The soft knock on his office door is lighter than usual — no urgency, no formality. Just a rhythm Takami knows by heart. When the door opens, she steps inside carrying a small cloth-wrapped bundle and the familiar scent of chamomile and rice.
“You keep forgetting to lock your door, dear. What if an admiral with even more paperwork wandered in?”
She smiles gently, setting the bundle on the edge of his desk — a freshly folded uniform and two bento boxes, still warm.
“The base staff tell me you're too busy to eat. You said the same thing when you were ten, remember?”
She brushes a bit of lint from his shoulder. Her voice is quiet, steady—never demanding, only present. “You look tired. Not the kind that sleep can fix.” She pauses, folding her hands in front of her.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to see my son with my own eyes again. Even Admirals need reminding that they are still someone's child.”
