To be parted from my children tears at the deepest part of me, leaving a wound that no passing of time, no matter how relentless, can truly mend.
For any parent who loves their own flesh and blood with the fullness of their soul, what I feel is no solitary burden. It is a shared sorrow, one that slips quietly into the heart of any who must let go, never once asking whether they are ready to release what they cherish most.
My wife bears that same weight.
For fifteen years, we lived beside our cheerful daughter, and for thirteen, we raised our firstborn son within a humble dwelling that felt no less than a small heaven. It was not merely a shelter of timber and stone, but a sanctuary that held the imprints of our lives, as though its very walls and floors remembered every laugh, every tear, every fleeting moment we had ever known within its embrace.
Those days were beyond price, beyond replacement. The memories linger like fragments of light, radiant and enduring, sinking deep into the mind and taking root, refusing to fade no matter how far time carries us.
My eldest daughter…
I can still see her running through this house, her small steps wandering into every corner of our home with a curiosity that knew no end. Until one day, she stepped into filth from the livestock yard, then came running toward me with a tightly drawn face full of indignation.
That little pout, those lips pressed together in stubborn displeasure, were so endearing that it was impossible not to smile.
"Eww, it smells… Father… Charlotte smells…"
Laughter escaped me before I could restrain it, my gaze resting upon my sweet little girl. The faint redness blooming across her cheeks, stirred by annoyance, became a sight more precious than any treasure I could ever claim.
"Come here, my dear. Let us return. Your mother will help you clean yourself."
"Charlotte does not want Father. Mother will scold me again… or scold Father."
"That is because your mother loves you dearly."
"Charlotte knows. I love Mother too."
"And what of Father?"
"I love Father as well."
"Thank you, my dear. Father loves you."
My large, calloused hands reached for her with a gentleness that stood in quiet contrast, lifting her into my arms as though she were still a babe, as though the dirt clinging to the soles of her small shoes were of no consequence at all.
A small protest left her lips, sounding half-hearted, yet still enough to draw another smile from me.
"Hmph, Father… Charlotte is not a little child anymore, to be carried like this."
"You will always be so to Father, a most delightful little girl."
"Charlotte does not like that."
"Very well… My daughter is no longer a little girl. She is a strong and admirable young lady."
A soft laugh bloomed within my embrace, light and warm. She looked up at me, her dark eyes holding a depth that reminded me of stars scattered across a quiet night sky.
"Hehe… I love Father."
A smile found its way onto my lips without my knowing, and my gaze drifted toward our home.
My steps seemed to retrace old paths that still echoed within me. My thoughts traveled distances no measure could contain, wandering through a realm of memories that had never truly left.
My son…
The child who was once shy and quiet now bore a different light. There was a spark within him when he first began to train, when he stepped upon that very path, the path of a shinobi.
The path of a ninja kindled a small flame within him, and allowed it to grow into something steadfast and strong.
No longer merely an observer. No longer content to listen to my words without daring to try them for himself.
Once, he could only watch his elder sister grow stronger with each passing day, while he remained behind as nothing more than a child.
But that day was different.
His joy overflowed, no longer restrained by silence. He was like a child who had finally received the gift he had long awaited, something he had held within his heart with quiet patience.
He ran toward me.
For the first time, his face revealed his feelings without concealment.
Warmth spread within my chest as I witnessed that change. In truth, I had always awaited this moment.
"Father… I did it…"
I answered him with a smile, an acknowledgment of the effort he had poured forth with all his heart.
"You have done well, my son."
Those words became fuel to his spirit. The happiness upon his face could not be hidden, shining as brightly as the first light of dawn.
"Thank you, Father… Ian loves you… Father."
"And Father loves you as well, my son. You are the pride of both Father and Mother."
His dark eyes gleamed, as though my words had opened a new world before him. His small steps drew closer, his fingers grasping the edge of my black tunic.
That look…
I had come to know it well.
Without a single word spoken, I already understood what he wished to say.
