Archive of Our Own

By the spring of 2019, the Culling Games had ended, but the destruction that it had wrought endured, evident in every facet of life. Tokyo—and much of Japan itself—lay in ruins. Train lines had been severed, entire wards flattened, skyscrapers reduced to empty steel husks. Across the nation, thousands of civilians lay dead, infrastructure remained crippled, and emergency shelters overflowed with survivors, sleeping shoulder to shoulder amid dust and debris.

Jujutsu society bled even deeper. Ryoumen Sukuna had rendered Shinjuku a graveyard, and with so many sorcerers dead, the jujutsu world was left to rebuild from the ashes. Recovery took time, but sorcerers were resilient. Like ants, they persevered—through the carnage, through the chaos, through the devastation of the world they had known.

And life, as it always did, moved forward. New curses were born each day, and with the demand for exorcisms ever urgent and unyielding, the jujutsu technical college reopened its doors.

The first year class was small, as was typical, and Ito Himawari was the second of the students to arrive. She paused at the edge of the metropolis, taking in the silence where she had once imagined noise and light. The fractured and devastated city wasn’t the Tokyo Himawari had once dreamed of visiting—a neon sprawl of crowded streets and a thousand lifetimes of possibilities—but a place hollowed out by loss. She stepped into its ruins not as a tourist, but as a jujutsu sorcerer. Where the need was greatest, she would earn her place.

Her new classmate, Hara Ayame, had only arrived the week prior, but she greeted Himawari like an old friend. She tugged her across campus with relentless enthusiasm—pointing out landmarks, introducing her to their upperclassmen, and chattering the whole way through. The tour was chaotic and only half accurate. Himawari would have found it annoying if she hadn’t already found it inexplicably endearing. In the span of a single afternoon, Hara had cracked through Himawari’s shell with little more than a smile.

The technical school itself was a fever dream. The sheer scale of it all—the massive pagodas clawing at the sky, the sweeping training fields, and the labyrinthine hallways with doors that led to nowhere—felt like something out of a fantasy but also like something that could easily swallow her whole.

The days that followed sank into a brutal rhythm. With the second-year class now reduced to a single prodigy who hardly needed the instruction, Kusakabe had taken over teaching the first years instead. As a result, their combat drills were grueling and their missions punishing. Without the buffer of a larger class, every error was magnified, every misstep scrutinized and corrected with ruthless precision. Curses, Kusakabe had said, would show them no mercy and neither would he.

Himawari woke sore and slept sorer, her arms bruised from blocking attacks and her pride thinned by correction after fastidious correction. The constant grind was a test of endurance as much as skill, and it left no room for anything but the raw, exhilarating demand of survival.

But then—

But then there were the odd moments of stillness, tucked between drills and classes and meals—when she would find herself alone in the halls or in the courtyard, the silence settling around her like a thick fog. With her heart caught in her throat, Himawari waited; breathless, expectant. A part of her unsatisfied.

The school didn’t feel empty, exactly. It felt patient. As if it too were waiting for something, someone.

Himawari didn’t meet him until her third week at the school. She was sparring with Hara on the training field—the both of them clumsy and deficient in close range hand-to-hand combat, much to Kusakabe's frustration—when she caught sight of a foreign figure crossing the stone walkway. For a second, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, but Hara spotted him too.

"Do you think that’s—oh, it definitely is!" Hara dropped her stance entirely, latching onto Himawari’s arm and shaking her like a rag doll as she squealed with excitement. "Let’s go greet him!"

"What? No!" Himawari squawked, digging her heels into the dirt as Hara reeled her along. "He’s probably busy! Let’s not bother him."

Although she’d never seen him in person, it was easy to recognize him from a distance. Everyone in the jujutsu world would.

Fushiguro Megumi. Wielder of the fallen Zenin clan’s coveted Ten Shadows. One half of the duo that ultimately defeated the King of Curses himself. A myth walking in flesh.

Even from across the field, Fushiguro Megumi cut a striking figure. He was tall, although not as tall as she imagined him to be in her mind’s eye, and he moved with such fluidity that he seemed almost motionless. Floating, rather than walking, across the dusty path. He did not startle, either, when Hara bounded over to greet him, dragging Himawari along behind her.

Up close, Fushiguro was thin—much thinner than could be healthy, with bony wrists and ankles that his baggy uniform couldn’t disguise. Dark circles rimmed his eyes like bruises, but the jagged scars raking across his face did surprisingly little to detract from his sober and delicate beauty.

His face remained blank even as Hara introduced herself with a wide grin on her charming face. Fushiguro greeted them politely and then excused himself immediately afterward. His voice was gentler than she had anticipated, a low, soft rasp. The entire exchange was clipped, efficient yet undeniably courteous. If Hara was disappointed by the brief encounter, she hid it well, happily waving him off with a cheerful bounce.

As was only natural, they compared notes about their upperclassman over lunch, every minute detail from jealous awe over the long, dark sweep of his lashes to the breathless unease caused by the quiet thrum of cursed energy that pulsed around him like something alive. Eventually Hara admitted that she could not understand how someone so pretty could look so sad, and Himawari silently agreed.

Fushiguro did nothing out of the ordinary, yet Himawari was left feeling oddly unsettled by the meeting. Despite the startling color of Fushiguro’s eyes, they were dull. A little vacant—or perhaps distant, like he wasn’t quite present in the moment. As if he were looking through her rather than at her.

Himawari wasn’t sure what she had expected before meeting Fushiguro, but it wasn’t this. Maybe she thought he’d be something like a figure out of the history books, out of the stories and folklore. She called him a hero, once, out loud and in ear shot of their third year upperclassmen. Panda had leveled her with a solemn look and asked that she not say such a thing in front of Fushiguro-kun. She didn’t understand why it would upset him, but she apologized and promised not to anyway.

She didn’t mean to end up watching him the way she did, but it quickly became a habit.

From what she could tell, his days went by rote. He trained, he studied, he retreated to his dorm room, and, curiously, he never went on missions unattended. A senior sorcerer, typically Kusakabe but oftentimes Inumaki as well, was always by his side.

Grade 2 sorcerers and above were allowed solo assignments, and yet special grade sorcerer Fushiguro Megumi was kept under supervision. Sorcerers were in short supply, and it seemed to Himawari like a waste of resources to keep such a powerful asset tethered so tightly, especially given how relentless Fushiguro’s mission schedule seemed to be.

The other anomaly was that Ieiri Shoko visited Fushiguro frequently, much more than she did any other student. It was funny that their only medic spent an awful lot of time preoccupied with someone who was able to heal himself with his own reversed curse technique, but then again, she supposed, watching the hollows in Fushiguro’s cheeks grow ever deeper, not all wounds could be healed by RCT.

Aside from those few professional interactions, Fushiguro passed his time alone, a palpable distance separating him and…everything else.

He was a specter, moving through the world like one of his famed shadows—silent and just beyond reach.

Shoubu Touya was the third and final student slated for their class. When he finally arrived, he blew in like a sandstorm—proud, excitable, and instantly at odds with Hara. They butted heads at every opportunity, yet somehow, he fit. Snapping into place like a puzzle piece they hadn’t even known was missing. Their little trio, suddenly complete.

With only some minor grumbling, she and Hara helped their new classmate move into his dorm. Shoubu bragged that he had inherited the dorm room of Itadori Yuuji himself, claiming it was a sign from providence that he would grow to be just as strong. He puffed up like a peacock, flexing nonexistent muscles with a cheeky grin.

"Maybe I’ll even save the jujutsu world one day," he joked, laughing brightly even as Hara tossed a wad of socks at him.

In the days after he moved in, Shoubu confided in them that he could hear, through their shared bedroom wall, Fushiguro screaming most nights, more often than not. He guessed it was the result of nightmares. He looked guilty as he told them, like he was betraying an oath he had never even pledged to keep, speaking words into existence that weren’t his to give life.

It was common for jujutsu sorcerers to have nightmares. Even decades after retirement, her grandfather still woke up in the night with an aborted shout. Himawari used to sit with him on those sleepless nights, talking and drinking warm amazake until the harsh lines of grief on her grandfather’s face faded into something more manageable.

She wondered if anyone sat with Fushiguro Megumi on the nights where his sleep was haunted by distant memory. Somehow, she doubted it.

Not long after that, the three of them piled into Shoubu's dorm room to watch a movie. They had completed their first field mission as a team that day, and despite the bone deep exhaustion, they felt like celebrating.

After spending the first half-hour arguing about what they should watch and the second making a run for snacks because all of that bickering worked up an appetite, it was already late in the night when they actually started the film. Unsurprisingly, all three of them fell asleep sprawled across the floor of Shoubu's room before the movie even reached its climax.

They woke to the blaring of Shoubu's alarm. It crowed an obnoxious tune that made Himawari groan and shove her face deeper into the enormous Gudetama plushie that she'd used as a pillow. It was strawberry shortcake scented and off-putting, but she was so tired and sore and—

"Oh my god, Shoubu, can you turn that thing off already?!"

Shoubu waved a hand in the air, eyes still closed, trying to find his phone and accidentally smacking Hara in the face as he did so. Shoubu yelped when Hara kicked him right back as compensation.

"Shit!"

"Hmm?" Hara grumbled in response.

"Get up! Get up! We're going to be—ugh, no, we’re already late!"

Himawari's head snapped up.

They had been late to class before, and they’d learned from painful first-hand experience that Kusakabe was far more terrifying than any measly curse.

