Time passed quietly.
Arata began to walk, then run. He stumbled a lot at first, but something in his body felt… eager. Like the bones and muscles were learning faster than they should. Not in an obvious, showy way—he didn't leap over rooftops or punch holes through walls—but his balance was just a bit sharper, his reactions a bit quicker.
No one really noticed.
Maybe his mother did, in the quiet way moms do. She didn't say anything outright. But every now and then, when he caught something that should've fallen or spun in a way most toddlers wouldn't, Riku would smile softly. Not surprised. Not shocked. Just proud.
Haruto, on the other hand, seemed quietly impressed by everything Arata did—though he rarely said so out loud. He wasn't distant, just… awkward with emotions. If Arata showed him a drawing, he'd give a thumbs-up. If Arata climbed the bookshelf (which he definitely wasn't supposed to), Haruto's only reaction was a half-smile and a sigh as he helped him down.
Arata liked that about him.
It made everything feel steady.
The days blended together in a gentle rhythm. Morning cartoons. Lunch on the floor with scattered toys. Riku humming off-key while she cleaned. Haruto's soft footsteps pacing between the kitchen and his study.
And Arata?
He was just… present.
He didn't chase after power. He didn't train in secret or try to unlock anything. He was only a child, after all—at least on the outside. Inside, his thoughts were heavier than his body could carry. But he didn't let them drag him down. Not yet.
Instead, he focused on what he could feel.
When he woke up from naps, sometimes his ears picked up things they shouldn't. Distant conversations. Street sounds from three floors down. Once, he heard a coin fall in the hallway outside the apartment before it even hit the ground.
When he ran around the house, he felt the tug of wind a little more than he should. His heartbeat was steady even after full sprints. He didn't know how fast other kids tired out—but he always wanted to keep going when others sat down.
And sometimes, just sometimes, when he was focused… time felt slower. Not actually slow—but his thoughts caught details faster. A falling cup. A blinking indicator on Haruto's desk. The twitch in Riku's eye when she was pretending not to cry after watching a sad drama.
These weren't powers.
Not yet.
Just little threads pulling him forward.
---
One afternoon, Riku took him to the park. The same small one they always went to—the one with the chipped seesaw and the squeaky swings. The other kids were louder, messier. Arata didn't mind. He liked watching them from the sandbox.
A boy tried to push another off the slide. It wasn't cruel—just impulsive kid energy. But Arata was already moving before the boy even finished his shove.
He caught the falling kid—not gracefully, but just enough to break the fall.
The boy blinked at him, dazed.
"You okay?" Arata asked.
The boy nodded.
The other kid stared, then muttered, "Whoa… you moved fast."
Arata didn't answer. He just smiled awkwardly and went back to his corner of the sandbox.
---
That night, as he lay in bed, he stared at the ceiling fan slowly turning.
He wasn't trying to be a hero.
He wasn't trying to stand out.
But something inside him whispered that he wasn't normal—not in a flashy, explosive way… just in a quietly unfolding one. Like a fire slowly being fed. Not roaring. Not crackling.
Just warming up.
Still… he didn't feel a quirk. Nothing obvious. No flames in his palms. No energy sparks in his chest. Just a steady awareness of his body improving little by little.
He wondered sometimes what his power would even be when he turned four and got officially evaluated. Would it even show up? Would they say "enhanced senses"? "Adaptive muscle growth"? Or would they just shrug and stamp inconclusive?
He wouldn't be surprised if they called it nothing.
And for now… he didn't mind.
---
Later that week, he watched his mother hop from chair to counter to the top shelf of a cabinet while reaching for a jar. She moved without thinking, like it was natural. A small bounce—barely noticeable—hovering between steps.
He tilted his head.
She wasn't showing off. In fact, she probably didn't realize he was watching. Her movements were light, quick, and quiet. She grabbed the jar, jumped down, and hummed on her way back to the stove.
He filed it away silently.
He remembered that one time she'd jumped into the air to get his balloon from a tree—three mid-air steps that made her look like she was walking on the wind. But she never talked about her quirk. Never explained it. It was just part of her rhythm. Part of her.
And part of him, maybe.
But not yet.
---
That night, Arata sat on Haruto's lap again as he worked.
The desk light buzzed faintly. Haruto tapped at the keyboard with one hand while his other arm held Arata steady.
"You're quiet today," Haruto murmured without looking away from the screen.
Arata didn't answer.
Instead, he leaned against his father's chest and closed his eyes, feeling the quiet beat of a man who carried the world without powers.
He wasn't sure what kind of hero he'd become.
Or if he even wanted to be one.
But somewhere deep down, a small warmth pulsed gently.
Waiting.
Growing.