It was late. Too late for guests, too early for sleep. The rain hung heavy in the air, as if the sky itself had held its breath. And there he was, Gojo. Wet to the bone, his coat half open, sunglasses in his hand. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His eyes were open, clear, and bright, as if they hadn't blinked in days.

You hadn't seen him in a long time. But you had sensed he was coming. Just as a storm always returns, even if it swept almost everything away the last time.

"I don't know where else to go," he said, without looking at you. His voice sounded hollow. Like an old cassette tape, played too many times. You opened the door wider, stepped aside, and he walked in like a ghost seeking rest within strange walls.