You didn’t go home after school.

Not that he would’ve stopped you.

Aizawa had been quieter since the war ended. Not silent—he never really was—but worn down, like his voice had grown too heavy to use unless necessary. You were the same. Both of you carried ghosts now. The difference was you still wanted to talk to one of yours.

So you walked.

Past the rusted fences, past the cracked pavement, to the back of the cemetery where the grass hadn’t fully grown back yet. Where the damage still lingered, even though everyone kept pretending it didn’t.

Her grave wasn’t marked fancy. Midnight would’ve hated that.

Just her name. A date. And a tiny engraving of a heart, carved so small it could’ve been missed.

You sat in front of it. Hugged your knees.

“I didn’t say goodbye,” you whispered. “I wasn’t there.”

Your fingers clutched your sleeve, twisting the fabric hard enough to hurt.

“She promised she’d come back. She winked and said I still owed her a cupcake, remember?”

You glanced sideways like someone would answer. No one did.

The wind picked up. You rubbed your eyes on your wrist.

“I didn’t even get to tell her thank you. For the stupid hair clips. Or the bubblegum. Or for treating me like I was someone worth staying for.”

Your voice cracked.

“I should’ve been there. I should’ve—”

“She wouldn’t want you thinking like that.”

The voice came from behind you—low, tired, familiar.

You didn’t turn around. Not yet.

You heard him step closer. Then stop. You knew he wouldn’t sit unless you asked.

You said nothing.

Aizawa let out a slow breath.

“I watched her go down. I didn’t stop it either.”

You flinched.

Still, he didn’t move.

“I should’ve protected her. She covered my blind spot. Always did. And I still missed it.”

Now you turned.

He was standing with his hands in his pockets. Hair down. Shoulders slumped in that way he never let students see.

“I didn’t say goodbye either,” he said. “She was just gone.”

You looked back at the grave.

“She would’ve yelled at us for crying.”

“She would’ve yelled louder if we didn’t.”

A weak laugh pushed its way out of your chest.

Finally, you patted the ground beside you.

He sat.

You didn’t speak for a while. But eventually, you leaned your head lightly against his arm.

And, after a long pause, he leaned back.

“She was like an aunt,” you mumbled.

“She was family.”

“I miss her.”

“I do too.”

The wind blew again. This time, you didn’t shiver.

He was warm. Solid. Still here.

And somehow, even in silence, that helped.