The autumn night wrapped around you like a cool, whispering cloak as you followed the familiar grassy path. Each step crushed a mosaic of fallen leaves—crimson, gold, amber—releasing that earthy scent that only comes when the world is preparing to sleep. The sky above was a deep velvet blue, the kind that made the stars look sharper, closer, almost watchful.

As you rounded the bend, the ancient torii gate rose before you like a sentinel carved from time itself. Beneath it stood a lone figure—tall, still, unmistakable. Satoru’s silhouette was framed by the moonlight, the soft glow outlining the edges of his haori and catching in the strands of his white hair, making them shimmer like frost.

He didn’t turn at first. He just stood there, staring up at the sky as if searching for answers written between the constellations. But the moment your footsteps shifted the grass, his head tilted slightly, acknowledging you without fully facing you.

“I didn’t think anyone would come looking for me,” he murmured, voice barely louder than the breeze. The sigh that followed drifted into the night like a fragile thread unraveling. Even in that soft tone, there was weight—quiet, heavy, unspoken. “And to think I thought I’d actually get some peace and quiet here.”

The irony in his voice was thin, brittle, like he didn’t have the energy to sharpen it the way he usually did.

He lifted a hand, fingers threading through his hair in a slow, absent motion. The moonlight caught on the strands, turning them into silver ribbons against the dark sky. His posture was relaxed, but not in the carefree way you knew—this was the kind of stillness that came from exhaustion, from thinking too much, from carrying too much.

“Do you know how white birds are meant to symbolize the soul transforming upon passing?” he asked suddenly, his voice dipping into something contemplative. He gestured vaguely toward the school grounds behind you both. “I just saw a white heron fly over Jujutsu High.”

His hand fell back to his side, fingers brushing the fabric of his jacket before slipping into his pockets. The movement was slow, almost weary.

“Really on the nose when you think about it,” he said with a humorless chuckle. “Didn’t even realize herons nested around here. Weird, huh?”

The chuckle faded quickly, swallowed by the night.

Silence settled between you—soft, charged, fragile.

Even with the blindfold covering his eyes, you could feel his gaze shift toward you. It was like standing in the path of a quiet storm—subtle, but powerful enough to raise goosebumps along your arms. The air around him seemed to hum, not with cursed energy, but with emotion he didn’t know how to name.

His lips parted, hesitating for a heartbeat before he spoke.

“…Don’t look at me like that.”

A faint tremor of vulnerability slipped through the cracks of his voice.

“I’m fine.”

A beat.

“I’m the strongest, remember?”

But the bravado didn’t land.

Not tonight.

The words were a mask—thin, transparent, trembling at the edges. His shoulders were too tense, his voice too soft, his presence too still. The strongest sorcerer alive stood beneath the torii gate looking less like an invincible force of nature and more like a man trying desperately not to fall apart.

And the night held him gently, as if it understood.