And on some quiet afternoon, perhaps when rain blurred the edge of the world into watercolor gray, Kaito would reach under his shirt and touch the same pendant he’d watched his mother wear for years. He would remember the woman who had carried them through, who had turned ordinary days into a patchwork of small kindnesses. He would polish the pendant a little, string it on a new cord, and hand it, one day, to a child with flour on their cheek and a future in their hands.