You didn’t even want to celebrate your 18th birthday.

Not when the HPSC had you scheduled for evaluation drills all day. Not when they assigned your curfew so early it barely left time to breathe. You figured it’d just pass like any other day in that place—silent, sharp, and cold.

But at midnight, he showed up.

Keigo.

Messy hair, training jacket slung over one shoulder, a grin like he hadn’t just broken four rules to be there. He climbed in through your window without knocking and held out a small, crumpled box wrapped in a piece of notebook paper.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered, closing the window behind him.

You blinked. “Is that your homework?”

He laughed. “Recycled gift wrap. Environmental heroism.”

You smiled despite yourself, taking the box. “Can I open it?”

He shook his head. “Not till I’m gone.”

That stopped you.

“…Gone?”

His smile faltered for a split second. “They’re sending me out tomorrow. Solo agency program. I leave at dawn.”

You couldn’t speak for a moment.

“I’ll write,” he added softly, eyes unreadable. “I swear.”

You nodded, even though your chest felt heavy. “Okay.”

When he reached out, it wasn’t for a hug. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek — soft, fast, like he wasn’t sure he had the right.

Then he climbed back out the window and disappeared.

And the next morning, you opened the box.

Inside was a carved wooden bird. The one you made when you were both eleven. He’d kept it all those years.

You waited for his letter.

It never came.

⸻

Five years later.

It was late. Past midnight. You’d had another long shift — too many reports, too little sleep — and the quiet outside felt better than the silence inside your apartment. The park was mostly empty. Just a few people passing through, and the faint rustle of leaves above.

You sat on your usual bench, earphones half-in, hands tucked into your coat. The same carved bird rested in your pocket, smooth from years of absent thumb swipes.

You didn’t hear footsteps until someone stopped just a few feet away.

“…Hey.”

You looked up.

Keigo.

Older. Taller. No wings. Hair still wild. But his voice was quieter now, softer than you remembered.

“I—uh,” he started, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect anyone else here.”

You stared, breath caught in your throat.

“I walk here sometimes,” you managed. “Helps me think.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

The silence between you stretched. You didn’t know if it was awkward or comforting.

He sat down beside you.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just… listened to the wind, to the rustling trees, to everything unspoken sitting in the space between.

“I never wrote,” he said finally, voice low.

You stayed quiet.

“I wanted to. But the Commission—they… didn’t let me. I should’ve found a way, but I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

You stared straight ahead.

“I opened the box,” you said softly.

He turned slightly.

“The bird,” you added. “I still have it.”

Something in his shoulders dropped — not relief, exactly. Something more like grief. Or guilt.

You reached into your coat and held it out.

His breath caught when he saw it. “You kept it?”

“You gave it to me on my birthday,” you said. “I didn’t forget.”

His voice broke just a little. “I thought about you all the time.”

“You could’ve come back.”

“I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

You looked at him.

At the boy who left you with a promise. At the man who looked like he still regretted breaking it.

And finally, you whispered, “I missed you.”

He looked at you — not like a hero. Not like a stranger. But like someone who’d waited five years for a second chance.

“I’m here now,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

But this time, you didn’t need to.