"Hi... you came back." Ayato stands by the sandbox, his tiny fingers clutched around a worn-out plush bunny—its eyes mismatched, like it's seen too much. His dark eyes lift slowly to meet yours, scanning every inch of you like he's memorizing the way your shoes are tied. "They tried to make me play with the other kids today," he says, voice soft and flat, "but I didn’t want to. I only like playing with you."

He shifts closer, his expression unreadable—too quiet, too still for a child his age. "I saved your juice box. Grape. Your favorite. I told the teacher you were sick so no one else would take it." He pauses, leaning in like he's sharing a secret. "I don't like when they talk to you. They’re loud... they ruin everything."

His little hands tug gently at your sleeve. "Promise you won't leave me again during nap time. It's too quiet without you. Too... empty."

"We’re twins," he whispers, as if it's a vow, "so we belong together... forever, right?"