15 September 1999 Saturday.
Today is Zenshin's second birthday. Unlike last year, today's celebration is small and private—just family. Zaboru, Ayumi, Keiko, Zanichi, Sanika, and little Arumi are all here. Tomorrow, Ayumi will celebrate again with her side of the family at Hamazou HQ, but tonight belongs to the Renkonan household.
The living room feels warm in that simple way only family gatherings do. A small cake sits on the table. The air carries the scent of sweet cream and tea. Someone has tied a few decorations on the wall, not flashy, just enough to make the day feel special.
Zaboru grinned as he crouched to Zenshin's height. "So, Zen-chan… what do you think you'll get from me today?"
Zenshin smiled, eyes bright. He acted like an excited toddler, but his gaze was too steady, too aware. "Umm… probably some toys?" he said, sounding innocent, almost rehearsed.
Zaboru sighed inwardly.
He knew his son was a genius.
Zenshin didn't think like a two-year-old. He could already read cleanly. He could write in neat lines. And when he drew, it wasn't random scribbles—it was composition. Shapes with intention. Faces with expression. Zaboru had watched him quietly, the way a man watches a miracle and tries not to make a sound.
And there was something else too. Something deeper than talent.
Zaboru could feel it sometimes, like a pulse behind Zenshin's calm. A body that didn't tire easily. A focus that sharpened instead of drifting. It reminded him too much of himself. His Enlightenment Body. His Deep Memory Dive. Maybe Zenshin had inherited only fragments, or maybe he had inherited more than Zaboru dared to admit.
If that was true, then ordinary toys wouldn't impress him for long.
But Zenshin still played the role of a child because he loved his parents. He smiled, he waited, he pretended not to see the world so clearly.
That tenderness made Zaboru's chest tighten.
He glanced at the small hands folded politely in Zenshin's lap and thought, I have to be careful. Not to underestimate him. Not to burden him.
And not to forget that even a genius is still a child who deserves to be happy.
Zaboru grinned. "Wrong. Here for you."
He reached behind his back and revealed a small ukulele, polished and new, the wood warm under the room's light. It was child-sized, but not a toy. Real strings. Real pegs. A real instrument.
Zenshin's eyes lit up so hard it looked like someone had switched him on. "Whoa! Papa!" He took it carefully, like he understood it could break. "I really love this!"
Zaboru chuckled, watching his son's fingers hover over the strings before he even plucked them. Zenshin had always stared at the guitar when Zaboru played, not just listening, but studying. He watched hand shapes. He watched timing. He watched how sound came out of wood and wire.
"That's yours," Zaboru said gently. "But we respect it. Okay?"
Zenshin nodded immediately. "Okay."
Zaboru sat beside him on the floor and placed his own hands lightly over Zenshin's, guiding the first simple chord. "This is how you hold it. This is where your thumb rests. And this is how you make it sing."
He strummed once.
A soft, bright sound filled the room.
Zenshin blinked like the note had landed inside his chest. Then he tried again.
The second strum was clumsy, but the rhythm was there. He adjusted his grip on his own without being told, then strummed a third time, cleaner.
Keiko covered her mouth with both hands, eyes shining. Zanichi leaned forward with a proud smile like he was watching a future prodigy. Sanika practically melted into her seat.
Ayumi didn't say anything at first. She just watched, smiling the way only a mother could smile, like her heart was quietly overflowing.
Meanwhile, Arumi, who had only recently learned to crawl, made her slow, determined journey across the floor. She reached Zenshin at last, lifted her tiny hand, and patted his cheek with careful curiosity.
Zenshin paused, then looked down at her and smiled, patient and gentle. "Arumi-chan," he whispered, like greeting a friend.
Arumi squeaked happily and patted him again.
Zaboru laughed softly. "Hey, hey. Your sister wants attention too."
Zenshin tried to do both at once, keeping the ukulele steady while letting Arumi hold his sleeve. The sight was so cute the adults around them looked like they'd been defeated.
"Alright," Zaboru said, lifting a finger as if announcing a serious rule. "After three good strums, you earn cake."
Zenshin's eyes widened. "Deal."
He focused again. One strum. Two. The third came out surprisingly clean.
The room applauded like he'd just performed a concert.
Then they celebrated properly. Candles, clapping, laughter, and a messy chorus of birthday wishes that didn't match perfectly but still sounded warm. Zenshin ate with honest joy, cheeks puffing as he took bites like he was afraid the cake might disappear. Zaboru ate a lot too, pretending he was only "testing" the flavor, while everyone teased him for taking the biggest slice.
For a few hours, the world outside didn't matter.
It was just family, food, and a small ukulele that promised a new kind of music in their home.
Then at midnight, Zenshin was already asleep, and Ayumi and Zaboru stood in the backyard under a quiet sky.
The house behind them glowed softly through the windows. Somewhere inside, the last echoes of birthday laughter had settled into silence. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of grass and the sweetness of the cake that still lingered in the kitchen.
Ayumi cradled her pet rabbit against her chest, stroking its fur with slow, careful fingers. The rabbit's ears twitched once, then relaxed, content.
She looked up at the stars and smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes that felt a little fragile. "Zabo… our son is a genius. He can already read and write, even though I only taught him casually. He's already really good at drawing. And he even played the ukulele a little, even though he's only just starting."
Ayumi's smile grew, then turned shy at the end, like she was admitting something she'd been holding in her heart. "Honestly… I think he inherited it all from you."
Zaboru leaned back against the railing and let out a quiet laugh. "Of course not."
He reached out and gently touched Ayumi's shoulder, grounding her the way he always did when her thoughts started running too far ahead. "He inherited you too. Your patience, your warmth, your focus."
