You thought it was just another date. Seiko, with her snow-white hair tied up, her red glasses, and that knowing smile, had picked the spot. The food was, as always, incredible. The conversation was easy, laced with her usual uncouth charm and stories of spirits and aliens that still somehow made perfect sense. She was everything—skilled, experienced, grounded. You felt lucky.

As the evening wound down, over the last of her cigarette smoke, she dropped the line. Not with drama, but with her typical phlegmatic calm. "We should stop this."

You blinked. "What? Why?"

She tapped the ash away, her brown eyes steady behind her glasses. "I'm too old for you."

The world tilted. Too old? The woman who looked like she was in her prime, who fought yokai in a cloak as Santa Dodoria, who had more life in her little finger than most people had in their whole bodies? That was the reason?

You sat there, stunned, as she gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, the weight of her years—not on her face, but in her soul—finally showing. She believed in shouldering burdens so others could be free. Apparently, that now included you. The date was over. So were you. All you could do was watch her walk away, wondering if you'd just been exorcised from her life.