In the first few years of Zhou Yan's life, the world was small and golden.
It fit inside the two-bedroom apartment on Maple Lane, where the morning sun spilled through thin curtains and painted her toys in honey light.
Every weekday morning began the same way.
Her father's alarm would ring before dawn — a sharp, serious sound that always made her sit up in bed. She would peek from the doorway, hair sticking up like messy grass, and watch him knot his tie in the mirror.
To Zhou Yan, that tie was magic.
When he looped it around his neck, he turned from "Daddy" into someone bigger — someone who could fix anything.
"Daddy, are you going to fight bad guys again?" she'd ask, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
Her father would chuckle, pat her head without turning from the mirror.
"Not bad guys, sweetheart. Just work."
But in her mind, work meant saving the world. Maybe not with a sword or a cape, but with papers and a serious face.
When the door closed behind him, Zhou Yan would stand on tiptoe and wave through the window until his car disappeared. She always imagined he was waving back.
---
After breakfast, she'd sit on the floor and draw him.
Always the same: tall figure in a gray suit, briefcase in one hand, her small hand in the other. Sometimes she drew herself flying beside him, because heroes needed sidekicks.
Her mother would laugh softly.
"You really love Daddy, don't you?"
"Mm-hmm!" Zhou Yan would nod hard, eyes bright.
"When I grow up, I'll marry Daddy too!"
Her mother never corrected her. She only smiled, brushing Zhou Yan's hair into a tiny ponytail.
---
Evenings were the best.
Zhou Yan would wait by the window when the streetlights came on, counting the cars that passed. Every time headlights flashed against the glass, her heart jumped.
When his car finally stopped in front of the house, she'd run barefoot to the door.
"Daddy's home!"
She'd throw herself at his legs, arms around him before he could even take off his shoes. The smell of rain, smoke, and the outside world clung to his coat — it was the smell of someone important.
He'd lift her up, just for a moment, before sighing, tired.
"Hey, hey, careful. Daddy's got work tomorrow."
But she'd already buried her face in his shoulder, murmuring,
"I missed you today."
He would hum something in reply, not really words, but to Mira it was enough.
---
On weekends, when he wasn't too busy, he'd take her to the park.
Zhou Yan would chase pigeons, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbons in the wind.
Her father always stayed on the bench, phone in hand, watching half the time.
But every now and then, when she tripped or scraped her knee, he'd rush over, worried eyes softening as he wiped her tears.
"See? Daddy's here. Nothing to cry about."
That was all it took for her to believe again — that she was safe, that her hero never failed.
---
That night, she drew another picture.
Her father was in it again, smiling brighter this time, because she decided heroes should always smile. She colored the sky pink and orange, just like the sunsets they sometimes watched together.
She didn't know yet that there would come a day when he'd stop sitting beside her on the bench, or when his smile would be something she had to remember instead of see.
For now, Zhou Yan was seven years old, her hands stained with crayon wax, her heart full of uncomplicated love.
And in her small, shining world, Daddy was still her hero.