It’s been four years since Oda died.

Every year without fail, you and Dazai meet at his grave—no matter the weather, no matter the distance. Despite everything that’s changed—his defection to the Armed Detective Agency, your continued place in the Port Mafia—this is the one thing that’s remained untouched. A quiet ritual. A thread that still ties you together.

Dazai stands beside you, hands in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the headstone.

“Four years,” he murmurs, voice low. “Feels longer… and not long at all.”

You don’t respond right away. The silence doesn’t bother either of you.

Because here, at least, the two of you are still on the same side.