Shoubu was still trying to tug on one of his sneakers when Himawari shoved both him and Hara out the door. As they tumbled out of Shoubu's dorm, hair and clothes in disarray, they bumped into Fushiguro at the threshold of his room. Like a herd of deer, they all collectively froze.

Fushiguro looked like he'd seen a ghost. He had keys in hand and looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Dark bangs fell lank around his small face.

Shoubu's shoe fell to the floor with a muted thunk.

"Good morning, senpai!" Hara chimed happily, snapping to attention as if they weren't all unshowered and wearing yesterday's clothes, still wiping drool from their chins and sleep crust out of their eyes.

Fushiguro continued to stare at them for a moment, and just when Himawari thought he wouldn't respond, he opened his mouth.

"Good morning," he said in that soft voice of his. His eyes roved over them as if searching for something that remained out of reach. "I hadn’t realized that room was occupied."

And like that he disappeared into his own quarters.

Himawari would think more of it if they weren't already so late. They took off sprinting to their classroom only to be greeted by Kusakabe's scowling face when they showed up disheveled, panting, and a full thirty minutes late. He made them run laps until Hara puked.

Later, Shoubu told them that there was no screaming that night. Or any night thereafter again.

One thing Himawari enjoyed about attending the college was its proximity to the jujutsu cemetery where her grandparents were buried. While both of her parents were non-sorcerers, her grandfather had attended Jujutsu Tech when he was her age. Although their family had eventually settled far south in the Kyushu countryside, where her mother’s side of the family had roots, Grandfather was adamant that he be buried in Tokyo alongside his late wife.

Himawari had never met her grandmother. She had been killed in action long before Himawari was born—a casualty of a mission too far above her grade. She had left behind a young widower and a son scarcely out of diapers. It was no secret that the lifespan of sorcerers was short.

Sorcerers die. It was one of the foundations of their society. The sun rises, the sky is blue, and sorcerers die.

Himawari’s grandfather had begrudgingly educated her on jujutsu sorcery when her cursed technique manifested days after her sixth birthday. He never wanted her to become a sorcerer like he was in his youth.

"You don't know what it's like, Himawari-chan. This isn't a game. It's not one of your fairytales. You don't know what it's like to be left behind."

He had thrown the words at her, and she hadn’t known how to respond. Still didn’t.

She just knew that she felt it, the siren song of a sorcerer’s life.

It called to her.

Once it was clear Himawari wouldn’t back down, her grandfather did his best to prepare her for the world he was so reluctant for her to join. As a result, the best memories of her childhood revolved around practicing barrier techniques and cutting her teeth on foreign weapons beneath her grandfather's discerning eye. He passed away two years ago. She still missed him.

Dawn's rosy fingers scarcely peeked over the horizon as she began her trek to the cemetery, following the footpath that snaked through the woods surrounding the high school. The brisk morning air banished the lingering haze of sleep as she walked, and within the hour, she could see the burial grounds looming in the distance. Tall trees stood sentinel at the entrance, their solid branches reaching skyward.

In the soft embrace of the morning, the cemetery breathed serenity. Nestled in the mountain’s rolling foothills, the air carried the faint scent of dew mingled with the earthy aroma of aged stone. A mosaic of tombstones and monuments spread over the grounds, a forest of graves intertwined with overgrown flora.

When she entered, she took a moment to wash and purify her hands before filling a bucket with water. There was no map of the graves, but the cemetery was intimate, and she was confident she could find her way. She picked a direction at random and set off to find the family gravestone.

She had come early, but within the small cemetery there was already another dark figure upon a low hill. Even obscured by a canopy of wisteria, the silhouette of his hair was unmistakable.

With gentle grace, Fushiguro Megumi tended to a grave. The movements of his pale hands were deliberate and methodical as he diligently scrubbed away dirt and dust from a dark gray grave marker.

The wooden pail of water Himawari held felt heavy in her hands as she watched him. She turned away, hopeful that he hadn’t seen her yet, although, vigilant as he was, he likely had already clocked her arrival well before she reached his vicinity. She kept her head down anyway and turned away to search for her grandfather’s headstone.

The Ito family gravestone was humble. A deep gray granite covered in sparse patches of moss and lichen, it easily blended in with the other dozens of grave markers. Despite being at the school for more than a month already, Himawari hadn’t had a chance to visit yet and felt just the slightest pang of guilt for it. Silently, she resolved to visit more frequently.

"Good morning, Grandfather, Grandmother," she greeted the weathered stone marker with a hushed whisper, reluctant to disturb the early morning tranquility.

She knelt before the gravestone, enveloped in a blend of sorrow and reverence, as she looked at the reminders of the woman she had never met and the man she would never meet again. With a heavy heart and light hands, she got to work.

By the time she finished scraping the moss off their family grave and regaling her grandparents with stories of her first days at the high school, the sun was already high in the sky, and she was ready to take her leave. In the distance, she saw Fushiguro still settled by the graves atop the hill.

The wisteria blooms cascaded like a lavender waterfall above his head, draping him in a veil of beauty. Beneath their gentle sway, Fushiguro sat upright and motionless, a stone statue amongst the whispering flowers.

Himawari lingered out of a morbid curiosity; she wanted to see who he was visiting but she at least had enough decorum to not outright ask. From the little she knew about Fushiguro, it was readily apparent that he valued his privacy. But mid-morning came and went and when her upperclassman still didn’t show any signs of leaving as the lunch hour passed as well, she started the long trudge back to the dormitories.

Although she’d never admit to it, she returned the next day, arriving long before the sun even began its ascent to the sky. Just to see. As she wound her way through the cemetery paths, retracing the previous day’s journey, she wondered who he could have been visiting that captured his attention for so many hours. When the fragrant tangle of purple vines came into view, she glanced around to make sure she was alone before climbing up to the mysterious graves.

Oh, she thought as she reached the hill’s crest, of course.

Kugisaki Nobara. Itadori Yuuji. Gojo Satoru.

Fushiguro's classmates and mentor, all lost during the Shibuya Incident and the months that followed.

Her eyes traveled over the wooden sotoba beside the graves. She did the math quickly in her head. Sixteen. Fifteen. Twenty-nine.

It hit her all at once. They were so young. Fushiguro was still so young, not even a full year older than she. He was only fifteen—a first year like she was now—when he was possessed by the fabled King of Curses and forced to lay waste to jujutsu society. When he watched everyone around him die at his own hand.

Hot, shameful tears welled up at her lash line at the realization. Suddenly, she felt stupid and embarrassed for intruding upon Fushiguro Megumi’s grief like this. Like a little girl, sticking her nose where it didn’t belong and now desperate to make amends for her own foibles.

In penance, she dropped to her knees. Under the weight of guilt, she whispered a tremulous prayer for each of the departed sorcerers, lowering her head further and further until her forehead met the damp earth. Finally, with fumbling hands, she lit three sticks of incense and left them to burn beside the long stalks of white chrysanthemums that had been carefully tucked away in narrow stone vases. She hurried, then, back to the campus, the cool wind of pre-dawn licking at her face. It did nothing to ease the heated flush of shame that still burned along her cheeks.

Despite her initial blunder, visiting the cemetery became routine after that. Himawari would greet her grandparents and clean the family grave while recounting her most recent exploits. She didn’t visit them every week, but she ventured out as often as she could, working around both her classes and her mission schedule.

Unlike Hara and Shoubu, who both had the energy levels of untrained collie puppies, Himawari appreciated the stillness. She was more retiring by nature, had been since childhood, content with the quiet rhythms of the cemetery and the soft scent of incense that floated in the air. The solitude it offered allowed her to breathe, to gather her thoughts in a way that felt impossible in the frenetic swirl of their daily lives.

And although she didn’t mean to, her gaze would inevitably drift to the hilltop to the north. Every time, without fail, she spotted Fushiguro's wild mane of hair, head bowed as if in prayer beneath the heavy boughs of the wisteria tree. His presence was an odd sort of constant in the cemetery. There, in the distance, he was suspended in his own world, a solitary figure—always present but never quite part of it.

Soon though, the wisteria faded, and the plum rains came. The fine, persistent precipitation enveloping the grounds in a haze of mist, murky and atmospheric. A world made anew in shadow and fog.

Rain had fallen overnight, but the air was still heavy with the promise of yet more to come. Humidity saturated Himawari's hair, and it hung like a lead cloak along her back as she picked her way along the trail, avoiding the shallow puddles that had collected in the low dips and valleys of the pathway. She had always thought Japan was most beautiful in the rain. It was true back home in Kyushu, and it was true here on the outskirts of Tokyo as well, where the hydrangeas had erupted from dormancy, blooming in bundles nearly as big as her head, their delicate petals fanned out in rounded clusters.

The musky scent of wet earth greeted her as she stepped through the cemetery gates. She was already halfway down the path when she heard plaintive meowing.

At the base of a stone column sat a cat. It was a mangy little thing that she had seen skulking around the grounds on previous visits. Now, though, it was furiously struggling to free itself from the six-pack yoke wrapped around its neck. The cat scratched at the plastic, stretching and contorting itself with increasing agitation.

Slowly, Himawari sank into a crouch, stretching one hand out toward the stray. She cooed at it, trying to coax it closer. The tabby froze, hunching down, ears flicking back flat against its head. Himawari shuffled forward a step, and the cat wriggled backward.

