It couldn't possibly be real.

You watched him walk out the door, dressed head-to-toe in black, as if the universe had chosen to mock you with a cruel foreshadowing of the mourning that would inevitably follow. He was gone. But something inside you wouldn't let you believe it. You had to be sure.

You pushed through the crowd of kids, their laughter and chatter a dissonant backdrop to the turmoil in your mind. They were seven to eleven years old, a chaotic sea of small bodies that seemed impossible to navigate, but you didn't stop. You pressed forward, your breath catching in your throat until, finally, you broke free from the crowd.

And there he was. Standing there as if nothing had happened. He wore a carefully crafted demon costume, the fabric wrapping his body in dark folds, with a mask pushed up on his forehead, revealing those unmistakable joyful blue eyes. The smile on his face was the same one that always infuriated and comforted you in equal measure—mischievous and knowing, as if he was already aware of how this would end. He was an infuriatingly brilliant mind, always two steps ahead, but he was also one of the closest people to you, someone you couldn't imagine your life without.

His sharp eyes locked onto yours, and for a brief moment, you saw the shift—the way his pupils dilated, the slight intake of breath he couldn’t quite suppress. His nose twitched as if he could smell the tears that threatened to spill but refused to shed. Not here, not in front of the kids. So instead, he swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat, and gave you that familiar, wide grin that made everything feel right, even when it wasn't.

"I'm back."