Reincarnation wasn't clarity—it was confusion wrapped in instinct. There were no divine voices, no cosmic guides. Just the slow, strange realization that he'd lived once before… and hadn't stayed dead.
Arata's world was small—crib bars, soft blankets, warm arms, and filtered sunlight.
But his thoughts were not small.
Even as an infant, he could feel the strangeness of rebirth curling around his heart. Every laugh, every lullaby, every strange television jingle brought with it the quiet buzz of familiarity... and the quiet realization: this wasn't home. Not the one he used to know.
Still, it was warm.
His mother, Riku, filled the apartment with light. Not because of any power—though she did have a quirk—but because of how easily joy slipped from her. She hummed when she cooked. Danced with a mop when she cleaned. Sometimes she'd hold Arata above her like he was royalty and laugh like nothing in the world could go wrong.
He didn't understand it all.
But he liked it.
His father, Haruto, was quieter. Not cold, just thoughtful. He spent long hours in a small workroom full of screens and wires. Quirkless, but clearly intelligent. Every now and then he'd peek into Arata's room, sit by the crib, adjust a blanket, and whisper something too soft to catch.
Sometimes, when Riku was busy and Haruto was working from home, he would simply take Arata into his lap. The first time it happened, Arata had crawled his way into the study and tugged at his father's pant leg until Haruto paused, picked him up, and wordlessly settled him against his chest.
It became routine.
While Haruto typed, Arata would sit calmly, legs dangling over one thigh, tiny hands occasionally smacking the keyboard or grabbing at the mouse cord. Haruto never pushed him away. He just adjusted, kept working with one hand when needed, and gently redirected Arata's curious fingers.
There were no big conversations. No dramatic moments. Just a soft, consistent rhythm—clicks of the keyboard, blinking lights on monitors, the rise and fall of Haruto's chest.
Even without a flashy quirk, Arata felt something stable in his father. A kind of quiet strength that didn't need to be loud.
And then—one day—someone new arrived.
Old, with a spine that curved just enough to suggest the years behind him. Silver hair, swept back and tied. Eyes like steel. But when he looked at Arata, they softened.
"Riku," the man said quietly. "He looks just like her."
She smiled sadly, and for once, didn't tease.
"This is your grandson, Father," she said, placing Arata gently in the man's arms.
The man—Renjiro Tetsuki—held Arata like he was made of glass. His fingers were rough and calloused, but his touch was steady.
"You feel it, don't you?" Renjiro whispered, eyes meeting Arata's. "It's in you... faint, but there."
Arata blinked.
He didn't understand the words—but something in the tone felt heavy. Important.
Renjiro gave a small chuckle. "You remind me of her. Your grandmother." He kissed Arata's forehead softly, his beard brushing the baby's skin and making him squirm and giggle.
"Ticklish, huh?" he grinned. "Just like how ur grandma use to feel ."
Renjiro watched it for a moment longer, then let out a long sigh. "I won't be staying," he said. "There's work to be done. Old ghosts I need to chase."
"You're always chasing something," Riku murmured.
He smiled faintly. "Maybe. But this... this is something worth returning for."
With one last look at Arata, he turned and left.
And just like that, he was gone.
---
Days passed.
Arata's body moved the way babies were supposed to—rolling over, grabbing fingers, learning to sit. But inside, he felt more aware than he should. He didn't know what to do with it, so he just watched. Listened. Absorbed.
Sometimes he stared at the locket above his crib until his eyelids drooped. It didn't do anything. No glow, no hum. But something about it made him feel like he was being watched over.
He liked that feeling.
But he didn't dwell on it.
He focused on his mother's voice, the way her footsteps echoed when she jumped, the gentle weight of her hugs, and the quiet strength of his father's presence.
One evening, while Riku was out grabbing groceries, Haruto was back at the desk—an open schematic glowing blue on the screen. Arata, bored in his playpen, crawled out with surprising determination and made his way to the study.
He tugged once at Haruto's shirt. Haruto glanced down, scooped him up without a word, and set him on his lap.
Arata leaned into his father's chest and looked at the screen. It made no sense to him. Just lines and diagrams. But it felt nice. He didn't have to understand it to feel safe.
Haruto adjusted one arm to type and used the other to keep Arata balanced. At one point, Arata reached out and accidentally closed a window.
Haruto sighed, reopened it, and gave him a faint smile.
"You're always watching," he said softly. "I wonder what you see."
Arata didn't respond. But he stayed awake a little longer that night.
Not thinking about power.
Not about quirks.
Just… wondering what kind of man his father really was.
And whether he'd ever get the chance to ask.