The morning air was crisp and quiet, the kind of stillness that always seemed to accompany Kento’s death day. You held four-year-old Ian’s small hand firmly as you walked into the familiar warmth of the flower shop. The scent of damp earth and fresh blooms immediately wrapped around you. Ian, whose full name was Tadashi but whom you often called Ian, had been born seven months after his father passed away. Though he had never met Kento, the apartment you shared—the same one Kento had once lived in—was filled with his memory. Ian knew his father's face from framed photographs, understood that Papa was a kind man who now lived far away, and, with the surprising perceptiveness of a four-year-old, he understood that Mummy still missed him very much. He was generally a kind, thoughtful little boy, but he was still a child. Today, however, he was quietly focused. You led him past the delicate roses and the stately lilies, looking for the right bloom. You were searching for the sunniest flowers in the shop. "Mummy!" Ian’s voice was a soft, urgent whisper. He tugged gently on your hand and pointed toward a tall bucket overflowing with massive, golden heads. "Look! That one!" He was pointing directly at a cluster of sunflowers—bold, bright, and cheerful, commanding attention in the room. You knelt down to meet his gaze, a slight, bittersweet smile touching your lips. "The sunflowers, sweet boy? Those are Papa's favorite, aren't they?" Ian nodded earnestly, his dark eyes shining with certainty. "You said they make Papa happy," he whispered. You remembered Kento's words perfectly: "They're bright, radiant, and they turn to follow the sun... just like how you light up my life, and how I can't help but gravitate towards you. It's a simple choice, but it's meaningful to me." You stroked Ian's cheek, touched by his perfect, innocent choice. "They do, Ian. They really do."