Last chapter, I mentioned that my grandmother was dying.

I'm posting this early, much earlier than I intended, because the event this chapter was meant to commemorate came much earlier than I expected.

A little woman named Nola Routier died the morning of August 11, 2012. She was 69 years old.

I write this in memory of her, and dedicate it to the 25 years I spent with her. I've been blessed, and as unfair as it feels to have her leave this early, that's not the important part.

It might seem strange to some people, that I would write a piece of anime fanfiction in memory of one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, but there is a reason I have been doing this for as long as I have.

It's important to me. It's how I cope with stress, and it's how I share my love of these worlds and these characters with you. My audience.

She would have understood.

Goodbye, Grandma. I love you.


When he sleeps, Yuki watches him.

Sometimes, Kohaku stays in the doorway and watches, too, but he's never been the most affectionate father. Still, he tries, and Yuki knows how hard he tries, and she loves him. He is a hard worker, a dedicated provider, and he constantly berates himself for not doing more for his family. The fact that Yuki works part-time makes him feel guilty. He isn't a chauvinist. He can't help it; he's old-fashioned. He feels that he has failed her. He feels that he has failed their fitfully sleeping son.

It's how he was taught.

Yuki strokes back little Seto's hair; his fever has broken. "How's he doing?" Kohaku whispers, and Seto stirs; he does not wake. Yuki looks over her shoulder and gives a lopsided half-smile. She shrugs.

"He'll be fine by morning."

"Valery said he probably could have gone back to school today. Said he wanted to go. Why…?"

Yuki's smile sharpens the slightest bit, and it looks strangely familiar. "Seto-chan is always moving. Always working. He'll have catalogued his entire school library by the time he graduates. It's our job to teach him, too. I'm teaching him to slow down. I'm teaching him to relax."

"You make him sound like some executive that needs to stop and smell the roses. He's a little boy, Yu."

The smirk goes away; she's just smiling, sort of wistfully, again. She strokes Seto's hair back again, leans down and presses her forehead to his. Then she kisses his cheek. "Sweet dreams, my little miracle," she whispers, and she stands up.

Kohaku follows her down the hall, chuckling quietly, wondering if his wife will admit to herself that she just wanted to pamper her baby for a while longer, whether he needed—or wanted—it or not.

Twelve years later, it's a different bedroom, and a different bed, and a different door and a different hallway. Nobody is sick, just exhausted; Yuki feels a pang of desperate longing.

She is dead now, and her little miracle does not believe in an afterlife. Her little miracle has grown into a man now, tall and angular and handsome and brilliant and bitter. Seto Kaiba does not smile, like Seto Yagami used to do, and it makes Yuki ache.

But she is proud. Prouder than words can express. He does not smile, but he is strong. He is resilient, he is dedicated. He has become a force of nature, and her heart swells when she sees him. He is strict, and sometimes he is angry. Sometimes he is harsher with his little brother than she would want.

He may not be the most affectionate father, but he tries. She knows how hard he tries, and she loves him.

And when he sleeps, Yuki still watches him.