Seven years old.
That's how old he was when he noticed the difference wasn't just in his head anymore.
He didn't talk about it. Not to his friends, not to his teachers, and certainly not to his father. But Arata had begun to feel it—quiet strength in his limbs, a balance that made even narrow fences easy to walk, and a kind of calm under pressure that the other kids didn't seem to have.
Once, at school, a wooden beam from a swing set slipped loose during recess. The teacher shouted too late. A classmate froze beneath it.
Arata moved without thinking.
One step, then another—faster than he'd ever run before. His hands caught the beam just before it hit the ground. The weight surprised him. It should've crushed his arms. But somehow, he held it up long enough for the teacher to pull the boy away.
He got scolded, of course—for being reckless.
But as he sat in the nurse's office with a bandage on his palm and no broken bones, Arata stared down at his hand and whispered, "That shouldn't have worked."
It wasn't flashy.
It wasn't a burst of light or strength.
But it was something.
---
That night, he sat on the balcony, knees tucked to his chest, eyes on the stars.
There was a warmth inside him. Not a fire, not a flame—just a steady, slow pulse. Like something buried deep was growing, stretching unseen roots into his bones.
He closed his eyes and tried to feel it.
His thoughts slowed. His heartbeat echoed in his ears. Not because he was scared—but because he was reaching inward, not outward.
He didn't find answers.
But he found stillness.
---
Haruto opened the sliding door behind him.
"You'll catch a cold."
"I won't," Arata murmured, not turning around.
Haruto stepped beside him and sat down. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It never was. But tonight, Arata felt the weight of a thousand questions pushing against the back of his throat.
"Dad," he said after a moment. "Did Mom ever talk about her quirk?"
Haruto looked up at the sky before answering. "Not much. She didn't like to brag. But it was beautiful, wasn't it?"
Arata nodded. "She looked like she was dancing."
Haruto smiled. "That's exactly what I thought when I first saw her use it."
The silence stretched again.
Then: "Do you think… I could have something like it?"
Haruto didn't answer right away.
Instead, he placed a hand on Arata's head and ruffled his hair. "I think," he said, "whatever you have—it'll be yours. Not hers. Not mine. Just… Arata's."
It wasn't the answer Arata wanted.
But it was the one he needed.
---
Weeks passed.
Arata didn't train. Not really. He didn't run laps or lift weights. But he paid attention. He tested his balance on fences. Timed his reactions with falling pencils. Listened for sounds others couldn't hear. Every now and then, he'd stop in the middle of a walk just to breathe and see how still he could become.
It wasn't about power.
It was about understanding.
One afternoon, he sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor with his eyes closed. He let his thoughts float freely. In his mind, he saw nothing—just darkness.
But within the dark… there was warmth.
It pulsed. Slow. Alive.
Like a heartbeat he couldn't locate.
He felt something faintly connected to it. Not a voice, not an image—but an emotion. Comfort. The same comfort he felt when his mom had wrapped him in a towel after bath time, humming softly to herself.
It didn't give him a new ability.
But it did make him believe, for the first time, that this quirk—whatever it was—wasn't just some mutation. It was a link. A bond.
Maybe even a promise.
---
At school, Arata stayed low-key. He was good in PE but didn't show off. He helped quietly, kept his grades decent, and watched more than he spoke.
Some kids had flashy quirks already. A boy who could heat his hands. A girl who floated two inches off the ground. They laughed, competed, showed off.
Arata just smiled.
Let them glow.
His light was still warming up.
---
One Sunday morning, Haruto fell asleep on the couch surrounded by schematics, tools, and crumpled snack wrappers. Arata carefully climbed up, plopped himself onto his dad's chest, and picked up one of the unfinished gadgets.
The thing buzzed faintly in his hands.
Wires crossed. Circuit half-exposed.
Arata examined it like a puzzle. He didn't touch anything—just looked. Studied. Absorbed the shapes and layout like a mental map.
When Haruto stirred awake, he opened one eye and smiled.
"Careful," he muttered. "That one might explode."
Arata grinned. "Cool."
---
That night, Arata sat in the living room alone. A breeze moved through the window. The city glowed beyond the glass.
He took a breath.
Closed his eyes.
Reached inward again.
This time, the warmth was clearer.
Not a fire. Not yet.
But he imagined it like a lantern in a cave. Gentle. Waiting. Fed by something unseen.
He still didn't know what his quirk was. Still hadn't accessed anything directly.
But he had a gut feeling now. Something bigger was under the surface. Something tied to people. To emotion. To trust.
He thought of his mother's laughter.
Of his father's quiet love.
Of the boy he caught at the park. The beam he lifted at school.
They were small moments.
But maybe… they were all part of the same growing thing.
Something invisible. Something strong.
Something his.