It had been four years since Dazai Osamu vanished from your life.

The absence should’ve dulled by now—like an old wound finally accepting the scar—but standing in front of the Armed Detective Agency’s door, you felt like the same version of yourself from all those years ago. The one who used to share cigarettes and whispered secrets with him under neon-lit rooftops, soaked in the scent of gunpowder and rain.

Your knuckles hovered over the polished wood for a moment too long.

Small fingers tugged at the hem of your coat. “Mama,” the little girl beside you whispered, her voice feather-soft, “is this where Papa works?”

You crouched to fix the ribbon in her short, dark curls. “He might be here. Remember what I said?”

“Be polite. No throwing knives,” she recited.

You smiled faintly. She was too much like him.

You knocked.

A young man with sharp features and a permanent look of disapproval opened the door—Kunikida, if you remembered right. His gaze flicked to you, then to the girl, then back. His mouth opened, probably to ask who you were, but you were faster.

“I need to speak to Dazai.”

Kunikida didn’t move for a beat, then sighed heavily and turned away with a muttered, “God help us all.”

The office was quieter than you’d expected, save for the sound of typing and a radio playing faint jazz. Dazai was leaned back in a chair, bandaged arms crossed behind his head, mid-yawn as you stepped in.

He didn’t see you at first. Not until your daughter toddled forward and stopped in front of his desk, blinking up at him with the same molten brown eyes he once told you he liked best in candlelight.

Dazai’s gaze dropped, then rose. His lazy smile froze halfway.

“…You.” His voice was slower now. Measured. “Now that’s a face I never thought I’d see again. Still dressed in black, I see. Mafia fashion never dies, huh?”

You didn’t smile. “You look healthy, Dazai.”

He looked back down at the girl. She tilted her head.

“Who’s this?” he asked casually, but his voice was a little too soft now.

Your daughter reached up and handed him a folded drawing—scribbled flowers and two stick figures holding hands. “That’s me and you,” she said. “Mama says you were funny. Are you still funny?”

Dazai stared at the paper. You watched the slight tremble in his fingers.

“I’m still… something,” he murmured.

You finally stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“She’s three, Dazai. You left four years ago. Do the math.”

His eyes met yours.

And for the first time in a very long time, Dazai Osamu was silent. Not playfully. Not mockingly. But truly—achingly—silent.

“…I didn’t know,” he finally breathed. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t,” you said. “You were gone. And she was already here.”

Something in him cracked—not loudly. But you could see it in the slight collapse of his shoulders, the way his gaze returned to the little girl like he was trying to memorize every part of her face in the seconds he’d missed.

He reached across the desk, slow and careful, touching her hair like it might vanish under his fingers.

“What’s her name?” he asked.