Archive of Our Own

He closed his eyes tightly. He slid his fingers over his temples and cursed himself mentally. How stupid could he be? No, well, it wasn't that he was stupid; Suguru knew he had done it for a reason, but still, it was impossible not to punish himself mentally. The pain in his head made his brain seem to throb, as if his skull was being hammered. He hummed low, as if that would ease the anxiety he felt. The raven-haired man always thought he was doing his best, he truly believed in people's well-being, but they just wouldn't cooperate at all. It was a male voice that pulled him out of that whirlpool of thoughts that always ended up embittering him, a man who was beginning to lose faith in humanity.

—Geto—. The dark-haired man looked up. Yaga, his superior, the head of the child protection section, was leaning against the doorframe with an expression Suguru knew well. It was the same one he wore when he was about to deliver news he didn't want to hear, and God, he didn't want to hear anything now, not when he was two cases away from wanting to commit a hate crime.

—Chief—. He murmured, his voice sounding soft, falsely calm, trying to hide the bitterness rising like nausea in his stomach.

—There's a meeting, come.

Suguru didn't want to ask what the meeting was about. He stood up, rolled up his sleeves, and followed the man down the hallway. Did the walk down the hallway always feel so uncomfortable? It was as if everything was infinite and never ended. It's mental fatigue, he told himself, knowing full well it was more than that. But he couldn't fight much; he had chosen this path himself.

Upon arriving at the meeting room, he noticed the presence of three more people. Utahime, the deputy director of the public prosecutor's office, a man from the legal department he didn't know, but he could see something about Higuruma on his badge. However, the dark-haired man didn't want to dwell on it, because truly, the other people were already blurring in his memory, and sincerely, they didn't matter.

Suguru sat down, ignoring every look directed at him. Well, rather, he had been ignoring everything for a while now.

—The DNA tests were not altered. — He spoke first, with that serene and calm voice he always had. — The socio-familial context was expanded with information the original team omitted.

He was defending himself; he did it for a greater good, okay? He didn't do it out of corruption; he did it because he was exhausted by the fact that innocents were always harmed and the weakest remained unprotected.

—You know perfectly well what I'm referring to, Geto.

He knew. He had changed the wording of an environmental report so the twin girls would be assigned to a foster home outside the prefecture, far from the commune where they had spent the first seven years of their lives, in an ignorant community that abused them, that ignored the basic rights of minors. He hadn't falsified data; he had just nuanced, made the uncomfortable truths weigh more than the inconvenient ones. And he would do it again.

—I understand—. He finally responded, an edge in his voice that surprised him.

Utahime exchanged glances with Higuruma, and Suguru felt the walls shrink a little.

—No disciplinary file will be opened. However, you will be temporarily reassigned to an external evaluation commission.

—What kind of evaluation? — He subtly frowned.

—Custody cases in irregular places, cases that require review.

The dark-haired man nodded slowly. An administrative exile, far enough away that his presence wouldn't be uncomfortable, vague enough that they couldn't call it a sanction.

—The first case. — Utahime spoke, sliding a thin folder across the table. — It's on an island in Fukuoka prefecture, Ainoshima.

Suguru opened the folder. The first page had an official seal and the photograph of a boy about six years old, with dark hair and a serious expression. Megumi Fushiguro, the header read, custody under review due to a petition from the biological family.

—The Zenin—. He read aloud, looking up and raising an eyebrow. That family... wasn't famous for the best reasons, but the curiosity in the dark-haired man was evident.

—The paternal family wants to regain custody of the minor.

He nodded with a slow movement of his head. —And who currently has custody?

—A legal guardian with no family relation. Satoru Gojo.

Suguru flipped through the following pages. The information was scarce. The guardian was of legal age, had sufficient financial resources, a stable residence, no criminal record, nothing that would justify an urgent review.

—What's the problem? — He asked, without looking up from the file, reading each line carefully.

—The guardian is blind.

It was then that Suguru looked up and closed the folder.

—Blind? — He asked, as if he had misheard, as if something in his head told him he had misheard.

—Leber's hereditary optic neuropathy. It's a degenerative, genetic disease — clarified the man from the legal department, adjusting his glasses with a coldness that churned Suguru's stomach —. Severe and permanent vision loss; the optic nerve simply stops sending signals to the brain. Reports say it happened almost overnight. The Zenin are using this to challenge the guardianship, arguing that Gojo is "unfit" due to his disability.

Suguru remained silent for a moment, processing the information while the echo of the word "genetic" bounced around in his head. He kept his expression impeccable, that mask of courtesy he used so no one could see how he was crumbling inside.

—A mitochondrial disease — murmured Suguru, more to himself than to others. He closed the folder with a sharp thud, the sound resonating in the silent room.

