"Daddy?" the girl called out, her voice bright with excitement as she finished the last lap of her run.

  "Why do I have to train so much?" she asked, slightly out of breath, her eyes turning to her father.

  He was a handsome man-tall, broad-shouldered, with turquoise eyes and a short, neatly trimmed beard that framed his angular face. It was autumn, and golden leaves had begun to gather in soft piles across the small, square garden that belonged to their home. The high hedges surrounding it offered privacy-a quiet world all their own. No one could see when they sunbathed in summer, or when the girl trained with her father under skies that seemed to stretch forever.

  "Well, Miri darling, so you'll grow big and strong. And so you'll be able to defend yourself against nasty villains."

  The girl had her back to him, so she couldn't see the smile she knew was on his face-but she heard it in his voice, and it made her giggle. She loved him with all her heart. When she was four, he had decided that a sweet girl like her should learn how to protect herself. And so, for a year now, he had been teaching her a martial art-what it was called, she could no longer remember. But she knew one thing: she loved it. It was hard sometimes, sure-it pushed her, made her legs ache, her lungs burn-but she always came back to it, eager for more. And every so often, when the effort felt like too much, she'd ask again, just to hear him say it. He only ever cared about keeping her safe. And she believed him.

  With the finish line in sight, the girl gathered her strength and sprinted the final few meters. Her father stood waiting, arms open. She leapt into him, hugging him tightly, her heart thudding from the run.

  "Well done, my dear. Warm-up complete. Now comes the tricky part," he said, setting her down and ruffling her hair with a tenderness that only a parent can truly know. She looked up at him, eyes glowing with pride. He was still so young, and yet he carried himself with the calm certainty of someone who truly understood children-who truly understood her.

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  "Today we'll repeat the exercise from last time-keep that muscle memory sharp," he said, gently taking his hand from her head and turning toward the terrace. A few meters away stood an inflatable punching dummy. It was a little taller than the girl-perfect for her size. With a single practiced motion, he scooped it up under one arm and brought it back.

  Frieza-that was what she'd named the purple dummy. The bright smile that had lit up her face immediately disappeared, shifting her expression from cheerful to annoyed. Just thinking about the villain she disliked most in her favourite TV show made her blood boil. The girl's imagination flared to life. She took the dummy reluctantly and with some difficulty, shuffled over to the lawn. It was heavier than it looked. Huffing, she set it down.

  The thing wobbled. The girl's eyes narrowed, a spark of fierce determination flickering in them. She was going to show this bad guy exactly what she was made of.

  She took a stance-feet firm, hands raised, fists clenched. The world narrowed to just this moment.

  Her father stepped beside her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

  "Then show me what you remember," he said, his voice low and calm.

  The girl nodded slightly, shoulders squaring. She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. In her head, she ran through the steps again. She was ready.

  "Hah!" she cried, flinging her left arm forward and landing a clean punch to the dummy's face. It rocked backward before springing back, wobbling wildly. Without pause, she crouched slightly, pivoted, and launched a kick with her outstretched leg. Her balance held-barely-but well enough. A grin spread across her face, filled with quiet pride. She placed her fists on her hips and looked up at her father, waiting for his response, her eyes gleaming with a light that came from deep within.

  "Rob, Miri, dinner's ready!"

  The voice rang out from the house, soft and melodic, like something out of a memory. A moment later, a young woman appeared in the doorway. She was petite, with warm brown curls falling over her shoulders and a smile that could light up the whole garden. It was easy to see why the girl's father had fallen in love with her.

  Father and daughter exchanged a quick, mischievous glance-one that said exactly what needed to be said: First come, first served! In an instant, they were off, scampering across the terrace toward the house, nearly knocking the woman over in their rush.

  Those were good times-The kind that stays with you, long after the leaves have fallen.