The apartment window was open. Fresh, rain-washed air poured in, sweeping away the lingering, faintly burnt scent of toast.
Hiroshima Mori sat down on the sofa in the living area, his posture ramrod straight, every muscle held taut.
Across from him sat a chestnut-haired girl with her eyelids lowered, stealing glances at him from the corners of her eyes. Hiroshima Mori's gaze paused on her face—so nearly identical to his wife's—for two or three seconds before sliding away to meet the eyes of the woman seated beside her.
The woman resembled the girl by eight parts out of ten, but she was more mature, carefully maintained, her expression giving away very little. Only those eyes—those same eyes, the same deep blue—held a faint, appraising scrutiny.
No one spoke.
The air in the room was heavy, the silence so dense it felt like the bottom of an ocean.
At last, the black-haired woman adjusted her sitting posture.
"Then… this gentleman is…?"
"I'm Hiroshima," Hiroshima Mori introduced himself.
"Mm. And we're Nagasaki."
"I'm very sorry, Ms. Nagasaki." Hiroshima Mori drew a breath, placed both hands on his knees, and bowed deeply. "Appearing in your home in such a sudden manner and frightening you and your daughter—this was a grave failing on my part."
"I accept your apology." The woman nodded slightly, her eyes sweeping him from head to toe. "To be honest, Mr. Hiroshima, if it weren't for that suit you're wearing, I would have already called the police."
"Yes. I understand. Thank you for your restraint."
"Then explain," Ms. Nagasaki said, her gaze steady. "Who are you, exactly? And how did you suddenly appear inside this apartment?"
Hiroshima Mori fell silent for two seconds.
"Ma'am, I swear to you that every word I'm about to say is true. But frankly… you likely won't believe me. You may even find it impossible to accept."
Ms. Nagasaki shrugged. "I can't imagine anything harder to accept than 'a strange man suddenly appears in the home of a mother and daughter living alone.'"
"Then I'll start with my profession," Hiroshima Mori said. "I am a trainer employed by Tokyo Central Tracen Academy. For your understanding—in ordinary society, the closest equivalent would be… a women's track coach."
"I've never heard the name 'Tracen.' And a women's track coach?" Ms. Nagasaki's voice held a thin edge of irony. "Are you saying my Soyo has the kind of talent that would take her onto the track and win glory for the country?"
"I can't say for certain. I've never coached a human girl to run." Hiroshima Mori answered evenly. "But if your daughter has the desire, I'm willing to give everything I have."
"Wait," Ms. Nagasaki said, her expression shifting into something faintly incredulous—as if she hadn't expected this sort of adolescent fantasy to surface in what was effectively an interrogation. "What do you mean, 'a human girl'?"
"That leads to the second part," Hiroshima Mori said, pausing because he knew this was the turning point. "My origins, and my purpose."
"I come from Tokyo in another world. In my world, there exist three goddesses—Beyer, Godolphin, and Dali. They issued me a commission and sent me here, asking me to assist your daughter… to support her as she pursues her dream and her wish."
"And as for why I appeared in your home—because in my world, this is also my home. This apartment is the marital residence I shared with my wife. The identity registration data and the full certificate of particulars kept in my bedroom can serve as proof… if they came with me to this world."
Ms. Nagasaki didn't interrupt. She listened to the entire account in silence, then turned her head to her daughter.
"Soyo. I'm suddenly a little hungry. Could you bring my breakfast from the kitchen?"
"Huh?" Nagasaki Soyo blinked. "But, Mom… the eggs and toast are already cold—"
"It's fine. Go."
"O-okay."
Ms. Nagasaki tapped her index finger lightly against her knee. She watched her daughter walk into the semi-open kitchen before turning back to Hiroshima Mori.
"Mr. Hiroshima. Would you mind letting me see your suit jacket?"
"Ms. Nagasaki," Hiroshima Mori said carefully, "this suit was bought for me by my wife, specifically for formal occasions. It wasn't cheap."
"I know." Ms. Nagasaki's tone stayed calm. "Not just 'not cheap.' A Kiton K50 series fully bespoke suit—camelhair suede, handmade. The entry price is eight million yen. Wearing it is like draping a luxury car over your shoulders. Relax. I only want to look."
"No," Hiroshima Mori said. "What I mean is—no one buys a mentally ill man a suit that expensive. If you're looking for something like 'If found, please call this number, generous reward,' you'll be disappointed."
He saw it at once—the spike of her alertness, the sudden rise of distrust.
"And you don't actually want breakfast," Hiroshima Mori continued, voice steady. "That was an excuse. An excuse to send Nagasaki-san to the kitchen. You wanted her as far from me as possible—and there are knives in there. If I really were unstable, you and those kitchen knives would be two layers of protection between me and your daughter."
At the stove, Soyo's hand paused mid-reach.
On the sofa, Ms. Nagasaki fell silent.
After a long moment, she exhaled slowly.
"Another world, Tracen, trainer, goddesses, wishes…" She looked straight at him. "Mr. Hiroshima, I'll admit—your setting is interesting. As fantasy fiction."
"I told you," Hiroshima Mori said. He wasn't surprised; he only let out a quiet sigh. "You wouldn't believe me."
"Belief requires that what I'm hearing is fact, not a story." Ms. Nagasaki's gaze sharpened. "Mr. Hiroshima, I'm asking for proof I can see. Give me your suit jacket. You can refuse—but I'll call the police immediately. And for the record, this building's security is excellent. They'll have you pinned to the floor before you can get anywhere near Soyo."
"If I had malicious intent," Hiroshima Mori replied softly, "the moment your daughter stood up, I would have acted."
He drew a measured breath.
"As for 'proof you can see'—I can offer something stronger."
Ms. Nagasaki's expression flickered. "What?"
"When I signed the contract with the goddesses," Hiroshima Mori said, "perhaps as praise for my courage, or perhaps as a reward for my rare compliance, each of the three bestowed a blessing upon me."
"Now, what you are about to witness is the blessing of one of the Three—Godolphin of Arabia."
"I will reclaim my youth… and return to the most beautiful age of my life."
Hiroshima Mori raised his hand and gently closed his fingers into a fist.
Pinpricks of blue light appeared in the air—like fireflies lifting from deep in a forest. They gathered around him, converging into a warm current of light. The glow swelled, deepened, and spread. Rich cobalt stained the walls, the tile, the ceiling, until the entire apartment seemed to sink beneath an ocean—surrounded on all sides by flowing sapphire, breathtaking in its beauty.
Both women—Ms. Nagasaki on the sofa and Soyo in the kitchen—stood frozen in shock.
They stared at Hiroshima Mori wrapped in light, eyes filled with disbelief and the dazed disintegration of everything they thought they understood. The blue currents drifted past Ms. Nagasaki's face with playful intimacy, brushing her cheek and the back of her hand—leaving behind a damp, waterlike sensation.
What kind of technology could make light touchable?
In that sea of blue, Hiroshima Mori's body began to change.
The hard angles of his face softened. His broad shoulders drew inward. The solid, adult male frame tightened, compressed—giving way to the long, lean lines of a youth.
Time was reversing in him, impossible and unpredictable.
At last, the light dispersed.
A flawless, beautiful boy stood up, reaching out a hand to the woman on the sofa, who sat utterly at a loss.
"Allow me to introduce myself again, Ms. Nagasaki," he said.
"I am Hiroshima Mori—G1-class trainer of Tokyo Central Tracen Academy."
"By the goddess's commission, I have come here… to help fulfill your daughter's wish."
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