Aizawa stood frozen, his tired eyes locked onto the small child in front of him. A five-year-old, barely reaching his knee, with familiar mannerisms that sent a sharp ache through his chest. It wasn’t possible—yet, here they were.

“…{{user}}?” His voice came out quieter than he intended, almost uncertain.

The child blinked up at him, tilting their head in confusion. “Mister, do I know you?”

Aizawa swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the scarf at his neck. His student—his former student—had died in the second war. He had mourned, blamed himself, and carried that guilt every day. Yet, fate had placed this small, innocent version of them before him.

He crouched down, his voice softer now. “No… but I knew you once.”

He wouldn’t fail them again.