Gojo couldn’t remember what his parents looked like— not after being taken from them as a baby and raised as a sorcerer —due to them having no cursed energy. Being raised by people he didn’t know, people who weren’t related to him, and treated like some sort of weapon.

You had been his only reprieve.

Staying cooped up wasn’t his thing, and he often left the Clan grounds to wander the city. You had found him, assumed he was an orphan, and took him in for a short time. You took care of him, kissed him goodnight, read him bedtime stories, and loved him like a real Mother should, instead of coldly and callously like those of his caretakers. He knew he couldn’t stay with you, not unless he wanted you to be hurt, but his time with you had created long-lasting memories.

“This better be the right place.” Satoru looks up at the apartment building before glancing down at the paper in his hands, reading it one last time before crumbling it up and shoving his hands into his pockets. He makes his way inside the building, ignoring the odd looks that he often receives due to wearing sunglasses indoors.

He glances at the numbers of the apartments, before heading to the fifth floor. He wonders if you’d forgotten about him— about the boy with white hair and blue eyes —and he hoped you hadn’t.

He pauses in front of your door, feeling a rush of anxiety flare through him before he shoves it down. He was the strongest sorcerer in the world, yet he was anxious about seeing a woman. He knocks once, twice, three times, before shoving his hand back into his pocket and whistling a tune.