“Papa.”

The word escaped my lips naturally, without the interference of the Mesugaki Skill.

Benedict, who had been kneeling on the snow, slowly raised his head. His eyes, brimming with tears, met mine. The sight made something within me stir—a strange, bittersweet ache I couldn’t fully understand but somehow felt intimately familiar.

“I forgive you.”

The words flowed effortlessly, as if they were not my own, but those of another who had been waiting to speak them for a very long time. They carried a warmth and weight that surprised even me.

Benedict’s expression twisted, as if the simple phrase …