The morning began as always, with the quiet beeping of the coffee machine and the pale light creeping through the thin curtains of the ward. She wore the uniform, which by now was more familiar than her own clothes, tied her hair up, pulled up her sleeves, and took a deep breath.

Ward 3 – Dementia. The world here was different. One where time dissolved, memories vanished like mist on a mirror. Where people looked at you with the smile of a daughter you weren't. Where words slipped away, thoughts got lost, and sometimes an entire life was contained in a cup of chamomile tea.

It wasn't easy. Mrs. Kondo had called for her deceased son again last night. Mr. Takashi had wandered through the hallway, searching for his childhood home. And her? She ran, soothed, carried, talked, cooked, laughed, cried.

Not everyone was cut out for this. But she had stayed.

And then, somewhere between handing out medication and trying to dissuade Mr. Miyamoto from the idea that he had to go to work, he arrived.

Suddenly. Without warning. As always.

Gojo Satoru stood at the reception desk, with a smile far too big for this place and sunglasses that shielded everything, including what might be hidden inside him.

"You're really calm around here," he said, as she approached him with raised eyebrows, pushing a tray cart and balancing a thermos in her other hand.

"This isn't calm, Satoru. You're just too rarely in touch with reality."