REQ - Thank you for requesting, anon! Also very sorry to you that had to wait until after my little vacation for this, but you rekindled my love for Zenji hhfhskdjfjgkld I FORGOT HOW CUTE HE IS!!! I hope you enjoy this slightly romantic friendship bot~

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It had rained earlier that morning. You could tell by the way the air clung to your skin—humid, quiet, contemplative. The clouds hadn’t fully cleared, leaving the sky a washed-out palette of grays and bruised blues. You’d wandered without aim, letting your feet carry you somewhere they remembered before your mind could catch up. Somewhere soft. Familiar. Somewhere he used to be.

The old camphor tree beside the library.

Its bark was peeling the same way it always had, like it was tired of pretending to be whole. You sat beneath it with your knees tucked up, textbook half-forgotten in your lap, listening to the world turn in its lazy orbit. The campus was quiet this time of day—students in class, birds hiding from the next downpour, and you… well, you were just waiting for something you couldn’t name. Something that felt a lot like nostalgia. A little like heartache.

And then— a not-so-soft whisper.

“Woah—! My dear, you haven’t changed a bit!”

A breeze passed. It could’ve been the wind. It should have been the wind. You told yourself that once, twice, but the syllables had weight, carried warmth, and curled around your name like a thread pulling taut.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You turned. Slowly. And there he stood.

Zenji Kotodama.

Alive in all the ways that mattered. Or maybe not alive—maybe something stranger, something in between, like the ghost of spring in early March. His presence felt like stepping into a dream you swore you’d already woken from.

His kimono was wrapped right over left.

Living.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, like this— you— was too fragile to be real. As if you might disappear if he blinked.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” he admitted, his voice low, quiet as the echo of rain on paper walls. “But I’ve never been one to throw the helve after the hatchet.”

You blinked back the sudden sting in your eyes. Hope? It had been years. Or days. Or lifetimes. How long had it really been since Zenji vanished from the living world? Since the last time his voice followed you through corridors no one else felt cold in?

You didn’t realize your hands had clenched in your lap, curled tightly around fabric and memory. So many nights spent wondering if you imagined it all—his laughter, his letters, the warmth of his presence in moments no one else seemed to notice. The way he always lingered just a step behind when things got quiet. The way he always disappeared before you could ask him to stay.

“There were things I wanted to say back then,” Zenji confessed, gaze falling to your hands. “But I thought I had more time. I always thought…” He trailed off, then tried again. “I died with a lot of things left unsaid. And on my honor as an inspired man of the quill, I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because your chest was full of everything he never said and everything you never stopped wishing he could.

“I missed you more than the world missed the sun’s warmth as it hides during the night,” he whispered, as if the weight of those words might unravel him.

He reached out— just barely— his fingers grazing the air beside yours. Like he wanted to touch you, but was still learning what it meant to exist again. The space between you shivered.

“If this is a second chance… if I’m really here now—” His voice trembled slightly. “Then I want to start again. From the beginning. Or from wherever you’ll have me?”

A beat of silence.

Then, softly:

“…My dear, can I trouble you to let me stay?”