Himawari narrowed her eyes, and just as she resolved to make a dive for it, the cat hissed, swiping its needles at her before springing away. It dashed off into the cemetery, and, scowling, Himawari gave chase. She splashed through puddles, flinging mud up behind her in large clumps, all of her earlier caution forgotten.

In her single-minded determination, she didn’t notice until nimble pink paws leaped directly onto Fushiguro Megumi’s lap. She slid to an abrupt stop, arms flailing as her heels skidded in soft wet muck.

Belatedly, she realized she had chased the cat all the way up the hill—a place she had sworn never to return—and then beyond even that, to the threshold of a small gazebo, tucked away from the main path. The gazebo was ringed on all sides by blooming hydrangeas that tumbled down the hillside, their soft blue petals almost glowing in the late afternoon light. Amidst the floral sea, Fushiguro sat alone, his sharp beauty in odd harmony with the tranquil scenery. He looked so ordinary at that moment—so quiet and kind, cradling the tiny little tabby in his arms—but somehow, that only made him all the more unreachable.

With deft fingers, he freed the cat from the plastic yoke, scritching it under the chin when it meowed its thanks. Two sets of bright eyes then turned to look at Himawari expectantly; she could only gape back dumbly as anxiety sealed her throat closed. Heat rushed to her face even though Fushiguro only regarded her with the faint ghost of amusement in his eyes.

Now that the cat had been liberated from its prison—and thus her objective completed—the absurdity of the situation at last sunk in. Himawari shuffled in place, diligently avoiding eye contact, as if that might somehow undo the entire encounter.

Before she could figure out a way to gracefully excuse herself, a crackle of thunder rumbled through the air. She looked up to the darkening skies, tasted metal on her tongue—and then the heavens sighed, releasing a sudden downpour that soaked her in an instant. Rainwater sluiced down her face. She muttered a curse under her breath as her dignity washed away like yesterday’s makeup.

Brow soft with what must have been pity, Fushiguro quickly motioned for her to join him under the shelter. She crept forward tentatively, as if Fushiguro too were a stray, ready to bolt at her slightest misstep.

She sat, leaving enough space between them for two. Fushiguro said nothing, and it was quiet save for the drumming of the rain on the shelter’s tiled roof. Her shins itched as the mud splattered up her legs began to dry and flake.

Through tears in the rainy mist, she could see fragments of the three gleaming graves in the near distance. The slow lingering guilt of her illicit visit that first day in the cemetery crawled up her spine, cold and unwelcome. Shame-faced, she tried to instead focus her attention on the hydrangeas, on the tumbling blur of blue beyond the path. But Fushiguro's presence beside her, gentle and distant though it was, somehow burned with a force that demanded her acknowledgement.

When she finally snuck a glance at Fushiguro, she found that he was already watching her. The frank candor of his expression was so unnerving that she blurted out the first thing she could think of.

"It won’t even let me pet it," she said, in such a rush that the words all bled into each other. She grimaced. "The cat, I mean. It won’t let me pet it."

The cat meowed, nudging its nose against Fushiguro’s hand.

"She only likes me because I feed her," Fushiguro replied, voice wry, nearly conspiratorial, as he looked down at the furball that had made a home in his lap.

Somehow Himawari doubted that as she watched the little cat rub herself against him, butting her head into his chest and purring loud enough to be heard over the rain.

Fushiguro explained that he had taken to carrying treats after running into the stray during his regular visits to the cemetery. He handed Himawari a tuna strip then, nodding approvingly as she set about bribing her way into the cat’s good graces. With her muddy paws safely planted in Fushiguro’s pristine lap, the stray leaned over to sniff Himawari’s upturned palm, whiskers twitching.

"She’s alone, I think," Fushiguro said softly, stroking a delicate hand down the cat’s spine. "Lost her family."

Himawari’s brow furrowed as she watched him. Even now, there was an undeniable guardedness to him, as if he were perpetually bracing for a blow that hadn’t yet come. Something cold and heavy coalesced in the pit of her stomach at the thought of it.

Like you, Fushiguro-senpai?

"Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?" Hara dragged out the syllables, her tone just shy of a whine. She tucked her head onto Himawari’s shoulder, batting her lashes up at her. "I don't want you to be lonely, Ito, especially not on our only day off."

"I’m sure. We get enough of all that in our daily lives," Himawari said, pulling a face. "And I don't mind being on my own now and again."

"This is different! They’re doing a special event just for Halloween—Haunted Hospital!"

"Fully immersive," Shoubu chimed in.

"The cast dress up as nurses and patients—" Hara continued, volume climbing with excitement.

"You have to solve a mystery—"

"And I hear there’s a secret twist!"

"Still don’t see how that’s any different from our missions." Himawari smiled down at Hara, petting her hair. A stray leaf had found its way into her curls, and Himawari combed it out, twirling the red maple leaf between her fingers.

Hara scrunched up her nose with theatrical dismay. "You have the soul of an actuary, Ito."

Himawari laughed, playfully hip-bumping her classmate which sent her careening into Shoubu’s side. Hara bounced back up, sticking her tongue out at Himawari.

"That’s hardly going to convince me to join you."

Hara sighed dramatically, taking another moment to sulk before her grin turned devious. Himawari stepped back; she recognized that impish smile and the playful glint in Hara’s wide eyes.

"Well, be careful when you visit your grandparents today. All the yokai are out. Things could get spooky," Hara teased, wiggling her fingers as she leaned forward. "And who knows…they just…might…getcha!"

She pounced onto Shoubu who shrieked as she grabbed his shoulders, rattling him around with surprising strength.

"That’s not funny!" he whined as Hara cackled.

"Too easy," Hara crowed, flicking her hair over her shoulder. She locked eyes with Shoubu, and for a moment, her triumphant smile softened—almost shy—before she glanced down at her watch. "We gotta get going or else we won’t beat the lines. See you tonight, yeah, Ito?"

"We’re going to that vampire cafe afterward, but we’ll pick up some kabocha croquettes for you," Shoubu promised as Hara dragged him away, one hand clamped around his wrist.

"And chestnuts, too!" Hara called over her shoulder, grinning like she had the sun tucked up in her cheek.

"If you have time, can you find that movie we wanted to wa—" Shoubu let out a sharp yelp. "Ow—Hara! You’re pulling too hard!"

Hara clicked her tongue. "Don’t be such a baby."

Himawari shook her head in fond resignation, smiling after them as their voices faded into the distance. She stretched out her arms, swinging them idly as she strolled in the opposite direction, toward the cemetery. The oppressive heat of summer had finally yielded to the cool embrace of fall, and with the leaves still clinging to the branches, the familiar path was alight with color. The air hung still and clear, carrying a calm that matched her slow, easy pace.

As she approached the cemetery gates, her steps faltered. At the temizuya, Fushiguro stood frozen, staring into the great stone basin, lost in thought. If possible, he looked even more haggard than usual, like the color had leached out from him, an ink wash left out in the rain.

Meekly, she shuffled forward to cleanse her hands, careful not to break his reverie. Aside from the time she’d accidentally chased that cat up the hill, she hadn’t interacted with Fushiguro at all—only observed him quietly from afar. His presence still made her feel awkward, intrusive.

Up close now, she could see that Fushiguro was fidgeting with something in his hand, turning it over and over between thin fingers. A flash of metal caught her eye before it disappeared up his sleeve.

Resolving to mind her own business for once, Himawari turned to wash her hands. She tipped the ladle first over her left hand. Fresh, cold water spilled over her skin, sending a brief shiver up her arms. She switched hands, ready to—

"Why did you become a sorcerer?"

The words came out of nowhere, startling her enough that the ladle slipped from her grip. She caught it before it could splash back into the bowl.

Fushiguro gazed at her evenly. Himawari’s swallowed dryly, feeling like an unruly child pinned beneath that brilliant emerald gaze. His question had caught her off guard, the way that particular question always did.

"I’m not sure," she replied honestly, a beat too slow. "I just know that I wanted it from the moment my cursed technique awakened."

She had been told that her answer was vapid, but she didn’t care. She had given Fushiguro the same response she had given Kusakabe when he had asked her, that first day at the technical school. It was the truth—a small truth, but a truth nonetheless.

Still, she hesitated for a moment, feeling the need to reveal more. She stared down the path where her family’s gravestone lay. A familiar pressure settled in her chest, equal parts pride and guilt.

Even now, her grandmother’s shadow was with her. Himawari had never known her, only inherited the stories. But in those stories, she lived a thousand lives, distilled with time and affection to only the most wonderful parts of her.

In this way, she took on the status of myth—Himawari’s first storybook hero.

A sorcerer who had laid down her life, the ultimate sacrifice so that her comrades could survive. It was a choice made in the heat of battle, and in that choice, there was meaning.

A noble death, and so surely…a noble life.

Himawari said, "I was an average child, not exceptional in any way, but then suddenly, I discovered that I could do something not many others could. It made me want to help people in a way that not many others could."

The secondhand memory of her grandmother’s courage, her selflessness—her tragic death—was so vivid in Himawari’s mind that it had unwittingly become the standard against which she measured her own life. The driving force behind this outsized desire that was woven into her very being just like her cursed technique was imprinted upon her cortex.

She couldn’t set it aside the way her grandfather had. It was one of the few things they’d ever argued about.

"You’re more than your cursed technique," he’d insisted, voice low and adamant.

But she wasn’t, not really. It was the best part of her.

