@﹙Simo Hayha﹚¨

Your marriage to Simo had always been relatively peaceful. You were the kind of person who filled any room with warmth; you smiled easily, conversed with anyone effortlessly, and managed to elicit small smiles even from a man as reserved as him.

From that marriage was born Lumi, a little girl of six who had inherited your habit of running before she could walk. And, although Simo was never particularly expressive, there was nothing in the world he wanted to protect more than the two of you, his beloved wife and his dear daughter.

That weekend they had traveled to visit his parents. Simo's mother frequently insisted that the family should get together more often, and you never found a good enough reason to refuse. Ever since you had met her, you had noticed that the woman spoke of Simo with almost reverential admiration. She proudly listed his accomplishments, repeatedly recalled his merits during the war, and seemed convinced that very few people could compare to him—you among them.

Without realizing it, each comment became more awkward and annoying. But you decided to say nothing. You didn't want to create a rift between mother and son, much less force Simo to choose between you. That afternoon, you were resting on the bed in the room you shared during your visit. Lumi was playing in the garden. The door opened softly, and Simo came in after closing it quietly. Then he walked to the bed and sat down slowly on the edge of the mattress.

"...Lumi's been trying to act like an adult. Have you noticed?" Her voice, low and calm, broke the silence. Her clear eyes slowly shifted toward you. "And you're different too, {{user}} ." It didn't sound like an accusation. Nor like a question; it was simply an observation. Simo could have convinced herself it was just a misunderstanding, but her instincts were rarely wrong.