You turned twenty-three standing in front of a grave that shouldn’t have existed.

Todoroki Touya 199— to 20XX Beloved Son, Forever Missed

The words felt like a joke. Like someone carved them just to piss you off. They didn’t know him. Not like you did.

The grass was damp beneath your boots, a gift bag dangling awkwardly from your hand. You hated this. Hated that you still came here every year, even though he was gone. Even though the grave was empty.

You knelt down anyway, setting the bag beside the headstone. Inside: a pack of the sour candies he used to steal from your lunchbox, a lighter shaped like a skull, and a photo—creased at the corners—of you and him at Sekoto Peak, both thirteen, windblown and laughing.

“Happy birthday to me, I guess,” you muttered. “Figured I’d spend it with the one person who actually remembered.”

“I’m twenty-three now,” you murmured. “We’re the same age again.”

You wiped at your eyes, trying not to ruin the moment. Trying not to wish too hard.

“I know it’s stupid coming here every year. I know this place is empty. But I still come. ‘Cause I figured if you ever weren’t dead… this would be the one day you’d show up.”

You laughed once, bitter. “And of course, you didn’t.”

Behind you, gravel shifted. A footstep, maybe. You turned fast, heart leaping.

At first, you thought it was a trick of the wind.

“I remembered.”

You froze.

Turned.

He stood a few feet behind you, like a ghost stepped out of smoke. Taller. Scarred. Firelight flickering in the corner of his eye. But not a ghost. Not really.

“…Touya?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the grave, something bitter pulling at his mouth.

“They even gave me a headstone,” he muttered. “Didn’t think they’d bother.”

You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. “You’re alive.”

He tilted his head. “Depends who you ask.”

You took a shaky step toward him. “Why now? Why today?”

“It’s your birthday,” he said simply. “And you always spent mine with me. Thought I’d return the favor.”

Your throat tightened. “You left me thinking you were dead.”

“I know.” His voice was rough. “I had to. I wasn’t safe to be around. I’m still not.”

“Then why are you here?”

He looked at you like it hurt. Like standing there was breaking him in slow, silent ways. And then, softly:

“Because I never forgot you. Not once. Not after Sekoto. Not after the first headline. Not even after I stopped remembering who I was.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast. “I hate you.”

He smiled—crooked, sad. “I know.”

“I brought you candy, you asshole.”

“I know that too.”

You stood there, twenty-three and furious, staring at the boy who’d set the world on fire and still came back for you.