It had hurt more than she was willing to admit that her grandfather didn't want her to follow in his footsteps, to walk through those same doors of the jujutsu technical school, but that didn't matter anymore. Slowly, she felt that aching in her chest harden into resolve.

Cursed energy lit up her blood, burned in her marrow. It coursed through her veins down to her fingertips, and she remembered the moment she awakened this power that so few possessed. This power, her power. The thing that had given her life meaning. As long as she had this, then she was someone. She had purpose.

She clenched her fists, cursed energy pulsing.

"My grandfather tried to discourage me. He didn’t want this kind of life for me," she said. "But…I have to be true to myself. I’m not looking to be a hero. I just have to do what I think is right. I can fight curses, and so I do."

And that was it.

It was axiomatic.

Her heart flared with determination. She spun to face Fushiguro with a wide grin that fell away when she caught his stunned expression. He was pale.

"Fushiguro-senpai, are you alright?"

There was something fragile in his gaze now, and he looked at her as if he saw someone else in her face.

"Did I—Did I say something wrong?"

She took a step forward, brow furrowed in concern, but Fushiguro simply shook his head, a certain kindness in the set of his mouth.

"No," he said. His voice was soft. "No, not at all. It’s a good reason."

"And you, Fushiguro-senpai? Why did you want to become a sorcerer?"

After a long pause, he responded, "I didn’t."

She thought, for a moment, that Fushiguro Megumi looked like he belonged amongst the gravestones and hydrangeas, more dead than alive, and then felt the burn of shame for thinking something so cruel.

There were days when Himawari tried to imagine the depth of Fushiguro’s grief. It seemed so clear, so potent, in those moments when she spied him on the cemetery grounds, and yet, Fushiguro and his classmates had only known each other for a few months before the world unraveled. How could it be that his grief ran so deep?

She thought then of her own classmates—of sparring until they ended in a sweaty heap on the training grounds, slurping down cup noodles outside of a Lawson after hours of off-key karaoke, and huddling around a creaky infirmary bed because Shoubu got a concussion falling out of a window on their latest mission. Suddenly her mouth was sour with understanding.

Despite the conversation on Halloween, nothing really changed between them until a beautiful fall day when she walked in on Fushiguro sobbing over a handful of empty candy wrappers.

The wooden floors creaked beneath Himawari’s feet, each step muted by the low ceiling and the thick tatami mats. She drifted down the hall, having once again gotten herself lost in search of a meditation room. She had passed the same alcove with the bonsai tree at least twice, but she could have sworn she was walking in a different direction each time. Absently, she rubbed her aching hip as she walked. Kusakabe had been giving her grief recently about her poor defense.

"You’re too reckless," he had said. "Fix it. It doesn’t suit your personality."

He’d taken to smacking her with a wooden practice sword every time she let her guard down, which was, apparently, really often.

Turning a corner, she spotted a half-open door ahead, illuminated by the deep golden light spilling into the room beyond. She stepped closer, peering into what looked like a seldom-used training room.

Inside, Fushiguro stood before a small, unmarked door in the back corner of the room—a storage closet, most likely. As he opened its doors, an avalanche of candy wrappers and discarded sweets rained down on him, scattering across the tatami mat like fallen leaves. It looked like someone had haphazardly stuffed the trash into the unused weapons cabinet, cramming it in alongside wooden practice swords and bo staffs.

Fushiguro stood for a moment amidst the wrappers, staring down at the plastic and foil crackling under foot like a field of starbursts.

It wasn’t dramatic, not at first. No sudden outbursts, no frantic sobs—just the slow, suffocating collapse of control. A huff of air, like a laugh when nothing was funny, then trembling shoulders, hands balled into fists at his sides. A strangled sound tore from his throat. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, training swords clattering around him, knocked loose by the impact. He fell into himself as if the weight of something heavier than he could bear had finally crushed him.

Alone in that sun-splattered training room, suddenly he was no longer the Zenin’s treasured Ten Shadows. He was no longer her upperclassman. And he was no longer a jujutsu sorcerer. He was—just a boy.

And he cried like a boy—without shame or grace. His sobs ripped through the air, raw and shapeless, too loud for the empty room. Collapsed on his knees, empty candy wrappers crinkling and crackling under the white-knuckled force of his grip, he sobbed like someone who had never done it before and did not know how to stop. The sight of him, so unguarded, made her stomach twist.

She had seen pain before. She had felt pain before. But not like this, so raw and vast. Not from him.

Fushiguro—calm, perfect, controlled Fushiguro—who always seemed like an unerring constant in this world that was determined to keep them off-balance, now crumbled before her like sand in the wind. His grief was so loud, so naked, it filled the room, and she couldn't bring herself to step closer.

She had no right to be here. She had no right to intrude on Fushiguro's private anguish yet again. In her haste to flee, she knocked her hip hard against the doorframe. Fushiguro startled at the noise, wide, bloodshot eyes locking onto Himawari’s form, still half-shrouded by the thin shoji door.

"Oh…I hadn’t realized someone was there," he mumbled wetly. "I was just—I mean—" He scrubbed a rough hand over his cheek, but the rebellious tears kept falling. More and more to replace their lost brethren, the tatami mats darkening with each drop.

Almost shamefully, Himawari slid the screen open fully. Kneeling at the threshold, she bowed her head in contrition. "I apologize for intruding, Fushiguro-senpai."

"No, it’s not—of course not—" Fushiguro shook his head, ruddy cheeks scrunching as he tried to stem the flow of snot and tears.

He forced himself to his feet, stumbling over the scattered weaponry in his clumsy desperation. With nimble steps spurred on by empathy, Himawari reached his side before he could fall. She caught him by the elbows and urged him back down. He collapsed heavily, long limbs splayed before him like a doll's.

Himawari busied herself with putting the training swords back into order, giving him a moment of stolen privacy. When the weapons were safely tucked away in the closet, she hesitated before kneeling to collect the fallen wrappers. Fushiguro's blank eyes stared out over the empty room, unseeing.

"He was always doing this," Fushiguro said suddenly, gesturing with a handful of candy wrappers clutched loosely in his fist, his voice hoarse. "Inconsiderate. Couldn’t be bothered to find a trash bin." He wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. "Always making it someone else’s problem."

She did not know who "he" was, but she nodded all the same.

"I’d find them stuffed into my jacket pockets or my hood. Sometimes between the pages of my books if I wasn’t careful. It was like a game for him." He let out a laugh, short and bitter. "Then he went and died. Left the mess for the rest of us to clean up. Like always."

Fushiguro sniffed, tears clinging to tremorous lashes as dull eyes flitted over the disorder around them. Himawari kept her head down, stacking the wrappers in her hands. For some reason, it felt important not to crinkle them further.

"He should have killed me," Fushiguro said. "I wish he had killed me."

It was spoken like a secret that he kept tucked up in his chest, hidden behind his ribs and away from prying eyes. Fushiguro shook his head. Fresh tears cut clean tracks down sunken cheeks. He pulled his legs up, curling in on his chest as if he could hold himself together with the weight of his own agony.

"He was the strongest. He should have killed me and been done with it. Instead, he left me behind. It’s not—It’s not right. I was supposed to die first."

Fushiguro clenched his fists tighter. The wrappers were colorful against the pallor of his hands, like flowers, blooming through the cracks between long fingers.

"Why didn’t he kill me? I wasn’t strong enough to hold Sukuna back. He should have—why didn’t he—" Fushiguro’s voice steadily climbed in volume before it cut off completely.

Himawari swallowed, throat tight. The neat stack of wrappers felt heavy in her clammy palms. Blood rushed through her ears, a faint pulsing that began to drown out her senses.

All she could think of was her grandmother. And her sacrifice. The husband and child she left behind. Was this what her grandfather meant? Was this what it was to be left behind? Was it cold beds and sleepless nights? An empty training room that smelled of moth balls and stale candies? The sticky aftermath of plans gone wrong?

Fushiguro let out another choked sob, and Himawari couldn’t conjure the hope of comfort in a noble death.

"I killed him," Fushiguro whispered. "He didn’t just die. It was my fault. I killed him. I killed everyone. Gojo-sensei, Itadori, m-my sister…everyone." He took a shuddering breath. "And now this is all that's left." His voice cracked, and he fell quiet again, staring down at the floor as if the very thought of their names hurt too much to hold onto. His fingers twisted around the candy wrappers in his fist, grip so tight it looked like he might tear them apart.

"Fushi—"

"Please don’t tell me otherwise," he cut her off. "It was by my hands, my technique."

A beat passed in tense silence, broken only by Fushiguro’s hitched breaths. Warm sunshine shone desolate on his bowed head. It reflected off his ink-dark hair, light scattering across the exposed wooden beams overhead. Japanese cypress, she's pretty sure, having grown up in Kyushu. Strong and resistant to rot, imbued with spiritual energy.

A sacred wood. Purifying.

Himawari licked her lips, weighing her next words carefully.

"I was going to ask if you would tell me about them," Himawari said at last, quietly but without hesitation.

Fushiguro stared up at her, glassy-eyed. She held his gaze, ignoring the way it made her stomach coil in on itself. Again she wondered if he saw someone else when he looked at her.

That was alright. Because in that moment, she saw someone else in his face, too.

Reaching forward, she touched his hand. He jolted at the contact, muscles tensing. Undettered, she uncoiled his stiff fingers, smoothed out the crinkled wrappers she'd collected, and pressed the stack of them into his open palm. He looked down at them in confusion, as if he had already forgotten what had brought them to this moment in the first place.

