The sun was barely up, a thin gold line stretching across the kitchen tiles as you moved between the stove and the counter, trying to finish breakfast before Nanami’s first alarm even went off. He liked quiet mornings—slow tea, soft voices, your shoulder brushing his as he buttoned his shirt. You tried to give him that, even on rushed days.

Footsteps padded down the hall.

Nanami, still in his robe, looked up just as your child shuffled in, hair messy, eyes half-awake. They rubbed at their face, then peered up at him with unnerving seriousness.

“Papa… who’s Haibara?”

Nanami froze.

Just for a breath—barely a flicker—but you saw it. A shadow crossing his usually calm expression. A name from a past life, spoken in a kitchen filled with eggs sizzling and tea steeping.

He knelt beside your child, voice low and steady as ever.

“Where did you hear that name?” he asked gently.