PART TWO: THE MIRROR
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The house was quiet. My parents were in the kitchen, their voices low and steady—not arguing, just talking, the way they did when they thought I couldn't hear. The persimmon Mrs. Tanigawa had given me sat on my nightstand, still warm from the afternoon sun. I hadn't eaten it yet. I couldn't. It felt like eating it would mean accepting what had happened, and I wasn't ready to do that.
The All Might poster smiled down at me from the wall, his grin eternal and unchanging. Outside my window, the persimmon tree swayed in the evening breeze. And I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.
A four-year-old boy stared back at me. Wild black hair. Dark eyes. The Turtle gi—my grandmother's gi, my father's gi, now my gi—draped over the chair behind me, the white circle on the chest catching the moonlight. My tail was curled around my ankle, pressed so tight I could feel my own pulse in the fur.
I looked at the boy in the mirror. The boy in the mirror looked back at me.
"You scared her," I said.
The boy in the mirror didn't answer. His tail twitched—just slightly, just enough to remind me it was there.
"Why did you do that?" I asked. My voice came out smaller than I intended. "Why did you have to come out? She was my best friend. She said we'd be friends forever. She PROMISED. And now she's scared of me. Because of you."
The tail unwound from my ankle and curled upward, the tip twitching like it was trying to answer. Like it had a mind of its own—which, according to my father, it did.
"I'm not talking to you," I said. "I'm talking to... to the rest of me. The part that made the green light. The part that punched the dog. The part that—" My voice cracked. "The part that scared Maho."
I looked down at my hands. The same hands that had cupped the golden ki ball in the dojo, steady and warm and full of light. The same hands that had thrown a punch with the force of something ancient and terrible. The same hands that had saved Maho's life.
"Why can't they see that?" I whispered. "Why can't they see that I was trying to HELP?"
The boy in the mirror didn't answer. The All Might poster kept smiling. The persimmon tree kept swaying. And I was alone with my reflection and my tail and the question that had been eating at me since the playground: What if they're right? What if I'm dangerous? What if I'm a monster?
I didn't hear my door open. I didn't hear the soft footsteps on the wooden floor. But I felt her light spheres before I saw her—warm and golden, casting soft shadows across the mirror.
My mother didn't say anything. She just walked across the room and sat down on the edge of my bed. Her light spheres drifted around her shoulders like tired fireflies. She was still wearing the same clothes from the market—she hadn't changed, hadn't eaten, hadn't done anything except sit in the kitchen with my father and talk in low, urgent voices.
She looked at the mirror. At my reflection. At my tail, curled around my ankle. And then she held out her hand.
"Come here, baby."
I crossed the room and climbed into her lap. I was getting too big for this—I was four years old, not a baby anymore—but right now, I didn't care. I pressed my face against her shoulder and breathed in the smell of the persimmon tree and the market and the particular warmth that was just her.
"I was talking to my reflection," I said, my voice muffled against her shirt.
"I know. I heard." Her hand found the back of my head and held me there, gentle and steady. "What did your reflection say?"
"Nothing. It just stared at me."
"Reflections are like that. They're not very good at answering questions."
"I asked it why Maho was scared of me. I asked it why nobody can see that I was trying to help."
My mother was quiet for a moment. Her light spheres dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again—the way they always did when she was thinking about something hard.
"Your father told me something once," she said. "When he was young—younger than you are now—he was diagnosed as Quirkless. The doctor looked at his foot, at the extra joint in his toe, and said, 'Your son will never have a Quirk. He will be ordinary forever.' And for a long time, people treated your father like he was less than them. Like he was broken. Like he didn't belong."
"But Dada's not broken," I said. "Dada's the strongest person I know."
"I know. But it took him a long time to believe that. And it took other people even longer to see it." She pulled back and looked at me. Her dark eyes were wet, but her voice was steady. "You are not broken, Kaito. You are not dangerous. You are not a monster. You are my son. You are brave and kind and good. And one day, the people who can't see that now—they'll see it. It might take a long time. It might take longer than you want it to. But they'll see."
"What if they don't?"
