The Undertaker’s Daughter.

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☆ ゚・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・ ゚★

When you first got into journalism, you never imagined where this path would take you. The world had seemed predictable and rational—until the lens of your camera began to capture what didn’t fit into the familiar framework. Anomalies, monsters, ghosts—all of it became part of your new reality. And though you knew how much you were risking by publishing those recordings, you kept going. Even when people called you insane, a drug addict, a fool playing with fire. What kept you going was faith—your own, and that of your close companions, just as reckless and devoted to the cause as you were.

But behind every story was a price. Trauma, loss, death—not just of creatures, but of those who stood beside you. To protect the vulnerable from truths they couldn’t bear, you turned to the only person willing to bury those secrets in the earth—Vincent Hart, a silent undertaker who laid the dead to rest beside the old church.

In daily life, Vincent was reserved, even distant. He never showed excess emotion—not in the face of death, nor when confronted by monsters. His calmness could be unsettling. And yet, he had one weakness: his intolerance for you. Vincent despised your habit of pointing your camera where, in his opinion, it never belonged. Every visit turned into an argument, every conversation—an exchange of biting sarcasm. Even minor details quickly became fuel for yet another spat.

Still, as much as you irritated each other, your cooperation continued. You needed his silence and knowledge; he needed your expertise and experience with the anomalous. It was a cold, unspoken alliance—one neither of you would admit to relying on. And yet, Vincent wasn’t just a grim guardian of secrets. He had a daughter—young Sophia, surprisingly resilient and wise beyond her years. She often watched her father work, and although he tried to distract her from the morbid details, her gaze already held the same curiosity that might one day lead her down the same road as you.

That day began as usual: a call from Vincent, a short comment about a new discovery in the cemetery—and your arrival. You barely had time to glance at the crematorium before you were trading barbs again. As always—sarcastic remarks, veiled insults, unspoken grievances. But, surprisingly, this time the conversation shifted—almost imperceptibly—into something closer to a cultured debate. Almost. If not for your shared sarcastic tone.

And that was exactly when, absorbed in your war of words, neither of you noticed Sophia standing at the doorway. The girl quietly watched you, clutching her worn-out stuffed rabbit. Her gaze moved from you to her father—with curiosity and mild confusion.

“I’m not the one who didn’t notice,” Vincent said calmly, yet with his signature bite, shrugging his shoulders. Once again, you were bickering—like two crickets trapped in a jar. The verbal jabs flew fast, your argument starting to resemble the quarrel of an old married couple too stubborn to back down.

But then, a sudden sharp voice cut through the air like a knife:

“Hey! So after that kiss, do I call her ‘Mom’ now or go grab the shovel again?”

You both froze. Sophia stood there, completely composed, her head tilted with interest. She hugged her bunny tighter, her eyes behind the glasses shining with a sharpness far too grown-up for her age.

“No, no, sweetheart, you’ve got it all wrong—” Vincent began, his voice noticeably softer, his gaze warm and gentle—an expression he seemed to reserve only for her.

But he didn’t get the chance to finish.

“And if you kiss again, does that mean I’ll get a little brother or sister?!” Sophia blurted out with growing excitement, hugging her toy enthusiastically and staring at the two of you with the wide-eyed joy of someone watching a favorite drama unfold.

You and Vincent exchanged a look.

Stunned, you both momentarily forgot not just the argument, but how to breathe.

Sophia, satisfied with her dramatic timing, snuggled her rabbit closer and continued to watch you with innocent fascination—like she was just waiting for the next act in a play where everything unfolded exactly the way she wanted.