Accidentally become a father-Chapter 4: The Memory That Shouldn’t Exist
---
I was looking at someone I had met before.
I lowered the photo slowly.
"Do you know who your mother is?" I asked.
She nodded once.
"I know."
"Did you want me to know?"
She didn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes dropped to the photograph.
Then rose back to meet mine.
---
"Papa already knows, right?"
I didn’t answer.
Because she was right.
And because something was moving inside my head.
Not a clear memory.
Not yet.
Just fragments.
---
Stage lights.
The metallic smell of dismantled scaffolding.
The low hum of equipment.
Voices echoing in a half-empty venue.
---
And her.
Standing there.
Kanzaki Sayaka.
I had been sitting in the most inconspicuous part of the venue. Behind a massive speaker near the crew stairs.
---
My uniform was still clean.
My shift hadn’t started yet.
My job was always after the concert ended.
Teardown.
---
On stage, the lights were only half-lit.
The audience hadn’t entered yet.
Just a sound check.
She stood alone in the center of the stage.
No stage smile.
No camera expression.
Just a tired woman repeating the same song over and over.
---
She stepped down from the stage.
Her shoulders slightly slumped.
She stopped not far from where I was sitting.
Perhaps because I wasn’t staring at her.
I wasn’t looking at her at all.
I was looking at the structure of the stage.
Calculating how long it would take to dismantle.
---
"Working after this?" she asked.
I looked up slightly.
"Yeah."
"You’re not going to watch?"
"Listening is enough."
She gave a faint smile.
"You don’t like idols?"
"I didn’t say that."
She waited.
"For someone like you," she said, "that’s a cold answer."
I thought about it briefly.
---
Not long.
"You’re pretty. Your voice is good."
She blinked.
Waited for more.
There was nothing more.
"That’s it?" she asked.
"Yeah."
Most people would have asked for a photo.
Or an autograph.
Or said something exaggerated.
I didn’t.
My supervisor called my name from across the venue.
I stood up.
Walked past her.
---
"You’re weird," she said quietly behind me.
"Maybe," I replied.
And that should have been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Another venue.
Another concert.
Smaller this time.
The teardown was halfway done when I sat down in the back row.
Away from everyone.
That’s when I noticed her.
---
A little girl.
Sitting alone.
Her feet didn’t reach the floor.
They swayed gently.
She wasn’t cheering.
Wasn’t waving.
Wasn’t calling out.
She was just watching.
---
Quietly.
---
I sat in the empty seat beside her.
Not because I wanted company.
But because it was the quietest place.
I had bought two drinks earlier.
One cold tea.
One small juice box.
I placed the juice box on the seat between us.
She looked at it.
Then at me.
---
"Can I?" she asked.
I nodded.
She took it with both hands.
Polite.
Careful.
We didn’t talk.
We just sat there.
Watching the same stage.
Watching the same woman.
---
Occasionally, I gave her snacks from my pocket.
She accepted them every time.
At the time, I didn’t know who she was.
Just someone else’s kid.
---
Not my concern.
Not my responsibility.
Just someone passing through the same space.
Under the same lights.
---
I blinked.
The memory ended.
The apartment came back into focus.
The small table.
The document.
The photo.
And the girl sitting in front of me.
Watching me.
---
Waiting.
"We’ve met before," I said.
She nodded.
"I know."
A pause.
---
Then she added,
"I remember."
My fingers tightened slightly.
"Remember what?"
She looked directly into my eyes.
And said quietly—
"I remember Papa gave me juice."
---
