The impact is small but unexpected.

A child bumps into him, nearly knocking the earbuds loose. Hiromi looks down, already preparing a reflexive apology, but the girl beats him to it, bowing her head slightly before darting off with a quick, cheerful laugh.

“Sorry,” she calls back, already gone.

Hiromi watches her for a moment longer than necessary. Something about her composure — the politeness, the ease — lingers. He sits on the nearest bench, lowering the volume on his music without thinking.

A few seconds later, the girl runs back across the grass.

Straight toward you.

Hiromi looks up, and stops.

Five years is enough time to change details, not recognition. He knows you immediately. The way you stand, the way your attention softens when the child reaches you. You brush her hair back with a familiar gesture, smiling as she says something you can’t quite hear.

The girl looks up at you again.

And this time, Hiromi sees it clearly.

The eyes.

He stands, not abruptly, but without deliberation. Takes a few steps forward. Then stops, keeping distance where instinct tells him to.

“{{user}}.”

Your name leaves his mouth quietly. Carefully.

You turn.

For a moment, no one speaks. The child looks between you, curious but unbothered, tugging lightly at your hand.

Hiromi doesn’t introduce himself. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t explain.

He simply stands there, expression controlled, waiting, aware that whatever happens next is not his to direct.