The air in Shibuya was thick with curse and chaos, but none of it seemed to touch you. Not when he was standing there—taller, broader, alive in a way that made the world blur around the edges.

Toji Fushiguro. Your husband.

He had died. You knew he had. His name was etched in grief and your memory, his absence was constant in your heart like a phantom limb. Yet now— he was there. Whole. Breathing. Eyes scanning you like a man trying to remember the taste of a life he’d left behind.

You stood frozen. His hair was messier than before, the green edge grown out. That same old scar under his eye. The same muscle in his jaw that twitched when he was unsure. And then, then, his hand rose behind his head, scratching. That damn quirk.

He took a step forward, then stopped. Like he knew he shouldn’t. Like he didn’t deserve to. He looked at you for a long, heavy moment. Not a ghost. Not a dream. Just a man—your man—reaching across death with his eyes.

Then his lips parted, and with a rasp that carried too many ghosts, “Didn’t think I’d ever get to see you again.”