Inheritance of Giants

Simple Man

Kyoka nodded sagely. "That tracks."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the containment room quietly humming behind them.

Then Kyoka reached into her jacket and pulled out her notebook — dog-eared, slightly crayon-stained, and stuffed to bursting.

"I wrote some things," she said, not looking at him as she flipped through pages. "About the song. From the rock."

Kyotoku raised an eyebrow. "You mean the waveform?"

"No," she said, matter-of-fact. "The song. The rock's not a weapon. It's just... lonely."

She found the page she was looking for and held it up.

It was titled: "The Song That Got Stuck in the World."

Looking at the pages, Kyotoku could make out a few of the waveforms — shaky but familiar, the beginnings of something real. But plenty... no, most were noise. Random spikes and jitters, probably just background interference from where she'd been sitting from apparently half the hospital over.

Still, she'd tried. She'd listened.

And that was better than so many people he's known.

Below the scrawled waves was the beginning of a music chart — the kind you'd see in old notation software — with quarter notes and rests, some floating alone like lost thoughts. A few were circled. One had four question marks next to it. One was just labeled: "maybe important?"

Kyoka watched him with her usual impatient stillness, kicking at the floor once, then again.

"Do you like them?" she asked quietly.

Kyotoku didn't answer at first.

He ran a hand over the page like it might dissolve if he blinked wrong.

Then he looked at her — really looked.

"I think," he said slowly, "this might be the best paper waste I've ever seen."

Kyoka's nose scrunched. "Dad."

"I'm serious. This is better than half the reports I get from actual SSSP field teams."

"'Cause I color-coded with the crayons?"

"I- exactly."

She beamed.

"There are a few corrections I'd make..."

"Nope," Kyoka responded, taking the papers back with a smile. "I know they're perfect."

Kyotoku chuckled, letting his hand fall back to his knee. "Well then. I guess we'll have to submit your perfect report to the archives."

Kyoka looked down at the papers with a blinked, before giving her father puppy dog eyes. "Wait- I... don't have the real name of the song..."

"So you admit they aren't perfect?"

"... You trapped me!"

Kyotoku grinned. "Guilty as charged."

Kyoka narrowed her eyes at him, clutching the pages to her chest like a wounded artifact. "I'm telling Mom."

"She already knows I'm like this."

"Still," she huffed. "You can't just spring logic traps on me! That's not fair!"

"Life's not fair. Especially when you try to out-negotiate your old man with a notebook full of squiggly harmonics and pastel chaos."

"They're waveforms!" she shouted, stamping a foot.

"And they're beautiful," Kyotoku said, reaching over to gently ruffle her hair. "Even without a name."