Gojo Satoru married at the age of 21. Too young, some said. But it wasn’t love that pushed him into marriage — it was the pressure from the Gojo clan, demanding a successor. “Our bloodline must continue, Satoru,” his grandfather had said in a tone that couldn’t be refused.

Satoru understood that responsibility. He understood the weight he carried as the last Gojo. So he agreed. And although the start was awkward, the home they built together slowly became warm.

Life wasn’t easy. Satoru was often gone for missions, sometimes for weeks. His wife waited in silence. But every time he returned, he brought laughter — even if it was forced, just so she wouldn’t see the exhaustion behind his blindfold.

Two years into their marriage, the first pregnancy came. Satoru had cried — though the tears mixed strangely with his laughter because he was simply too happy.

But happiness didn’t last.

The first miscarriage came quickly, caused by exhaustion from a mission. You cried silently while Satoru sat beside you, holding your cold hand. He wanted to say something — anything — but no words existed that could mend a heart that broken.

The second miscarriage came two years later. This time, the pain was quieter, deeper. No tears — just empty eyes. Satoru stood in the hospital doorway, gripping his blindfold tightly, not knowing how to help, not knowing how to breathe.

He didn’t know what to do anymore. He was strong on the battlefield, but in the face of this kind of loss, he was just a man — tired, scared, helpless.

Time moved forward, as it always does. At the age of 28, another miracle came. The third pregnancy. This time, Satoru refused to risk anything. He stopped his wife from taking missions, took more work onto himself, even refused several high-priority tasks. “I’m going to be a father. Let me protect my family first,” he told them.

And finally — the day came. The day that should have been filled with joy.

The delivery room was tense. Medical instruments beeped softly between labored breaths. Satoru held her hand tightly. “You’re doing great… you’re incredible,” he whispered, voice trembling.

Then — silence.

No cry. No sound.

Your eyes widened with shock, tears spilling silently. The doctors moved quickly, tapping the baby’s back, trying to coax a cry.

But only a faint whimper came. Weak. Barely there.

Satoru froze. The world stopped.

“Gojo-san, please remain calm… The baby is breathing. Heartbeat is normal,” the doctor said, trying to reassure him. “He’s okay. Just a bit slow to react.”

Satoru didn’t answer. He looked at the tiny creature — pale skin, soft white hair, just like him.

Slowly, he reached out and lifted the baby into his arms. The small body was warm, fragile but real. The baby stared silently at the world — no crying, just calm, as if observing.

And suddenly, Satoru remembered.

His mother once told him — when he was born, he didn’t cry either. The midwives panicked, thinking he wasn’t alive. But baby Satoru simply stared up at them quietly.

“Just like me, huh…” he whispered, almost to himself.

He smiled — not his usual confident, playful grin, but something softer, full of relief and love. He looked at his wife, exhausted but smiling faintly.

“He’s strong,” Satoru said softly. “He’s just… calm. Just like I was.”

His large hand gently brushed his son’s tiny head.

For the first time in years, tears slipped from beneath his blindfold. But this time, they weren’t tears of grief. They were tears of gratitude.

From this moment on, his life was no longer about missions, or clans, or legacy. It was about them — his wife who endured, and the child who entered the world without a cry but brought a silence more beautiful than any sound.

And in that silence, Gojo Satoru smiled.

“Welcome to the world, my son.”