I understood him even before his lips could form the thought.
As always.
As it had always been between us.
No voice, no lengthy explanation, yet we understood one another in a way that needed no utterance.
"Father… Ian wishes to learn a new ability."
The desire came without hesitation, laid bare, revealing the courage and confidence slowly growing within him.
"Ian has mastered fire ninjutsu…"
"Walking upon vertical surfaces. And…"
"Floating and running upon the surface of water."
His small fingers tightened their hold upon the fabric of my tunic, as though every thread of that grasp carried a hope he could not fully give voice to.
"Teach me something new, Father… like Sister Charlotte, that…"
His tone had changed.
No longer merely soft and restrained as it once had been. There was a fervor within it, a quiet blaze that stirred each time he mastered something, only to yearn for more.
I knew him.
For he was my son.
"Sister Charlotte's hand carries lightning… it is very loud, like the chirping of birds, Father…"
I gave a slow nod as he looked toward me. Within his eyes lay a strong desire to pursue, to not be left behind by the one he admired most.
Such is the way of boys.
Unwilling to fall behind the sister they hold dear.
I understood.
I understood him in a way I had perhaps never lived myself, yet deeply enough to feel its resonance. The stir of rivalry, the yearning to surpass, to stand beside, or perhaps even beyond.
"I see…"
"…Very well, my son."
"Thank you, Father."
Before I stepped any farther, my hand rose of its own accord, brushing gently through his black hair. That color… it mirrored my own so closely, like a fragment of a childhood that felt both distant and near.
That hair, those eyes.
In my first life, and even within the body I now inhabit, those hues were never the same. The changes wrought by the System, the alterations carved into the very structure of my being, had shifted many things, leaving only my face untouched, save for the quiet maturity shaped by passing years.
Yet in him, it was as though a piece of me had returned to life.
What he sought…
Was that.
Lightning Release.
"Chidori…"
He released his grip, lifting his right hand as he innocently mimicked the form of the technique he longed for so dearly.
"Ah, yes, Father. Sister Charlotte called it Chidori."
"Listen well to Father, and watch with care."
"I understand, Father."
All of it feels as though it has passed in the blink of an eye.
As though only yesterday I stood before him, guiding the very first steps of my eldest son.
That past…
Was beautiful.
Filled with a gentle longing that soothes the soul, warms the heart, and quiets a restless mind.
Those memories have become pages in the chronicle of my life as a father. So too for my beloved wife. A long tale written in laughter and tears, painted in colors that time itself cannot wholly erase.
The sun that shines so brilliantly in the heavens…
One day, it too shall fade.
Like a flame slowly consuming the wick of a candle.
Only time sets them apart.
Yet in the end, their fate is the same.
To dim.
To sink into the vast emptiness of this boundless firmament.
Nothing endures forever.
We who once possessed nothing, and then came to hold so much within our grasp, shall in the end return to nothingness once more.
Slowly.
Yet with certainty.
All that we cherish will be taken, one by one, without ever seeking our leave.
I am your father.
And I speak as well in the stead of your mother.
My children.
Charlotte Wieser.
Ian Wieser.
Go forth.
Set your steps toward a world far greater than any you have ever imagined.
Behold all that you have yet to witness.
Hear the voice of the world.
Whether it sings sweetly or wounds the heart, walk onward without hesitation, like a meteor's gleam that rends the night sky without ever turning back.
Do not falter.
To become heroes… that is the path you desire.
Courage and resolve, hold fast to them with all your strength.
Never let them slip from your grasp.
Never yield.
The path of a hero is not a gentle road.
It is laden with unseen burdens, yet heavy enough to break those who are unprepared.
Yet Father and Mother believe.
Those burdens shall not shatter your dreams.
They shall forge you into something stronger.
You will encounter things beyond your imagining.
Moments unlike any you have ever known.
And when you have passed through them all…
Return.
Return to us.
Tell us every tale you carry back.
I shall await that day.
No matter how long it may take.
