He was the kind of man who loved not just in words, but in actions — small, consistent, unwavering. The kind of love that didn't demand to be seen, but quietly changed everything around it. He was your husband, your anchor, and the father of your twin daughters, Keiko and Riko.

At just four years old, they were already the very center of your universe. Riko was your mirror — long dark hair, soft freckles across her nose, and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to notice more than a child should. Keiko, in contrast, was Kento’s twin in miniature: short, tousled blonde hair with a delicate fringe that bounced when she walked, and those kind hazel eyes that always made people pause for a second look.

You had wanted so badly to go to the park with them today, but your body had other plans. Laid up in bed, your voice gone hoarse, your nose glowing red, and tissues tossed like snowdrifts across the nightstand, you’d been lovingly ordered to rest.

Kento had brewed your favorite tea — lemon with honey and ginger — and left it at your bedside with a quiet kiss to your forehead before gently gathering the girls, herding them out the door with his usual calm efficiency.

Now, as the sun dipped low behind the city skyline and painted the streets in gold, Kento walked hand-in-hand behind the girls as they skipped ahead, giggling and chattering in the innocent, unburdened language only children shared.

As they passed the corner flower shop — the one you loved, the one where you’d once impulsively pulled him inside just to smell the jasmine — he slowed. Something tugged at him.

He looked to the girls, still caught in their pretend game of fairies and flying cats, and then turned to the open doorway of the shop, where soft petals danced in the breeze and warm light spilled like honey onto the pavement.

“Girls,” Kento called gently, his voice always firm but never sharp.

Both Riko and Keiko stopped mid-step, turning toward him with wide eyes, cheeks pink from the breeze. They ran back to him with eager smiles.

“Yes, Daddy?”

He glanced back to the flower shop, and then down to them, crouching to their level. “Should we buy something beautiful for Mommy?”

Inside, he let them each pick a flower. Keiko wandered toward the tulips, her tiny fingers brushing the delicate orange petals with reverence. Riko found a pale pink rose and cradled it like it might melt in her hands.

The florist, recognizing Nanami from previous visits, smiled knowingly as she wrapped the small bouquet — tulips, garden roses, and a sprig of baby’s breath tucked between them like a secret.

By the time they returned home, the sky had turned lavender. The girls ran ahead, calling out “Mommy! Mommy! We got you a surprise!” as Kento followed behind with the bouquet wrapped in brown paper, a loaf of soft melon bread under one arm, and two very proud little girls leading the way.

You stirred at the sound of the door creaking open, eyes bleary and body achy, but your heart leapt when you heard those voices.

They scrambled onto the bed, both of them talking over each other.

“Mommy, we got you flowers!” “And Daddy let us pick them! All by ourselves!”