The spring Zhou Yan turned nine, her father stopped sitting by the window with her.
It wasn't sudden — it was the kind of change that happened so quietly that even the clocks forgot to notice.
At first, it was just the phone calls.
Then the business dinners.
Then the quiet apologies that always came too late.
---
"Daddy, will you come to my open day next Friday?"
Zhou Yan held her notebook tightly, her eyes bright with hope. Her handwriting was wobbly but proud — she'd practiced the same poem for a week.
Her father didn't look up from his laptop. "Hmm? What day did you say?"
"Friday!" she repeated, louder. "At school! Teacher said parents can come and watch."
He typed for a few more seconds, then sighed.
"Daddy might be busy, sweetheart. There's a meeting that day."
"Oh…"
Her voice shrank to a whisper. She fiddled with the corner of her notebook.
"But maybe after the meeting?"
He rubbed his temples. "I'll see if I can, okay?"
That was his favorite sentence — I'll see if I can.
It meant no more often than it meant yes.
---
That Friday came, and her mother sat alone in the audience.
When Zhou Yan stepped on stage, her eyes swept across the room — rows of parents, faces glowing with pride. She found only one familiar face smiling back.
Still, she smiled too.
After all, heroes were busy people.
---
That night, she waited for him by the door again, just like when she was little.
The clock ticked past nine.
Her mother called from the kitchen, "Yanyan, go sleep, your dad's working late."
"But he said maybe he'd come home early…"
Her mother hesitated, then sighed. "He's trying, darling."
Zhou Yan didn't know what trying meant anymore.
---
When the door finally opened near midnight, she was still awake on the couch, hugging her knees.
Her father froze when he saw her. "Why aren't you sleeping?"
"I wanted to tell you how my poem went," she said softly.
He took off his tie, looking tired. "You can tell me tomorrow."
"It's short, I can say it now—"
"Yan'er."
His tone was calm, but firm.
She bit her lip. "...Okay."
He disappeared into his study, the door clicking shut like a full stop.
Zhou Yan sat in the dark for a long time before whispering the poem to herself.
It was about spring, and rain, and a bird finding its way home.
---
The next morning, he left early again.
On the dining table, a small paper bag sat beside her bowl of porridge — inside was a slice of cake.
A note on it read:
> Sorry I missed it. Daddy's proud of you.
Her mother smiled when she saw it. "See? He remembered."
Zhou Yan nodded, but didn't touch the cake.
It tasted like the kind of sorry that comes too late.
---
That was the first time she realized something was changing.
Her father's world was growing bigger — meetings, clients, dinners — while hers stayed the same.
She was still waiting by the window, holding drawings he no longer looked at, memorizing moments he no longer noticed.
But she told herself it was fine.
Because she still believed heroes always came back, even if they were late.