The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still glistened with silver reflections under the pale moonlight. Water dripped slowly from the eaves of the Hyūga home, each drop echoing faintly in the silence. The town had fallen asleep, yet Ryouji remained awake, sitting by the window with a cigarette unlit between his fingers. His gaze was fixed not on the quiet street outside but on the memories that refused to let him rest.
It had been years since he walked away from that world—the world of shadows, blood, and unending silence—but it had never truly left him. Even now, the weight of those years pressed heavily against his chest. He could still recall the faces of the men he once fought, the sound of steel in the dark, and the haunting cries of those who never made it out. He had tried to bury them under laughter, family meals, and the warmth of his children, but scars do not vanish simply because one wishes them gone.
His hand trembled slightly as he rubbed his temple. He hated it—the weakness of memory. Yet he could not ignore what the stranger had said at their doorstep days ago. "The past does not forget. And it does not forgive."
A soft creak of the floor pulled him back to the present. He turned and saw Ren standing hesitantly in the doorway, his small figure wrapped in a blanket. His son's eyes, though young, carried a question that words had yet to form.
"Ren," Ryouji said quietly, forcing his voice into calmness. "Why are you still awake?"
Ren clutched the blanket tighter. "I… couldn't sleep. I heard you and Mom talking the other night. And today, you were quiet. Too quiet." His gaze lingered on the unlit cigarette. "Are you… in trouble?"
The question pierced deeper than any blade. Ryouji lowered his eyes, struggling to maintain the mask of an ordinary father. He wanted to say no, to assure Ren that everything was fine, but the boy's eyes demanded truth.
He gestured for Ren to sit beside him. The boy hesitated, then climbed onto the chair. Together, they looked out at the moonlit street. For a while, there was only silence, broken only by the distant barking of a stray dog.
"Ren," Ryouji began slowly, "sometimes people carry things from their past. Heavy things. And no matter how far they walk, those things follow them." He tightened his grip on the cigarette. "But that doesn't mean the past defines who they are now."
Ren's voice was quiet. "Is that why you looked scared when that man came?"
The bluntness of the question nearly stole Ryouji's breath. His son had always been perceptive, sharper than most children his age. It was a gift and a curse. Ryouji could not afford to lie, yet the truth was a blade that could cut innocence too soon.
"Yes," he admitted finally, his voice heavy. "That man… reminded me of things I wish I could erase. Things I never wanted you or Sakura to know. But I promise you this, Ren—I will never let that darkness touch you. Or this family."
Ren studied his father's face carefully. His young eyes searched for cracks, for signs of weakness, but what he saw instead was the steady determination of a man who had lived through storms. And yet, beneath it, he also saw fear—a fear not of death, but of losing what he now held dear.
"Dad," Ren whispered, his small hand reaching to grip his father's larger one. "Even if the past follows you… we're here now. Me, Mom, and Sakura. We're your present. Doesn't that count for more?"
Ryouji felt a sharp sting in his chest—not from pain, but from the weight of his son's words. He turned to face Ren fully, seeing not just a boy but the beginnings of someone who would one day carry his own burdens.
"You're right," Ryouji said softly, his voice breaking just enough to betray emotion. "It counts for everything."
The cigarette slipped from his fingers, forgotten. He wrapped his arms around Ren, pulling him close. For the first time that night, the memories retreated, not gone but dulled by the warmth of the present.
Outside, the moonlight dimmed as clouds drifted across the sky. The world remained uncertain, shadows still whispered from every corner, but in that moment, Ryouji found strength in the simple truth of family. The wounds of the past were heavy, but they no longer had to be carried alone.
And as Ren rested against him, fighting sleep, Ryouji whispered a vow that only the night heard: "No matter who comes for me, no matter what returns from the dark, I will protect this family—even if it costs me everything."
The weight of old wounds pressed upon him, but now he bore it with a renewed resolve.