There was more left behind than these crumpled candy wrappers, she was sure of it.

"Tell me a story, Fushiguro-senpai."'

Just as her grandmother came alive in the stories her grandfather wove, so too did the fallen sorcerers through Fushiguro's breathless words.

Himawari listened as the honeyed light brightened and faded, as the shadows slanted longer and steeper across the floor. In that dusty, forgotten room, memories came pouring from Fushiguro Megumi’s lips in the way that only so much love could, an endless tide. And like raindrops dripping through tree leaves, the words soaked into her.

She absorbed them. The stories of the kind-hearted sister who raised him. The small, bright anecdotes about post-mission excursions with his classmates. The memory of the boy he had saved, who vowed to save him in turn. The complaints about the man he called a benefactor—kept at an arm's length until it was too late. The way that same man died at Fushiguro’s hand and the unspoken guilt layered into each word. And at last, the tale of the final battle in Shinjuku, the one that left Fushiguro standing alone in the ruins.

It was all so much to carry.

"Thank you for letting me talk about them," Fushiguro rasped, his voice hoarse from overexertion. "The others…They think they're sparing me the pain by not talking about them." His hands fidgeted; they were like birds, white and fluttering. "I know it's hard on them, too, but I'm the only one that visits their graves. When I’m gone…I don’t want them to be forgotten. Like they were never here."

"That won't happen," Himawari said, surprising even herself with the vehemence. Her voice wavered but still she pressed on, "I'll visit them, too. You can keep telling me their stories. That way, they'll never be forgotten."

"Ito—"

"Please, Fushiguro-senpai, I don't want—"

I don't want you to be lonely, Ito.

It was only then that she realized that this was Hara's influence—bold, outgoing, ridiculous, kind Hara speaking through Himawari's lips. She smiled softly, feeling a borrowed confidence surge through her.

"I don't want you to be lonely, Fushiguro-senpai."

Like that, a new routine began. On the days Himawari visited her grandparents, she would pay her respects to the fallen sorcerers as well, sitting beside Fushiguro under the hanging wisteria, their leaves turned amber with the changing seasons.

Fushiguro was not one for small talk. That did not come as a surprise. She, too, was a person of few words. There was a relief in not having to put up a pretense, and she suspected he felt the same. On occasion, she would bring food, which Fushiguro would politely accept with gratitude. He rarely did more than set it aside "for later," but he didn’t seem to eat at the best of times, so she didn’t mind. On campus, she seldom crossed paths with him, and they only exchanged passing greetings when they did. She did not take offense to that either.

And when she spotted her namesake, resting in a tall stone vase at the foot of Itadori Yuuji’s gravestone, she did not ask questions. She counted—one, two, three…seven bright yellow heads, interspersed with wispy sprigs of white pentas, their broad sunny faces peering back at her through the gloom. In the silence, she wondered if it was mutual.

Himawari’s breath left curling streams of mist in the air as she huffed. Her incense had gone out again. She hunched her shoulders, jealously guarding a stick of incense from the whistling wind as she flicked her lighter for a third time. When the incense went out yet again, she clenched her fists, fighting the urge to chuck the damn thing into a gully. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to give it another go when a sudden gust of wind ripped the entire box right from her hands and sent it flying straight into a mud puddle.

She stared at the soaked incense for a long minute, struggling to rein in her ire as she ground her teeth down to little nubs. If her grandfather could see her now, he’d be laughing. She could practically hear the sound of his chortles echoing in her ears. She blew out a long breath, glaring at their family gravestone.

"It’s not funny, Grandpa," Himawari muttered as she gathered up the useless incense to dispose of. That box was all she had brought with her, but maybe Fushiguro had extra.

Trudging up the hill, she found him settled in his usual place before the trio of gravestones, ensconced in a large dark jacket that drowned his frame. His nose was tucked into the wide collar, shielding him from the worst of the wind, but the jacket’s sleeves had been rolled up, revealing pale, bare hands as he carefully arranged the flowers. Long sprigs of orange osmanthus, overwhelmingly redolent despite their minute blossoms.

When he looked up at her, she simply held aloft the ruined incense. Fushiguro, with his quick wit, understood immediately. To her amazement, he dipped a hand into his own shadow, drawing out a fresh box of incense.

"Who do you visit when you come here?" Fushiguro asked as he handed the container to her, the corner of his lips curling just slightly at the look of awe on her face.

"My grandparents," she replied. "They were both sorcerers."

She twirled the box in her hands, mindful to keep this one from crashing into the mud, too. She was a bit surprised that the topic had not come up before, but Fushiguro wasn't the type to pry and Himawari rarely offered up personal information without first being prompted.

"My grandfather passed away a couple of years ago," she said, gesturing down the hill. "He was the one who taught me how to use my technique—his technique, really. I inherited it from him." She couldn’t escape the hint of pride that crept into her voice.

Fushiguro’s eyes softened. "I’m sorry for your loss," he said, and the sincerity in his gaze made her heart ache.

"He’s with my grandmother now." Her small smile turned melancholy. "They’ve been apart for a long time. She died on a mission—it’s okay I never met her," she said quickly, before he could offer her further condolences. "It just about destroyed my grandfather though. It’s why he left sorcery for good."

Fushiguro stiffened, a sprig of blooms slipping from still fingers.

"He left?" he asked her after a lonesome moment. "Permanently?"

"Never even glanced backward. No second guessing. Of course my dad was just a baby then, but even still, I think he would have left either way."

Himawari knelt to retrieve the fallen blossoms and offered them to Fushiguro. When his hands remained frozen, she tucked the thin branch into the vase alongside its sisters.

"I told you before why I want to be a jujutsu sorcerer," she said. "I always thought that if I could save just one life, then it will have been worth it. But he asked me once: if it’s enough to save just one life, why shouldn’t it be your own?"

"Sounds selfish," he muttered, almost under his breath. "To leave everything behind…for yourself." Then, as if realizing what he had said, his face burst into color. "I didn't mean—"

Himawari laughed. Fushiguro's face really was expressive if one took the time to actually look. It was hard to believe she had once found him so intimidating.

"It does sound selfish, doesn't it?" she said, smiling still. "I thought so, too."

She sat down beside him, crinkling her nose as the cold immediately seeped through her trousers. A passing rush of air jostled the flowers, knocking their fragile bodies against each other.

"I used to think it was a trick question." She pursed her lips, remembering a version of herself who no longer existed. "Like he was testing me. Like he wanted me to say, 'No, of course not. My life isn’t as important as someone else's.' And I would’ve said it too. I did say it, back then."

She tipped her head back. Bare vines twined overhead, woody and rough to the touch. The crawling wisteria had gone dormant for the coming winter, patches of stormy sky poking through their gaps.

"But the thing is," she continued, "he never told me I was wrong. He just looked at me like… like maybe I was too young to understand what I was throwing away."

Fushiguro didn't answer immediately, letting the words hang between them. He looked pensive, delicate features drawn in concentration.

"He must have cared about you very deeply," he said at last.

"Yeah," she said quietly, pressing a palm to her sternum. "I never doubted that." She sighed. "He was born to a sorcerer family, you know. Not one of the fancy clans, but one with enough history that his life was never really his own. He spent his whole life fighting. I'm not sure he ever forgave himself for not being there when my grandma died. I mean, what’s the point if you can’t take care of the ones you love?"

"So he walked away."

She nodded slowly. "I think, in the end, he chose the life that he would regret the least. And for him, that meant living a life for himself and for my father."

A life where he had given up sorcery to protect what was left of his family, where he had built a home away from the violence, away from the bloodshed and tears.

"A noble life is a life well-lived," he had told her, his voice soft but firm, filled with the quiet grief that still clung to him after all those years. "Not a life spent on the edge of a blade, giving everything until there’s nothing left."

She let out a heavy breath, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

"He wouldn't have been able to save anyone if he couldn't save himself first."

There were camellias today. Bright and red, rich like freshly spilled blood, heads already drooping under the weight of their own beauty. A fleeting existence but no less worthy for it.

The flowers, arranged delicately in their vases, blocked the view of the gravestones just slightly, but Himawari still found herself reading and rereading the names on the grave markers anyway, drawn each time to one name in particular.

Gojo Satoru. December 7, 1989 - December 24, 2018.

The strongest.

Unlike most sorcerers, Himawari didn’t grow up hearing stories about him. Her grandfather had exiled himself from jujutsu society following her grandmother's death and had no interest in keeping up with the developments of that world. No, she only learned of the strongest when she was already a teenager, meeting with her distant cousins in Kyoto for the first time.

"You don’t know who Gojo Satoru is?" Her cousin's jaw had dropped open in disbelief, and Himawari felt a little foolish but not as foolish as she thought her cousin looked with his mouth hanging open like a flycatcher. "Everyone knows Gojo Satoru. He’s the strongest."

In the year following, she had made a point of asking every sorcerer she met that very question: who is the strongest?

A small, petty part of her wanted to prove her cousin wrong. That it wasn’t so obvious that every sorcerer should know who Gojo Satoru was. That she wasn’t just some country bumpkin to be looked down upon.

In the end, it seemed that every sorcerer very much agreed that Gojo Satoru was, without contest, the strongest—Atlas who alone carried the entirety of jujutsu society on his broad shoulders and made it look effortless. Another storybook hero.

It was strange to think of him that way, so almighty, so powerful, when she had only ever known him as a handful of characters engraved on a stone pillar.

