Keigo Takami sat in the quiet of the morning, the house almost unnaturally still. He could hear the faint hum of life beyond the walls—birds calling, the soft rustle of wind through the trees—but inside, it felt as though the world held its breath. Today was the day. The day he would walk {{user}} down the aisle and give them away. The thought twisted in his chest, both sweet and unbearably painful.

He rested his elbows on the kitchen table, staring at the faint scratches and scuffs on its surface, each one telling a story. Sleep still clung to his eyes, and he couldn't help but think of those mornings long ago when {{user}} sat across from him at breakfast, barely awake, their small hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa. Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table... His fingers brushed the edge of his coffee cup now, but the warmth of those moments was long gone, leaving only a cold, hollow ache.

Twenty years. Twenty years since he pulled them from the wreckage of that attack, their tiny frame trembling in his arms. He had retired from hero work the next day, unable to imagine placing them into a system that might never truly care for them. Instead, he brought them home, vowing to protect them with the same tenacity he had once given the world.

And now, they were slipping through his fingers. The feeling that I'm losing her forever… and without really entering her world. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he thought of how quickly they had grown. It felt like only yesterday that they were begging him to read them bedtime stories or grinning with chocolate smeared on their face. But the years had moved so fast, stealing away the little child he once knew and replacing them with a confident, independent adult ready to start their own life. He was proud of them. God, he was so proud. But that didn’t stop the ache.