown too quiet.
Aiko sat near the low table, her slender frame wrapped in a faded shawl. Time had dulled the brightness in her eyes, leaving behind a quiet exhaustion shaped by sleepless nights and unspoken grief. When Haruto entered, she looked up out of habit—expecting nothing more than his return.
Then she saw the child.
She froze.
Her breath caught, her gaze locked onto the infant wrapped in a charred blanket. The edges were blackened, torn—but within it, the baby slept peacefully, its tiny chest rising and falling, untouched by whatever had come before.
"Where… did you find this child?" Aiko asked softly, her voice trembling, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.
Haruto stepped forward and gently laid the baby onto their bed. Every movement was careful, deliberate—almost reverent.
"In the mountains," he said quietly. "Alone."
He paused, his eyes lingering on the child.
"I don't know if he was separated from his parents… or left behind." His voice softened. "Either way… he shouldn't have been there."
The words settled heavily between them.
Aiko hesitated, then reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the soot-stained edge of the blanket. For months, her heart had felt numb—wrapped tightly in grief. But now, something stirred beneath it.
Something fragile. Something warm.
"Then… let's take him in," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "Maybe his parents had no choice. Maybe they couldn't protect him." Her hands trembled, but her gaze remained steady. "But we can. We can give him a home."
Haruto frowned faintly, uncertainty crossing his face.
"What if they're still searching for him?" he asked. "What if he was only lost in the storm?"
Aiko looked up at him, her eyes no longer hollow.
"Then go to the police station tomorrow," she said gently, though there was a quiet urgency beneath her words. "Ask if anyone is looking for him. But if no one comes…" Her voice softened. "Don't let him be sent away. Not to an orphanage."
Haruto didn't answer immediately.
But after a moment, he gave a slow nod.
The next morning arrived wrapped in mist.
The storm had passed, leaving the village damp and quiet. The scent of wet earth and pine lingered in the air as Haruto made his way through the narrow streets. His steps were steady, but his thoughts were anything but.
Duty told him one thing.
But something else—something deeper—pulled him in another direction.
The police station stood near the center of the village, a small wooden structure with a weathered roof still dripping from the night's rain. Inside, the officer on duty greeted him with mild curiosity.
Haruto explained everything.
The cry in the forest. The scorched ground. The child beneath the ancient tree.
The officer listened without interruption, then turned to a set of records, flipping through them methodically.
After a few moments, he shook his head.
"There haven't been any reports," he said. "No missing children. Not here, and not in the nearby towns either." He glanced back at Haruto. "No travelers passed through recently, as far as we know."
Silence followed.
Haruto nodded faintly, though his chest felt strangely tight.
Relief… and something else.
Something heavier.
He thanked the officer and stepped back outside, the cool air brushing against his face. For a moment, he stood there, unmoving—then turned and began walking home, his pace a little faster than before.
Aiko was waiting.
She rose the moment he entered, her hands clasped tightly together. Her eyes searched his face before he could even speak.
"There's nothing," Haruto said quietly. "No reports. No one has come forward."
For a brief second, she simply stood there.
Then, slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased.
Relief washed over her—not sudden, not overwhelming, but steady and certain. She turned toward the bed and lifted the baby into her arms. The child stirred softly, nestling against her as though it had always belonged there.
"Then we'll raise him," she said, her voice firm despite the softness in it. "I won't let him be sent away."
As she held him, something within her seemed to shift.
The grief that had weighed her down for so long didn't disappear—but it loosened, just enough to let something new take its place. Her eyes, once clouded, now held a quiet light. Her lips curved into a small, trembling smile.
"I think… he was meant to find us," she murmured.
She looked down at the baby, her voice softening even further.
"We should give him a name."
Haruto tilted his head slightly, considering.
"Toshinori?" he suggested. "After the number one hero?"
Aiko let out a quiet laugh and shook her head.
"No," she said gently. "He shouldn't grow up chasing someone else's shadow." She looked back at the child, her expression warm. "He deserves his own name… his own path."
She paused.
Then smiled.
"Takeshi."
As if in response, the baby let out a soft, cheerful sound—something between a coo and a laugh.
Aiko's smile widened, her eyes glistening as she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
"Do you like it?" she whispered. "Takeshi."
Haruto watched quietly, something stirring deep within him. The weight he had carried for so long hadn't vanished—but it no longer felt unbearable.
He reached out, letting the baby's tiny fingers curl around his own.
"I think he does," Haruto said softly. "From now on… Takeshi Moriyama."
The child cooed again, as if in agreement.
And in that quiet moment, something shifted within the house itself.
The silence that once felt heavy… now felt calm.
The grief that once filled every corner… began, slowly, to make room for something else.
Hope.
End of Chapter 2