A man who loomed so large, reduced to such a tiny thing.

Her eyes trailed over the serrated tops of the sotoba again, over the notches in the wood and the death date inscribed in stark black ink.

She was told the world shifted when Gojo Satoru was born. She wondered if it shifted back upon his death.

"He’s not there, you know," Fushiguro said when he caught her staring. Although his voice was quiet, hardly louder than the rustling of leaves in the wind, it startled her all the same. Fushiguro gestured with a long-fingered hand toward the small grave marker.

"His body was returned to the Gojo clan after…" His voice wavered although his face remained as composed as ever. "After," he said with some finality.

Himawari tilted her head. She’d heard from Maki that Fushiguro was Gojo Satoru’s treasured ward. A child he’d fostered from boyhood with exacting care. Perhaps then, it was Fushiguro who was made in Gojo Satoru’s image.

She considered him now, examining him from the corner of her eye, trying to see if she could glean any information about the man that Gojo Satoru was simply by looking at the boy he raised. Who was he, this man whose memory could reduce someone as stoic as Fushiguro Megumi to tears over a handful of discarded candy wrappers?

"They wouldn’t let me have any ashes," Fushiguro continued, ignorant of her gaze, or more likely, kind enough to disregard it, "but I wanted to have a place to visit anyway." He leaned his cheek on folded knees. "He’d tease me, if he knew. Then he’d complain that this dinky little slab isn’t worthy of someone as venerable as he."

He sounded different in that moment. Not like the serious upperclassman she had come to know—but more open, lighter. Like a burden had been lifted from his thin shoulders.

"He really was such an asshole."

Fushiguro smiled, and when she met his gaze, his eyes were bright—green and full of life.

"We're playing hooky!" Hara announced, slamming her fist down on the rickety table of the communal kitchen.

Wordlessly, Shoubu picked up Himawari's coffee mug before it could slosh over, bleary eyes still only half-open. Himawari ducked down, readjusting the matchbook slipped under one of the table legs so that it wouldn't wobble too much. She poured a bowl of cereal and then nudged it toward Hara.

"No, really!" Hara insisted when neither responded.

"Kusakabe-sensei will skin us alive if we skip."

"It's just classes. We're not scheduled for a mission or anything." Hara dropped down into the chair beside Himawari's, pulled the cereal bowl toward her, and shoveled a heaping spoonful into her face. "And we'll have our phones if the school needs to contact us," she said through a full mouth, bits of wheat grain spraying into the air.

"We can just go out after class," Himawari suggested.

Hara groaned, chomping down on her cereal more aggressively now as she hunched over her bowl. She pointed her spoon at the two of them—at Himawari and at Shoubu, snoring into his rice bowl. "We haven't had a real day off since Halloween, and I'm sick of it."

"That wasn't so long ago…" Himawari mused. Under the table, she kicked at Shoubu's ankle. He jolted upward, looking around in confusion before taking the coffee cup Himawari proffered.

"Not the point," Hara grumbled, glaring at Himawari from under her bangs. "One day. It's not asking for a lot."

Shoubu stretched and yawned, setting his empty mug aside. He cracked his neck and surveyed Hara with a thoughtful frown. "Why the sudden obsession? What's got you so worked up?"

Hara huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. She stared down at the table’s wood grain for a long moment before replying. "Didn't you hear that one of the Kyoto first years lost a hand on the latest mission?" She wiggled her own fingers for emphasis. The third one had been broken on a mission earlier that month and had healed a little crooked despite Ieiri's best efforts. "You know, that could be any one of us, any minute."

Tension settled over the table like a thin film. Himawari paused, toast suspended halfway to her mouth. She dropped it back onto her plate, appetite lost.

Hara rubbed her thumb over the crooked knuckle, jaw tight. "I just…keep thinking about it."

Shoubu cocked his head. "The risk?"

"The waste." She shook her head. "We train, we fight, we bleed—and then what? Another mission, another body bag?" Her voice went thin. "I don't want that to be all there is." Hara took a deep breath, that stubbornness seeping into her expression. "Who decided that sorcerers aren't allowed to be happy? Our lives are so short. Wouldn't it be alright for us to live for ourselves for a change?" She launched to her feet and threw out her hands with renewed determination. "Let's live selfishly for a day!"

Himawari and Shoubu exchanged a long look.

"If it's just one day, then…"

"Let's do it!"

The upperclassmen were in a good mood. It took a little probing to find out why, but it turned out that Okkotsu was scheduled for a visit. With Maki also settled in Tokyo for a stretch, it was apparently the first time the third year class had been reunited in months.

Himawari felt, rather than saw, Okkotsu Yuuta for the first time, a foreboding presence that chilled her to the bone and nailed her feet where she stood. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run, run, run.

She had heard the stories about him, too—about the curse of love and the shackles that it forms. There was a difference, however, between hearing and knowing.

Despite his soft-spoken demeanor and kind smiles, something unsettling lurked in him, and Himawari had no desire to learn what that something was. She kept her distance. Thankfully, with time, that sensation of tremendous pressure bearing down on her gradually lessened until it felt less like suffocating and more like holding her breath underwater as the waves beat down upon her.

She stumbled upon Okkotsu and Fushiguro lounging beneath the shade of a tall gingko tree, yellow leaves fanned wide under a blue sky. Fushiguro was sleeping, bundled in a startlingly bright teal hoodie that fell loosely over his shoulders and narrow hips. His head was nestled on Okkotsu’s shoulder, long limbs lax with sleep. One of Okkotsu’s arms was braced around his back to keep him upright, a firm hand settled on his hip.

Slowly, as to not jostle his sleeping companion, Okkotsu lifted a single finger to softly smiling lips, signaling for silence. Himawari still recoiled from his disquieting presence but tried to hide it behind a nod and a thin smile of her own. He gestured for her to sit down, and after a moment’s vacillation, she found herself seated despite the anxiety crawling up her spine. As kind as Okkotsu seemed to be, she could not understand how Fushiguro could relax enough to fall asleep with that immense, pulsing cursed energy enveloping him.

"I heard you’ve been looking after him," Okkotsu said, voice hushed.

Himawari floundered for some appropriate response, cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Panda-senpai and Inumaki-senpai do a lot," she protested.

Okkotsu's grin widened, eyes forming twin crescents. "So they do!" His voice dropped to a stage whisper, something mischievous in his tone. "But between you and me, they need a bit of help. They get a little too boisterous for Fushiguro-kun."

She bit back a laugh, thinking about how Fushiguro consistently claimed he needed a nap after dealing with their roughhousing. It made her feel a little more settled in Okkotsu’s company.

"He needs someone calmer these days," Okkotsu said, his tone holding something serious now. He brushed a hand over Fushiguro’s hair, dislodging a stray leaf that had tangled itself into the black waves. The bags under his eyes seemed deeper.

"Maki-san and I get sent away on missions too often. It’s relieving to know there’s someone else here for him in our stead." Soft wind whispered through the grass, tugging at the edges of Okkotsu’s dark hair. As he spoke, a pall of guilt fell over gentle features. He looked back down at Fushiguro, a sad curve to his lips. "I had promised someone that I would watch over him," he said at last. "I’ve already broken that promise once. I don’t want to break it again."

Her brow furrowed at the confession, unsure how to respond to it, or if she should at all. She followed his mournful gaze to Fushiguro’s face. He looked softer in his sleep, as if all his harsh lines had been buffed away by gentle but insistent hands. It made him look young, less like a sorcerer and more like a normal teenager.

"He looks peaceful with you here, Okkotsu-senpai," Himawari said haltingly, teetering on the edge of being too familiar. "I’ve never seen him so relaxed."

She meant it as a reassurance, but a stark line formed between Okkotsu’s brows as he frowned. He opened his mouth and closed it again without saying a word.

"It’s because Yuuta can put him down," a voice broke in from behind them.

They turned in tandem to the source. Maki sauntered toward them leisurely, a lazy smirk on her scarred face.

Maki plopped herself down onto the patch of grass to Okkotsu’s other side, sandwiching Fushiguro between them. She looked at Fushiguro with a measure of fondness that softened the rough edges of her stern countenance.

"Maki-san," Okkotsu said quietly, a dark shadow crossing his face. "You shouldn’t say that."

"What," she said flatly. "It’s not a secret. If she’s going to spend so much time with him, she should know." She turned to Himawari. "Haven’t you wondered why he’s always under supervision?" she said, inclining her head toward her nephew.

That was true. She was curious, but in the present moment, she was more distracted by Maki’s proximity than by her words. It was…confusing to have Okkotsu and Maki seated side by side. His vast, dark pressure beside the void that was Maki created a sickening clash. It made her mouth fill with saliva, and she had to focus all of her resources on not fleeing.

"It’s a directive from Gakuganji but one that Megumi agrees with," Maki continued, oblivious to or uncaring of Himawari’s unrest.

"But why—" Himawari swallowed thickly, finding her voice again. "Why would he want that?"

"Sukuna has been sealed and sunken into his shadows. He’s as good as dead, but Megumi’s got this fear that he’s going to go off the rails one day and no one will be able to stop him," Maki said with a grimace. "No one except Yuuta, that is."

"It won’t happen," Okkotsu replied sharply, his grip tightening around Fushiguro’s waist. "I promised him that I would protect Fushiguro-kun."

They stared at each other for a long moment, locked in a silent debate, before Maki eventually relented.