And I…
Your father…
Shall remain within the shadows.
Guarding.
Protecting.
Always.
My children.
My words, and those of your mother.
"My daughter Charlotte, my son Ian. Your father and I do not wish for you to become like the stars in the heavens, beautiful and admired by many, yet forever beyond reach."
"Walk your own path. Find your happiness within it. Not a happiness born from following our will, but one that grows from every step you choose with your own hearts."
"Come to us when doubt finds you, when your steps falter or you lose your way. Your father and I will help as best we can."
"As for your younger siblings, leave them to us. Move freely, like birds that spread their wings across the sky. Do not let those wings be bound by a cage called home."
"Your future is in your own hands. Whatever you choose, your parents will always support you."
Those long-spoken words echoed softly, yet pierced deeply into their hearts. The shift in the air was unmistakable. Emotions, no longer restrained, revealed themselves in dimmed expressions, in trembling shoulders, in tears that fell freely and dampened their garments without mercy.
In my eyes, their youthful years seemed so fragile. Not so different from when they were still small, still running without burden, still clutching our hands without hesitation.
Sorrow, when released through tears, often lightens the soul. To restrain it is only to let it settle, to become a bitter weight that suffocates the chest without mercy.
My wife looked at me for a fleeting moment, then turned her gaze toward them both. Those beautiful eyes that could silence me without a word now shimmered, holding back the warmth of tears that threatened to fall.
Her soft pink lips parted slowly, allowing words long held within to finally flow free.
"Mother feels the same as your father."
"Take care of your health. Do not stay awake through the night and forget your rest. Sleep properly."
"Eat and drink well. Never be frugal when it comes to keeping your bodies strong."
Then, with a slight shift in tone, she added something that once had been the beginning of a small quarrel with our daughter many years ago.
"Your father is wealthy, and all of it belongs to Mother. Tell Mother if you lack anything. Clothing, or matters Mother may not fully understand, yet you require."
After that, her voice grew heavier. A faint tremor wove itself between each word she spoke.
"Do not hesitate… if your coin runs short, simply say so. Mother will give all that she can."
"You know… Mother does not wish for you to live in hardship out there. Mother cares little for those who claim children must be hardened by seeking everything on their own."
"You are Mother's children. All that we possess holds no meaning if it is not used by you. To hoard it would only leave your father's gold to gather dust without purpose…"
"…You must look after one another. Do not quarrel, and always lend each other your strength."
Slowly, my wife turned her gaze toward Charlotte. Within her eyes flickered a trace of memory, laced with a gentle regret.
"Charlotte… forgive Mother. For being too harsh with you. For forbidding so many things."
Charlotte's sobs broke free, no longer restrained.
Both her hands rose in turns, brushing away the tears that would not cease. Yet that apology pierced through her defenses instead, reaching a place deep within her that she had never once given voice to.
"No, Mother… Charlotte has never blamed you, not even once… Charlotte is grateful. Because of you… Charlotte was able to grow into a daughter who is devoted… and… gentle…"
My wife stepped closer, her long pink hair falling in soft waves to the middle of her back, swaying with each measured step.
She embraced our daughter, who sat upon a wooden chair lined with soft fur.
That embrace…
Was warm.
So deeply warm that even I found it difficult to withstand.
The tears she had long held back finally fell without restraint, seeping into the fine red linen gown our daughter wore.
"I love you, my dear."
"Charlotte also… loves Mother…"
She wept.
Charlotte's arms tightened, as though she feared that warmth might slip away if she loosened her hold. Her mother's scent, soft and achingly familiar, carried her back to days that felt distant, yet remained alive within her memory.
A scent that soothed.
A presence that never failed to comfort her, no matter how many times she found herself within it.
She closed her eyes, savoring each passing moment.
Her mother's voice, gentle yet certain, echoed within her thoughts, strengthening the resolve that had begun to take root.
"Just as your father has said… whatever it may be, Mother and Father will always stand with you."
On the other side, Ian remained seated in silence.
