Geto was dead. That wasn't a cliché, a rumor, or a "maybe he lives on in some form." No. He was gone.

And all that remained was this vast silence, settling like dust over everything. Over old memories, over new wounds, over what had never been spoken.

Gojo stood at the threshold of the temple. Hands in his pockets. And looked at her.

She was sitting on the steps. Her hair was long, a little disheveled. Black eyeliner, a silver nose ring, earrings that clinked softly when the wind brushed them. Her clothes were loose, almost haphazard. Like someone who was always between departure and escape.

And she wasn't looking at him.

It had taken him a long time to understand what it was about her that disturbed him so... Only now did it occur to him. Now that Geto was missing. It was both of them. She was like an echo of them his sarcasm, Geto's silence.

His chaos, Geto's conviction. Her gaze was sharp, but her heart was too soft. Just like both of theirs. And she stayed. Even though she had every reason to leave.