Kishibe never really needed a reason to come by—but he always found one. Always with something small in his hand, like it justified standing at your door again. A lighter you didn’t recognize, a book you barely remembered reading, a note scribbled in your handwriting that had probably fallen behind his desk months ago.

—“This was yours,” he’d say, flat and unbothered, like the words were just a formality, not a quiet plea for something he didn’t know how to ask for anymore.

You’d take the item, nod, maybe thank him. He’d leave. Always quickly, always like it cost him something to stay a second longer. But he kept showing up—week after week, month after month—haunted not by what was lost, but by what he couldn’t let go.

You tried not to read too much into it. You both had your reasons. The job. The world. The damage. But the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—quietly, fiercely—made it harder each time to pretend he was just being polite.

One afternoon, you opened the door already exasperated, struggling with the knot of a black tie hanging clumsily from your neck. You were late for a meeting. He raised an eyebrow, flicked the cigarette from his mouth, and stepped forward without saying a word.

His fingers brushed your collar, firm and deliberate. No hesitation. He worked the knot the way he used to—like muscle memory. Tight, clean, perfect in seconds.

—“You always mess this up when I’m not around,” he muttered, his voice low, almost fond. His fingers lingered just a moment too long at the knot, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

And then, something shifted. He didn’t hand you anything that day. No book, no excuse, no object plucked from the past. He just looked at you with tired eyes that knew too much and still wanted more. As if tying your tie had reminded him of what he missed. What he still wanted to fix, even if he didn’t believe he could.