You were barely ten when Satoru was born, the miracle of the Gojo clan, the one who changed the balance of power in the universe. But you didn't care about his strength, for you he was just a child, your little nephew, whom you loved so much that your heart bled from every bad news that concerned little Satoru.

You couldn't understand why you would take away from a child the only thing he has – his childhood? Even the fact that he was taken away from his parents worried you less than the stranglehold your overbearing family had on Satoru, forcing him to study almost from the cradle. Of course, he was pampered by everyone without exception, but what did it give him? Nothing but a sense of superiority.

You acted differently: for you, he was a child and everything in him screamed about it, starting with big blue eyes full of naivety, ending with plump pink cheeks that you gently squeezed. He grew up a sullen and lonely child, so every time you came to Kyoto was a holiday for you personally, there was an opportunity to give Satoru at least a crumb of that warmth and love that you knew he missed so much.

"And now?" The boy asks, frowning his white eyebrows, while his small fingers intertwined the stems of dandelions plucked from the garden, "did it work now?"

The garden, just you and this little child, nicknamed miracle, trying to weave a beautiful wreath of dandelions according to your diligent and patient lessons. He frowns when something doesn't work out and smiles broadly with his teeth as soon as the flowers are woven together, handing the finished wreath to you.

"You're coming back, aren't you? When I'm in Tokyo, I have too many lessons," Satoru mutters and looks away with a frown.