THE LADY'S MAN
The swing creaked as it swayed back and forth, its rusty chains whining with every push. A boy of six sat there, legs dangling, shoes scuffed, his small hands gripping the cold metal. His dark eyes stared blankly at the ground, the dirt beneath him traced with faint lines he had drawn with a stick. Laughter of other children echoed across the playground, but none of it reached him. He was used to it. Birthdays spent alone. Nights waiting for someone who never came. The feeling of emptiness had long become his companion.
Then, a sound—soft, trembling. Not laughter, not joy. Crying. He looked up.
Near the sandbox sat a girl, about his age. Her hair fell to her cheeks, damp with tears. Her small frame shook as she tried to hide her sobs behind her hands.
He slid off the swing, dusting off his shorts, and walked toward her.
"…Hey." His voice was rough, almost hesitant. "Why are you crying?"
The girl lifted her head, eyes red, nose runny. "M-My parents… They're gone. I don't… I don't have anyone anymore." Her voice cracked, the pain raw and fresh, as if her tiny chest could barely hold it all in.
He froze. No mother. No father. That emptiness… He knew it.
"…I don't have a mom either," he muttered, sitting cross-legged in front of her. "She… she died when I was born." His voice wavered, but he forced a small smile. "So I know what it's like… kind of."
She sniffled, staring at him. "Then… you're alone too?"
He dug into the small bag slung over his shoulder. Inside were some pieces of bread and snacks he had swiped from his father's kitchen, stolen because he knew no one would notice anyway. He held one out to her.
"I stole this," he admitted, chuckling dryly. "From my dad. He doesn't care, so… here. You can eat it."
She hesitated, then took it with trembling hands. The moment she bit into it, crumbs scattering on her lap, her tears slowed. He smiled, watching her chew, then ripped off a piece for himself.
"…Better, right?" he asked.
She nodded, cheeks puffed with food. For the first time, a small laugh slipped through her lips.
He blinked. "…You laughed?"
"I-It's just… you look funny eating like that," she said, giggling now, wiping her eyes.
"Funny?!" He grabbed a stick and drew a crooked face in the dirt. "If anyone's funny, it's you. Look at this—looks like you when you cry!"
Her mouth fell open, then she burst into louder laughter, swatting at him. He dodged, grinning for the first time in what felt like forever.
They played after that. Running around the rusty slide, chasing each other through the monkey bars, pretending the swings were magic chairs that could fly them anywhere they wanted. For a few hours, the emptiness in their chests faded. They were just kids—laughing, shouting, alive.
As the sun began to set, the boy sat on top of the slide, panting, watching her below. She smiled up at him, her cheeks glowing in the light. For some reason, the sight etched itself into his memory, carved so deep he knew he'd never forget.
---
The sound of bustling footsteps and chatter pulled Yoshi out of the memory. He blinked, realizing he was standing in front of the school gates, bag slung on his back, the world of six years old fading into the morning air.
And there—by the entrance—he saw her. Ayumi.
Her smile was the same, bright and unshaken. But beside her stood Kota, laughing with her, as if he had a right to be there.
Yoshi's hand tightened around his bag strap, his chest heavy but his lips curling into a smirk.
"…I found you, Ayumi," he whispered under his breath. "I'll make sure to take you back… from that brat."
A FAMILIAR FACE:
Morning came quietly.
Too quietly.
Max opened one eye, then the other, staring blankly at the ceiling. For a moment, he didn't move. Just breathing. Just existing. Then—
Ah… coffee, he muttered, dragging himself out of bed like a zombie with unfinished business.
He stepped forward.
CRUNCH.
…What the—
Max looked down.
A tiny plastic dragon, sword in its mouth, crushed beneath his heel.
From the hallway, a small voice echoed—
Dad… you just killed Sir Flameblade the Third.
Max slowly turned his head.
Kota stood there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, shaking his head in disappointment.
…He had a family, Kota added, dead serious.
Max blinked. I—It attacked me first.
Lies, Kota said, walking over and picking up the toy dramatically. He was guarding the kingdom while you were busy snoring like a broken motorcycle.
Max scratched his head. I don't snore.
You vibrate the house.
…That's an exaggeration.
"The neighbors filed a complaint.
Max froze. They did not.
Kota shrugged. Emotionally, they did.
Max sighed, rubbing his face. "It's too early for this."
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast.
Because it was.
Max stared at the blackened bread in the toaster.
…I was just trying to make breakfast,he said defensively.
Kota peeked over the counter. "That's not breakfast. That's evidence.
Max grabbed the toast and sniffed it. …It's still edible.
Kota leaned closer. If you're a dragon.
Max slowly placed it down. …We're ordering food.
Finally, a wise decision from the head of the household."
I am the household.
Debatable.
---
After breakfast (which was thankfully not charcoal), Kota ran off to play while Max started cleaning.
Laundry. Dishes. Picking up toys that somehow multiplied overnight.
Max picked up a small wooden sword.
"…When did you even get this?" he muttered.
From the living room—
"I crafted it in battle!"
"…You crafted it from a broomstick."
"It was a legendary broomstick."
Max chuckled under his breath. "…You're unbelievable."
---
By mid-morning, the house was finally calm.
Too calm.
Max sat at the table, a cup of coffee in his hand, laptop open. He stretched his back, letting out a tired sigh.
"Alright… work mode."
A notification popped up.
New Client Message.
Max clicked it.
> Hello. I saw your work online. I'd like to commission a painting.
Max typed back.
> Of course. What kind of piece are you looking for?
A reply came quickly.
> It's for my stepdaughter's wedding. I want something meaningful. A painting based on a photo.
Max smiled slightly. "A wedding, huh…"
> That sounds wonderful. Please send the reference.
A few seconds passed.
Then—
Ping.
The image arrived.
Max lifted his coffee, taking a slow sip as he clicked the file.
The screen loaded.
And everything stopped.
The cup trembled in his hand.
His breath caught.
"…No way…"
The coffee slipped slightly, spilling over the rim, but he didn't notice.
On the screen…
A face.
A familiar face.
A face he thought he had already buried in memory.
A face that dragged something deep from his chest—something heavy, something painful, something he wasn't ready to feel again.
Max's fingers froze over the keyboard.
His heart pounded.
"…Why… now…?"
From the living room, Kota's laughter echoed, bright and carefree.
But Max couldn't move.
Couldn't look away.
His eyes stayed locked on the screen.
On that face.
The past… had just found him again.
End of Chapter.