"Relax," she huffed. "Megumi is fine, and no one’s scrambling to have him executed either. We can thank Kusakabe for that one." She shuddered as if it physically repulsed her to praise their teacher. Sighing, she leaned her weight back onto her palms. "Still, he only feels safe enough to put down his guard when Yuuta’s around to keep him in check. It’s a pity—he could be powerful if he let himself be."

"Maki-san, that’s enough," Okkotsu said, eyes flicking to Himawari’s face.

"But I’m right—he won’t touch Shrine, won’t even open his own domain even though he’s the only living sorcerer with an open barrier—"

Himawari shifted uncomfortably. This level of detail was starting to feel like an invasion of Fushiguro’s privacy.

"It’s not our place to decide—"

"Could you please keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep here."

Fushiguro cracked open one shimmering eye, squinting up at them with a scowl. Even through the haze of sleep, his eyes gleamed like hardcut gems, and the force of his glare was enough to have Himawari scrambling to apologize, while Maki and Okkotsu only chuckled.

He squirmed as he straightened up, pushing away from the embrace even though Okkotsu's hand remained glued to the small of his back. Fushiguro pressed the heel of his own palm into his forehead, blinking heavily. Maki snorted, reaching over to tug on a strand of Fushiguro’s hair. The gesture was deceptively gentle.

"How’s your head? This one doing his job?"

Fushiguro hummed an affirmative before he turned his gaze to Himawari. "Okkotsu-senpai’s RCT is more effective than Ieiri-san’s."

Only now that he brought it to her attention did Himawari notice the faint hum of cursed energy in the air, buried beneath the weight of Okkotsu’s overwhelming aura.

Okkotsu flushed, waving his hand in denial. "My reserves are just larger, is all! And Fushiguro-kun accepts my cursed energy quite well."

"Technically, it would be most efficient if I did it myself, but there are some wounds I haven’t been able to manage," Fushiguro said, sighing. "I’m sorry to trouble you, Okkotsu-senpai."

"Don’t apologize," Maki interjected, answering in Okkotsu’s stead. "Focus on healing your soul, and let us deal with the rest."

Himawari’s head whipped to her in surprise. "Souls can receive damage?" she asked, and then immediately followed with, "You can heal soul damage?"

"Fushiguro-kun can," Okkotsu confirmed.

Fushiguro heaved another sigh. "It’s possible, yes, if you can see the shape of the soul." His expression darkened, and he seemed to recede into himself for a moment. "My soul was…fractured when Sukuna was inside me." He rubbed his shoulder distractedly. "Soul healing is taxing. It doesn’t leave me with much left to deal with the other consequences of the battle."

Himawari blinked, momentarily speechless. She hadn’t known that this was possible, but it explained Fushiguro’s exhaustion, the constant lines of strain on his face. He was healing his soul. She tilted her head, hair tumbling over her shoulder in a wave, as she considered him in a new light.

"Enough of this depressing talk," Maki declared, slapping her thighs as she stood up. She held out a hand to help Himawari to her feet. "It’s about time to eat anyway."

"You haven’t met the other first years yet, have you, Okkotsu-senpai?" Fushiguro asked as the other helped him rise. "Let’s see if we can gather everyone for lunch."

Maki hummed appreciatively. "That Ayame’s a decent cook, too, if you can get her to behave for a minute," she said, stretching her arms overhead. "Touya’s pretty good for that."

Himawari smiled; Shoubu did have a way of gentling Hara’s sharp edges without blunting her shine. Okkotsu would like the both of them, she was sure of it. More importantly, they would be ecstatic to finally meet their illustrious upperclassman, too.

A subtle warmth bloomed in her chest. It had been a long time since she’d felt this sense of ease. It was nice, for a moment, to think things could stay that way.

The school vending machine had been out of melon soda. Shoubu had kicked it, muttering something about how it always ate his coins.

That was the morning.

By the afternoon, he was dead.

It was Tuesday.

It was a mission, no different than any other mission. Until it wasn’t. One wrong step. And then everything went quiet.

Sorcerers die. The sun rises, the sky is blue, and sorcerers die.

Even when they’re fifteen. Even when they’re your friend.

Hara sobbed into Himawari’s shoulder, heavy, wet wails that echoed in the deserted courtyard, her grief laid bare. She wore her emotions so plainly, open and honest the way she always was.

Except…

"I never told him," she sobbed. "I never told him."

The wind, cruel and biting, whipped around them, catching on the hard edges of Hara’s words and carrying them away—stolen into the aether.

Himawari stared blankly at the empty space before her, mechanically stroking her hand through Hara’s tangled locks. Her fingers caught incessantly in the neglected snarls of her hair, but neither of them cared enough to mention it. The silence stretched on, broken only by Hara’s uneven sobs and the wind that howled in response. The courtyard felt quieter somehow, vacant despite the absence of just one person.

There was a weight on Himawari’s chest, a constricting force, squeezing the breath from her lungs, wringing her of air like a maid wrings a dirty rag of dishwater. She swallowed, brittle lips cracked from dehydration.

Himawari was no stranger to death. She’d encountered it too many times in her short life and met it with defiance on each occasion. She thought grief was the same. She had crested the wave of grief before, felt it tow her under and then swam against the current until the pain of it softened into something dull and manageable. And yet—

Hara’s sobs had dissolved into stuttering little hitches, like she was a small animal, frightened and hurt.

"I didn’t get to say goodbye," Hara whispered then, her voice trembling, frail. Tears pearled at the edges of pale lashes.

Himawari’s gut twisted.

Goodbye. A word so simple, so final.

A gust of wind tugged at their uniforms, pulling at them as if it wanted to ferry them away from this place where despair hung in the air like a fading echo, unrelenting, impossible to escape. Himawari continued to card her hand through Hara’s hair all the while, numb fingers still tripping over the knots, numb mind still stumbling over the memories.

If only she had been faster, stronger—

If only—

On the far side of the plaza, a large stone Torii gate loomed, and Himawari watched it intently, as if expecting someone to arrive. She held her breath, and she waited. But there was only the wind to keep them company.

"Let’s go inside."

They buried Shoubu at the jujutsu cemetery with little fanfare. In attendance were the Jujutsu Tech students and their teacher. Shoubu had no other family.

Hara had broken down in the middle of the funeral, her muffled sniffles suddenly giving way to helpless lung-bursting keening that rattled her entire body. Kusakabe, sullen-faced and gruff, led her away with an uncharacteristically gentle hand on her shoulder. Left standing beside the grave, Himawari watched their retreating backs with a detached sort of numbness. Her gaze drifted, aimless, over the horizon.

It was a clear winter’s day. Icy, crisp, not a cloud in sight. Just endless pale, pale blue, fading into nothingness at the edges of her vision. She stared unblinking into the blue expanse until the glare of the sun became unbearable, until the dryness of her eyes began to burn. Still, her eyes stayed open. Her mind was somewhere else, somewhere far from the present. Somewhere where Shoubu was still alive and Hara still whole.

When she finally broke her gaze, the world seemed to return in sharper focus. The drab stone marker before her stood out in harsher relief. Its engravings were clean and focused, not yet worn soft by the hands of time. Her fingers itched to reach out and trace those hard etched lines, but the thought dissipated as quickly as it came. It wouldn’t be right to disturb him, to mar his rest with her turmoil.

Inumaki and Panda still flanked her, sober and silent. She looked to their faces, one after the other. They were almost unrecognizable in their sincerity, somber expressions not a reflection of her anguish so much as a silent acknowledgement of it, a shared sorrow that they held between them like a precious thing. She had caught them, earlier, stealing worried glances at each other over her head when they thought she wasn’t looking. She hadn’t minded. Their concern was touching.

Despite her quiet protests, her upperclassmen refused to abandon her at the graveside, and so all three remained, still as stone, as the shadows gradually lengthened around them. Time slipped away from her then, passing in the blink of an eye while she remained lost in her world that existed only in the past.

When they finally left the cemetery, evening was settling over the city, the lingering warmth of the day falling away as the sun dipped lower, its light brittle against the thickening blue of the sky. Under the cover of night, Inumaki and Panda dragged her to dinner and insisted it was their treat. Himawari was too cold and tired to object, letting them bully her into a small late-night diner. It was hidden in an obscure alley a ways off from the school’s campus, quiet and private.

They must have looked an odd sight to the baffled waiter—Inumaki with his one arm and limited vocabulary and Panda, still small enough to be carried in Himawari’s arms, who they claimed was a particularly rare and exotic breed of toy dog. The host treated them with the utmost caution as he guided them to a booth near the back, far from the other patrons.

As they waited for their orders, her upperclassmen did what they could to coax some hint of laughter, some flicker of a smile, from her. They were a parody of their usual selves, jesters performing solely for her benefit.

And she tried to be grateful, she did. But it all got tangled in the jumble of her mind.

It was—it was confusing. Their exaggerated antics were familiar and yet alien in this new world without Shoubu. The conspicuous absence of her own classmates beside her felt like a wound that would not scar. She tried to summon the sound of Shoubu’s easy laughter and Hara’s good-natured teasing. She tried to imagine how normal this would have been only four days ago. But all she could see was Hara, her happy mouth a downturned slash in a face once so full of life.

Fractured memories pooled around her, dark stains on the cracked tiles beneath her feet, the weight of them sinking into her skin like oil. A familiar pressure built in her sinuses; her eyes stung.

