The plastic folder was thin. Cheap. Slightly creased at the top right corner. It was warm from being held in her hands for so long.
I opened it. Official paper. Thick. Stamped. I immediately recognized the format.
A birth certificate. The name was written clearly.
Yuna.
Date of birth: nine years ago. Place of birth: Tokyo. Mother's name.
I hadn't looked at that part yet. My eyes stopped at the father's column.
Nishida Itsuki. The exact same kanji characters. Not a single stroke out of place.
I read it again, slowly.
Nishida. Itsuki.
I looked up. She was sitting cross-legged now. Hands on her knees. Back straight. An innocent expression that was much too composed.
"It's official," she said.
"There are plenty of similar names out there."
"There are."
"And plenty of Nishidas."
"Yes."
"And plenty of Itsukis."
"Yes to that, too."
"So, in all likelihood, this isn't me."
She tilted her head slightly. "But the address is the same."
I hadn't turned the page over. I lowered my gaze again.
The official city seal. The signature.
It all looked authentic. Not a cheap photocopy. Not a sloppy forgery. If this was a fake, whoever made it was no amateur.
I let out a small breath. "Do you know that forging documents is a criminal offense?"
"I didn't forge it."
"Do you know what a criminal offense is?"
"I do."
I stared at her. She wasn't fidgeting. Not biting her nails. Not playing with her fingers. A nine-year-old child usually wasn't this calm when lying.
"Where did you live before this?" I asked.
"My old house."
"Your old house?"
"Now I live at Papa's house."
Her answers were quick. No pause to think. I slowly closed the folder.
"If you have the wrong person, what will you do?"
She shrugged her small shoulders. "Then that means Papa is mean."
I stared at her for a few seconds. "That's terrible logic."
"It's effective."
I almost laughed. Almost. I opened the folder again. The mother's name finally caught my eye near the top.
Kanzaki Sayaka.
My hand stopped for a fraction of a second. I hadn't reacted.
Not yet.
That name wasn't common. It was too specific. Too familiar.
I closed the folder again before my thoughts could wander too far.
"Alright," I said quietly. "Let's assume this is real."
"It is real."
"Let's just assume," I repeated.
She didn't argue this time. I placed the document on the low table between us.
"If this is true," I said, "when exactly did I do something of this magnitude?"
She gave a small smile.
"That's something Papa should remember."
I looked at her. She stared back without blinking. The room fell silent once more.
The sound of a passing motorcycle on the street outside echoed faintly through the window. I tapped the paper lightly with my fingertip.
"Do you have any other proof?" She immediately reached for her bag again. Without rushing.
Without panic.
As if she had been waiting for that exact question. Her hand slipped into the backpack. Then, she pulled out a small slip of paper, folded in half.
She didn't hand it over right away. She just held it in the air for a moment.
"Here," she said.
I stared at the paper.
"Papa's address."
She smiled again. And for the first time, I saw a hint of tension at the edges of her eyes.
I hadn't taken the paper. My hand stopped mid-air. If the address was correct, this was no coincidence.
If the address was correct—
I finally took the paper. And unfolded it.