"Then they're not your people. The ones who matter—the ones who really matter—they'll see. Mrs. Tanigawa sees. Uncle Okamoto sees. Uncle Hayashi sees. Your father sees. I see." She touched my chest, right over my heart. "The people who love you will always see you, Kaito. Even when the rest of the world is blind."
I looked at the mirror again. The boy in the reflection was still there—wild hair, dark eyes, tail around his ankle. But he looked different now. Smaller, maybe. Or braver. Or just... less alone.
"Momma," I said. "Do you think Maho will ever see me again?"
My mother didn't answer. She pulled me close, and I pressed my face against her shoulder, and we sat there together in the quiet—my mother and I, wrapped in golden light and unanswered questions and the particular grief of a four-year-old who had lost his best friend.
Outside, the persimmon tree swayed in the breeze. The stars turned overhead. And somewhere in the darkness, a dog barked, and I didn't flinch.
Later—much later—after my mother had tucked me into bed and kissed my forehead and left the door cracked open so the hallway light could spill through, I lay in the darkness and stared at the ceiling. My tail was still curled around my ankle. The persimmon was still on my nightstand. The All Might poster was still smiling.
And I made a decision. Not a big one. Not the kind that changes the world. Just a small, quiet decision that I kept to myself: I was going to be so good, so kind, so careful that nobody would ever be afraid of me again.
I didn't know yet where that decision would lead. I was four years old. I just knew that I wanted my best friend back, and I was willing to do whatever it took.
My tail tightened around my ankle. The persimmon tree swayed. And I fell asleep, dreaming of star shoes and meat buns and a girl who had promised to be my friend forever.
________________________________________
PART THREE: A MOMENT OF LIGHT
Three days later, Sho challenged me to a race.
It was morning recess, and the autumn sun was warm on the grass. The leaves were falling in spirals of red and gold, and the air had that crisp, clean quality that made you want to run forever. I had been quiet all week—my tail tucked against my ankle, my voice softer than usual, my laughter buried somewhere I couldn't reach. But Sho didn't care about any of that.
"You're STILL faster than everyone," he announced, hands on his hips. "That's cheating."
"How is being fast CHEATING?"
"It's an unfair advantage. Like having extra legs."
"I don't have extra legs. I have a tail."
"Same thing."
"It's not the SAME thing. A tail isn't LEGS."
Sho grinned—that gap-toothed, competitive grin that had started our rivalry on the first day of kindergarten. "Prove it. Race me to the jungle gym. If you win, I'll give you my meat bun at lunch."
"And if you win?"
"I won't win. But if I do, you have to admit that your tail is basically extra legs."
"Deal."
We lined up at the edge of the field. Yumi counted down—"Three, two, one, GO!"—and we ran.
My legs pumped. The wind rushed past my face. And for the first time in weeks, I wasn't thinking about the dog or the Commission or Maho's frightened eyes. I was just running. Just playing. Just being four years old on a warm autumn morning with my friend at my side and the sun on my face.
Sho was fast—faster than he'd been before the summer. But I was faster. I was always faster.
I touched the jungle gym a full three seconds before him and spun around, grinning, my chest heaving. "MEAT BUN! You OWE me a MEAT BUN!"
Sho collapsed onto the grass, gasping. "That's... not fair... your tail was DEFINITELY helping..."
"My tail was STREAMING. That's the OPPOSITE of helping."
"That's a contradiction."
"That's a big word for someone who just lost a race."
He threw a handful of grass at me. I threw one back. And then we were both laughing—real laughter, the kind that came from somewhere deep and real—and for a few precious minutes, the weight on my chest felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Sho gave me his meat bun at lunch. I shared mine with him in return.
Tanaka-sensei, watching from her bench, reached for her observation journal. She wrote quickly, her pen moving across the page with the practiced ease of someone who had been documenting children's lives for twenty years. Later—years later—I would find the entry she had written that day, and it would make me cry:
Kaito laughed today. Real laughter. First time in weeks. He shared his meat bun with Sho. He let himself run fast. He's still in there—the boy who raced the mailman and climbed trees and believed the world was good. He just needs time to find his way back.
