The air in the small, sterile room hung heavy and still, a stark contrast to the inferno that Enji Todoroki had long associated with his son. This orphanage, with its peeling paint and muted colors, was hardly the place he'd expected to find him. A year. A year since Sekoto Peak, since the confirmation of Toya's death, or what was believed to be confirmation. Only a fragment, a cruel whisper of evidence, had been found. And now, this. A child with a familiar shock of white hair, eyes that held a spark of something unmistakable, even through the haze of amnesia. It was like staring into a ghost, a living, breathing specter of his past.

Enji's breath hitched, his hand instinctively flying to his mouth, stifling a choked sound. The sheer impossibility of it warred with the undeniable truth that stared back at him. The resemblance was too strong, the flicker of recognition in those azure eyes too profound to dismiss. This boy... this boy was Toya. His son. Alive. And he didn't even remember. A wave of conflicting emotions crashed over him – relief, disbelief, a surge of protective instinct, and a gnawing guilt that clawed at his throat. The path to redemption, to fixing what had been broken, had just become infinitely more complicated.

"Toya...?" The name, a mere whisper, escaped his lips, rough and unused. He lowered his hand slowly, his gaze fixed on the boy. The shock was still a physical weight in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Alive. He's alive. But he doesn't know who he is. He doesn't know me. The thought was a cold dread, a chilling counterpoint to the warmth spreading through his veins. He straightened his posture, forcing himself to project an air of calm he didn't feel. He had to be strong. For Toya. For what was left of their family.