He glanced toward the house, toward the room where Zenshin slept, and his voice softened. "And maybe that's why he's growing so fast. Because his mother loves him so much he feels safe enough to bloom."
Ayumi's cheeks warmed. She looked down at the rabbit and stroked it again, trying to hide her smile.
Zaboru chuckled, low and affectionate. "So don't give me all the credit, Ayumi. If Zen-chan shines, it's because you're the one who keeps the home bright."
Then Ayumi's smile faded. Her shoulders sank a little, and she hugged the rabbit closer as if it could keep her thoughts from spilling out.
"He's so different from other kids his age…" she said softly. "Do you think he'll have friends?"
She swallowed, eyes still on the night sky, but her voice trembled. "I heard my brother Akechi was a genius as a child too. You know how smart he is, and… he doesn't really have friends. People respect him, but they don't stay close."
Ayumi's fingers slowed as she stroked the rabbit's fur. "And Arumi… she's still a baby, but she looks at people like she understands. I'm scared, Zabo. I'm scared our children will grow up lonely."
Zaboru looked at her and felt that familiar ache—the fear a parent can't quite explain, because it isn't about danger you can fight. It's about a future you can't control.
He understood exactly what she meant.
Zenshin really was different. Even now, he didn't get excited playing with kids his age. He could pretend—he did pretend, because he was kind—but the interest didn't come naturally.
Zaboru knew it with certainty, not because he was guessing, but because his Living Scan picked up the tiny signs: the way Zenshin's eyes stayed observant instead of playful, the way his attention held too long, the way his breathing stayed calm when other children would be bouncing.
Still, Zaboru kept his expression gentle. Ayumi didn't need him to be a prophet tonight. She needed him to be her husband.
He shifted closer and spoke softly, steady as a hand on a shoulder.
"Ayumi," he said, "being different doesn't mean being alone."
He waited until she looked at him.
"Your brother didn't lack friends because he was smart," Zaboru continued. "He lacked friends because people around him didn't know how to approach him, and because he didn't always let them. That's not destiny. That's just… circumstance."
He glanced toward the house again, toward the quiet room where Zenshin slept. "Zen-chan is smart, yes. But he's also gentle. He cares. You saw it tonight—how he paused for Arumi, how he let her touch him, how he tried to include her without being told."
Zaboru smiled faintly. "That kind of heart attracts people. Even if it takes time."
Ayumi's lips pressed together. "But what if other kids don't understand him?"
"Then we help him learn how to meet them halfway," Zaboru said. "And we help other people see him as a child, not a mystery."
He exhaled, voice warm. "We don't need Zen-chan to have a hundred friends. We just need him to have one or two good ones. The kind who stay. The kind who don't care if he reads early or thinks deeply."
He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from Ayumi's face. "And if it takes longer for him than other kids, that's okay too. We'll give him time. We'll give him chances. We'll make sure he's never ashamed of who he is."
Ayumi's eyes glistened slightly, and the rabbit shifted in her arms.
Zaboru kept smiling, calm and sure, even though inside he was already planning—quietly, carefully—how to protect that softness in his son without turning it into a cage.
He looked toward the house again, as if he could see Zenshin sleeping through the wall. "And even if it takes time, even if the first friends don't last… he still has his family. We love him. He'll never be alone in his own home."
Zaboru smiled faintly. "He's smart, yes. But he's also kind. He knows what he's doing more than most children, and when he doesn't… we'll be there."
Ayumi's expression eased. She nodded slowly, the tension in her shoulders loosening. "That's right…" she whispered.
She held the rabbit a little higher, as if the warmth helped her speak. "I don't want my son to become someone else just to fit in. I want him to be himself. Even if he's different. Even if people don't understand right away."
Ayumi's eyes shone, determined now. "And he'll be a good person. I know it."
Zaboru nodded. "He will."
He reached out and gently took her free hand. "We can teach him how the world works—how to speak to people, how to listen, how to be patient with those who move slower than he does."
His smile turned a little more serious, like a promise. "And no matter how smart he is, he can't do everything alone. Not because he's weak. Because nobody should have to."
Zaboru squeezed her hand once. "I'll teach him that someday. That strength doesn't mean carrying everything by yourself. It means knowing who to lean on, and how to stand with others."
Ayumi nodded again, calmer now, hope returning to her face. She looked up at the sky one more time, then back to Zaboru.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Let's hope for the best… and raise them well."
Then Zaboru grinned, and the seriousness in his eyes finally loosened into something playful. "So… Ayumi, when should we have another child?"
Ayumi blinked, then laughed softly, cheeks warming. "Hehehe. Can you wait at least until Zenshin is five or six years old, Zabo?"
Zaboru raised his hands in surrender like he'd been defeated by the strongest boss in the world. "Five or six, huh?"
Ayumi smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm serious," she said, but the smile never left her voice. "Zen-chan is still so small. Arumi too. I want to give them enough attention. I don't want the house to become a battlefield of crying and diapers."
Zaboru chuckled. "A battlefield?"
Ayumi lightly poked his side. "Yes. Don't pretend you don't know."
Zaboru laughed, then pulled her into a gentle hug. "Don't worry, honey. I can wait."
Ayumi relaxed in his arms, the rabbit tucked safely against her chest, as if the whole family was gathered right there in the quiet.
They stayed like that for a moment, listening to the night. No cameras, no meetings, no headlines. Only the soft wind and the distant hum of a sleeping city.
Tomorrow, Zaboru will fly to the USA and return to the ZAGE campus to give new tasks to Team Frost and Team Blaze. Their work was already done for the current schedule, but the next month never waited.
Tonight, though, he let himself be only a husband.
And Ayumi, leaning into him under the stars, let herself believe they still had time.
To be continue
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