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The district office waiting room always had the sa atmosphere—quiet, yet never entirely peaceful.
It was the kind of place where lives changed without anyone raising their voice.
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No drama.
No ceremony.
Just forms.
And signatures.
Sowhere inside this building.
A version of my life already existed on paper.
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All I had to do was confirm whether I was the one who had signed it.
The chi of the queue numbers sounded like an alarm too polite to be considered annoying.
Yuna sat beside , her back perfectly straight.
She was clutching her small bag tightly.
She looked like a model student applying for a scholarship, not soone registering a new family identity.
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Our number was called.
We stood up and headed to the counter.
The clerk was a woman in her thirties with neatly cropped hair. A professional smile. An efficient gaze.
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"How can I help you?"
"I’d like to verify our family registry and proof of residence for school enrollnt," I said, handing over Yuna’s birth certificate.
The clerk skimd it.
Her eyebrows twitched upward.
Then she looked at .
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"Your relationship to the child?"
"Guardian."
My answer was quick, steady.
Yuna bowed her head politely.
The clerk typed sothing into her computer.
The room was once again filled with the clatter of keystrokes.
Too rapid to be considered casual.
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A few seconds later, her expression shifted slightly.
Not shock.
More like... confirmation.
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"The data is already registered," she said.
I didn’t react imdiately.
Because that sentence contained far more implications than it appeared to.
"Your na is listed as the head of the household."
I paused for a single second.
"Head of the household."
"Yes. The registration was completed a few weeks ago."
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A few weeks ago.
That ant all of this had been completed before I had any awareness of it.
Before the knock.
Before the explanation.
Before the choice.
who actually arranged it?
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"So I only need to print the latest copy?" I asked.
"Correct. Would you like a juminhyo as well?"
"Please."
She printed a few pages and handed them to .
The sound of paper sliding across the counter was soft.
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Final.
Irrefutable.
I looked down.
And there it was.
Written without hesitation.
Without doubt.
Without permission.
Nishida Itsuki — Head of Household
Yuna — Child
Administratively speaking,
This was an entirely ordinary family.
"Is there anything that needs to be updated?" the clerk asked.
"Not at the mont."
Because if anything needed updating, it wouldn’t be a matter for city hall.
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