His head remained lowered, his gaze fixed upon the faintly gleaming stone floor. The patterns etched across it seemed to draw him in, offering him a place to hide from the tide of emotion he struggled to contain.
He listened to everything without a word.
From the beginning of that exchange, he had not once interrupted, nor lifted his face, nor allowed even a fragment of what stirred within him to surface. And when his mother stepped toward his elder sister, he withdrew further into himself, retreating into quiet solitude, hoping no one, not even his parents, would notice the sorrow he kept tightly sealed.
But such hope was too fragile to endure.
His mother came to him.
And sat beside him.
Still, his head remained bowed, his gaze unmoving from the pale shimmer of stone beneath him. The patterns became his refuge, concealing the truth of his heart from any who might seek to read him.
Father.
Mother.
Charlotte.
Ryan.
Karina.
All were there.
And yet, he chose silence.
His mother's hand reached out, resting gently upon the back of his right hand.
That touch…
Warm.
Tender.
And achingly familiar.
The feeling it brought stirred a quiet current of memories, turning slowly, opening doors long closed, revealing a past bathed in light.
Just like his elder sister.
The longing was there.
A longing for days when nothing weighed upon them but the present moment.
Days of…
Running.
Playing.
Laughing.
A time shaped by simple desires, by innocent curiosity, by a childishness untouched by the burdens of the world.
"Ian… Mother's son."
The call came softly, drawing him back from the sea of memory.
The words that followed made his head slowly rise.
He looked at his mother.
That face… was filled with a sorrow she could no longer conceal.
"Mother is sorry…"
"No, Mother. I am the one who should ask forgiveness."
Irene fell silent.
The answer came too swiftly, too sincerely, cutting through the words she had yet to finish. There was a quiet tenderness within it, one that made it impossible to deny.
Unlike her husband, who stood firm upon reason, she was a woman who lived through feeling. All this time, she had been the balance, the firm and disciplined presence beside a father whose gentleness often indulged their children.
And she did not regret that role.
Her son's voice came again, soft, yet carrying a strength that felt unfamiliar. It steadied her, even as she found herself, for the first time, fragile before her own child.
"Mother… truly, I love you."
"Your guidance, never once weary, has made me who I am now. My mischief in the past… has wounded you more times than I can count…"
I shook my head slowly.
"No… my dear."
My son lowered his head once more.
His hand moved, grasping mine where it still rested upon the back of his hand, as though he could not bear to release that warmth.
"So, Mother…"
My gaze fell upon the tears that dropped one by one onto the floor of our home.
My heart trembled.
My eldest son…
Crying like this.
I still remember clearly the last time he shed tears. He had been so small then, so fragile.
To see him now…
It tightened something deep within my chest.
His voice trembled, carrying a resonance that struck my heart without mercy.
"Ian is sorry. Mother once told me that a child's mistakes belong to their parents… but I do not agree."
"My mistakes are mine… and they are my responsibility."
He lifted his face.
And looked at me.
There was warmth within his eyes, tempered by a resolve that had quietly taken root.
"I am Mother's first son. Ian is sorry."
My tears could no longer be held back, falling freely once more.
The words of my son, who had always been so quiet, shattered the last of my composure.
Each sentence he spoke…
Was filled with sincerity.
With burdens he had long carried in silence.
And now, he released them.
In this moment.
When those feelings could no longer remain contained.
My son stepped closer. Both his thumbs rose, carefully brushing away my tears, as though he wished to hide the fragility I had kept so tightly concealed.
He smiled.
That smile felt different.
More grown.
Yet still warm, still filled with affection.
"My mother is very beautiful. Do not cry."
The sorrow within me slowly softened beneath those simple words.
I returned his smile.
Assuring him… that I would be well.
"My son… thank you."
I embraced him.
It was an honest embrace.
One born from all the feelings that could never be fully spoken.
Its warmth flowed into him.
And his return…
Warmed my heart in a way that no words could ever truly explain.