There was nothing noble about the life of a sorcerer, nothing to be gained by sacrificing your life for another’s. Death was just death. That's all it was.

She couldn’t tell if she wanted to laugh or to cry, and so she did neither.

"I’m sorry," Fushiguro said when she saw him next, again within the confines of the cemetery where she found herself spending more and more of her hours.

He had brought flowers for Shoubu. They overflowed in his thin hands—big, fluffy blooms of winter peonies. Their vibrance was startling, a shock of pink against the dull landscape, so bright that they were almost painful to look at.

So she looked away, out over the gravestones and then at all the empty spaces between them. It was silent save for the crunch of their boots on frozen ground. The trees, winter-skeletal, stretched long shadows overhead.

Shoubu’s grave, fresh and raw in its newness, stood stark in the gathering twilight. The cold had turned the earth to a brittle hardness, and inanely, she found herself thinking that Shoubu was considerate for dying when he did. The funeral had taken place before the hard frost had set in, before the ground grew stiff and unyielding. It would have been challenging to dig a pit in frozen soil, to pry open the earth with shovels that felt too small for the task.

Himawari felt oddly grateful. The thought of the cold, unforgiving ground, too solid to be moved by grief, seemed a cruelty beyond measure.

Another thought lingered, nagging at the edges of her composure as she took in the gravestone: Was this really it? Was this all that remained of him?

The grave. The cold. The emptiness of a season that would not relent.

Himawari visited the little cemetery more days than not in the weeks that followed. The familiar routine had become a comfort, solace to be found in the repetition.

No surprises. No uncertainty.

Just water and earth and stone.

When she was satisfied with her family grave, polished so faultlessly that she could see her somber reflection gleaming in the smooth granite, she climbed to her feet and set off down the lane to the most recent addition to the cemetery.

As she walked, her pail bumped against her legs, sending water sloshing over the rim, a trail of droplets tracing her path in the dirt.

Gravestones flanked her on either side, each one a person now dead and gone, returned to ash. Someone had loved them once, someone had talked with them through the night when the nightmares became too vicious for sleep’s embrace, had held their hand and banished the darkest thoughts back into obscurity. And now at last they rested beneath hard, indifferent earth. Their lives—the lives of sorcerers—short and fleeting.

Shoubu’s grave marker stood alone in the dulling light. Himawari’s shadow fell across it like an omen, like an embrace.

Hara hadn’t been able to bring herself to come yet. The barest mention of Shoubu made her tremble like a tender green leaf in a monsoon. But that was alright. She would come in her own time. Until then, Himawari would tend to Shoubu for the both of them.

A few strands of dark hair lay plastered to her sweat-dampened cheek, and she rolled her shoulder against her face to shrug them away. Flexing stiff fingers, she set back to work.

She had two graves to care for now. She wondered how many more she would have in a year’s time.

"Do you think it’s worth it?" Hara had asked her one overcast afternoon.

They were seated on the steps overlooking the training field, skin still tacky with dried sweat. Hunched on the concrete stairs, Himawari plucked listlessly at the fraying hem of her jacket. She had gotten it snagged on a tree branch during their last mission and meant to patch it back up but hadn’t had the time. Their schedules were more demanding these days. It was hard completing missions meant for three students with only two. It was hard.

"Is what worth it?"

When Hara didn’t respond immediately, Himawari finally pulled her gaze away from her jacket, glancing at her classmate to her side. Hara’s face was upturned, sunken eyes as distant as the sky above them.

"Just…this." Hara waved a hand vaguely, gesturing around them. She looked tired in the dull light.

Hara had cut her hair recently. Long locks cropped to right below her chin. It made her look different. Not better or worse. Just. Different. Older, maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t her hair that made her look different. Maybe it was the way she didn’t smile like she used to that made her hard to recognize. Himawari wasn’t sure anymore.

She turned her attention back to her lap, finding a loose thread unraveling from the seams. Her fingers worried at it absently. The world felt muted, sound itself absorbed by the grayness around them.

Winding the string around her index finger, she tugged and watched as the worn fabric bunched under the strain. She yanked harder and the thread pulled taut, tattered edges stretching in protest.

Again and again, she pulled and she pulled, twisting the loose thread around her finger, feeling it cut into her calloused flesh. The skin reddened, then purpled, as blood pulsed beneath it. A throbbing pressure built in her fingertip—a heartbeat in miniature thrumming below the surface, jagged, insistent.

I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive, it screamed.

Round and around the thread wound, neverending, the tension stretching tighter and tighter, until—

"I don’t know."

—it snapped.

Himawari stared at the torn end, the string lying limp in her hand.

It was quiet.

She couldn’t help but think that if Shoubu were here, he would know what to say.

April had come, and with it, the trailing wisteria in full bloom. Long tangles of purple flowers tilting and spilling to the grass below. Himawari reclined beneath their canopy, inhaling the fragrant perfume in silent contemplation beside her upperclassman. Overhead, a young sparrow, a tiny herald of spring, hopped along the branch. It beat its wings once, a song in its throat.

A full year had come and gone, and Himawari had completed her first year as a student at Jujutsu Tech.

She did not feel different, although she knew that she was, that she must be. She had been touched too deeply by death and grief and horror to be that same starry-eyed girl that traipsed onto the school campus twelve long months ago. The clearest mark—the deepest scar—lay in the ground a few dozen meters away, after all.

Fushiguro had been quiet that morning, as he usually was, but there was an edge to him today. It seemed to her that he had something to say. Himawari had learned by now to keep silent. Fushiguro would continue in his own time if she gave him enough space to gather his scattered thoughts. His gaze seemed to drift in those moments, distant and clouded.

He was less of an island these days. Like his soul was, perhaps, more at ease. Not quite whole, no. She didn’t expect that of him anymore. Just as hers would never be quite untouched without Shoubu, she understood that Fushiguro’s would bear cracks as well. But he spent more time with their upperclassmen, left his dorm room for more than just missions, and showed his face at meal times. Slowly, like a painter adding strokes to a canvas, he stitched himself back into the world he had once abandoned in sorrow.

"I’m leaving," Fushiguro said, apropos of nothing. The words were unremarkable, but there was a weight to them in the solemn tone of voice.

"On a mission?" she asked, idly twirling a blade of grass between her fingers.

He shook his head ever so slightly, dark hair drifting in the mild breeze as he faced the rising sun. A bit of color had returned to his cheeks these days. It was a good look for him. Healthy.

"I’m leaving sorcery," he said. "I turned in my resignation last week."

The admission shocked her less than she expected. A year ago it would have been unthinkable that someone so powerful, so exceptional, would willingly walk away from this life, not when there were still curses to exorcise.

Because that was it. There would always be more curses to exorcise, always be another person to save. No matter how she ran, she always found herself at the start again. It was endless, this cycle.

She understood her grandfather a little more these days.

She sat up straighter, picking up a fallen blossom and cradling it in her palms like a precious thing. Its transient beauty already only a memory.

"Where will you go?"

"Okkotsu-senpai is going to take some time off as well. He wants to show me around Kenya." He blushed before admitting the next part. "I want to go on a safari. I think it could be fun."

He explained then that he had come into quite a bit of inheritance as the head of the now-decimated Zenin clan. His ears burned red when he further revealed that Gojo Satoru had also named him as the sole inheritor of the totality of his personal assets. Altogether, it was a staggering sum.

"Ieiri-san and Iori-san helped me arrange everything," he said. "They thought it would be good for me to get away for a little while."

"They’re probably right," Himawari said reluctantly.

Fallen petals littered the ground between them. A violet thread from him to her. She would miss him. Of course she would miss him.

"I leave on Monday."

At that, her head snapped up. "So soon?"

Fushiguro grimaced, that familiar look of guilt crawling over fine features. He nodded slowly. "I didn’t want to give myself time to second guess."

Purple light filtered onto his face through the tapestry of flowers overhead. They lit his elegant features, his hair lucent in the morning sun. He looked lovely then, haloed as he was by the falling wisteria. Resplendent but finally, finally, no longer untouchable.

"I never wanted to be a sorcerer," he said, an admission that she had heard before. "I did it so that my sister could have a good life."

And look where that got her, is what he did not say, but Himawari heard it all the same, the silent echo of his grief.

"I think I would like to learn how to live for myself now."

Above them, the sparrow took flight, its wings slicing through the air in graceful arcs.

"Will you look after them?" he asked. "While I’m away, will you look after them?"

"Of course," she said. "Of course."

Petals spilled from her open palms like ash.

With the campus already behind her and the day only beginning to stir, Himawari stepped onto the narrow footpath that twisted through the dim forest, dew clinging to her sneakers as she made her way to the cemetery. The cold comfort of the familiar trail, its contours worn by countless feet, was her only companion for the day.

She greeted her grandparents first, and then Shoubu, before turning north. Mossy earth rose up to meet her feet as she climbed the small hill where three graves awaited her like dark-set gems atop a heavy crown. Overhead, the sky was an unbroken expanse.

With practiced ease, she lit three stalks of incense and set them to burn beside clusters of asoka flowers, bundled into tall vases. Smoke spiraled around her, rising slowly in the morning air, a tenuous bridge between this world and the next. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the fine scent of agarwood and fresh earth.

Under the tangled canopy of the wisteria tree, she made three bows. One for the past, for all that had been lost. The second, for the present, for the hearts still beating. And the last, a quiet prayer for the future, a whispered hope for something brighter still to come.