In his mind, he was already drafting the end of this story. A blind man against the Zenin's legal machinery and money. It was a lost case. He felt that familiar pang of bitterness: they were sending him to a remote island not to evaluate, but to be the official executioner of a custody the system had already decided to break.

—So you're sending me to Ainoshima to sign the paperwork and hand the child over to the Zenin on a silver platter — he said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes —. Because, logically, a man who can't see can't protect anyone. Is that the conclusion you expect from me?

Utahime didn't respond, but the look she exchanged with Higuruma was enough. Suguru stood up, feeling that the weight of his own mental fatigue was harder to bear than his briefcase.

—I understand perfectly — he concluded, his voice regaining that soft, falsely calm tone. — Going to take a child away from a blind man "for his own good." How humane it all sounds.

Utahime and Higuruma exchanged a dense look, the kind shared between those who prefer not to get their hands dirty with moral details. The man from the legal department simply nodded, collecting his notes with a robotic efficiency that Suguru found insulting given the gravity of what they were discussing. There was no room for debate or doubt; the system had already dictated its sentence of administrative exile, and now they only expected the raven-haired man to fulfill his part of the script.

—The ferry to Ainoshima leaves tomorrow at eight in the morning from Hakata port — she said, standing up —. Your ticket is at reception. The case is to be resolved in one week.

Suguru didn't move.

—And the Zenin — he said, without looking at her —. Are they going to pressure for the report to come out the way they want?

The deputy director paused at the door.

—The Zenin have legitimate interests in the minor's well-being. As does this prosecutor's office. You will limit yourself to doing your job, Geto. Nothing more.

Suguru felt a strange weight in his chest, but especially in his hands. Although the report was just a few pages, it felt like he was carrying cement.

When the raven-haired man arrived at his apartment that night, he didn't turn on the lights. He knew the way to the kitchen by memory, and the dimness felt more tolerable than the white glare of the lamps. He opened the fridge, took out a can of beer, and sat on the sofa in the dark, the city lights filtering through the blinds.

He could see, by the faint light on the coffee table, the photo of the twins still visible. Mimiko and Nanako. It was taken on the day of their departure to their new home. Both wore new backpacks, too big for them, and smiled with a shyness that had broken something inside Suguru.

He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't feel like this again. And he hadn't. Since then, he had processed dozens of cases. He had seen children returned to families who didn't want them, adolescents transferred to centers where the educators were as burnt out as he was, favorable reports written due to political pressure that ended with minors in risky situations. And he had accepted all of it, because if he stopped accepting it, he would have to do something, and if he did something, he would risk again. And if he risked, he would lose again.

He opened the can. The beer was cold, but the taste was nothing. He looked at the folder he had left on the counter. Megumi Fushiguro, a six-year-old boy with a face that trusted no one. A blind guardian who had probably accepted custody for money, commitment, or... paternal love. He didn't know. He truly didn't know how the world worked anymore. But what resonated most was the Zenin family, who only wanted to reclaim what was theirs, as if the child were an object.

The same old theater. People using children as chess pieces. Suguru took another swig of his beer, downing the rest in one gulp, and left the empty can on the table.

—One week — he said aloud, just to hear himself —. I write the report, say it's not viable, and leave.

He would solve it quickly. He would be objective. Cold, professional, and stop caring so much about people. He wouldn't make exceptions again. He would continue being a slave to the damned Japanese system.

The next morning, as he was leaving his building with a small suitcase and the folder under his arm, a black car was parked in front of the entrance. The window rolled down; Higuruma was behind the wheel.

—Geto — he greeted, not lowering his voice even though the street was empty. — Could I give you some advice?

The dark-haired man wanted to say no. But he preferred to remain silent. What did it matter what he thought?

—I'll take that as a yes. The Zenin have contacts throughout the prefecture. In the prosecutor's office, in the courts, in the government. They don't like being crossed.

Suguru raised an eyebrow.

—Are you warning me?

—I'm informing you. The report can say whatever you want. But if it says what they don't want to hear, you're going to have problems, and this time there won't be an administrative transfer to protect you.

Suguru held the man's gaze. He saw in his eyes the cold calculation of someone who had already chosen his side. Suguru sighed, expelling all the air from his lungs.

—Thanks for the advice —. His voice sounded bitter, even strained. He turned around, beginning to walk towards the station. He didn't look back at the car, but he felt the weight of the folder under his arm like never before.

Risking it again for a case that doesn't deserve it, he thought. And then, immediately after, with a cynicism that was already part of him, he thought that if this one did deserve it, well, they always find a way to make it worthwhile.

The train to Hakata left in twenty minutes, and Suguru boarded without looking back.

The ferry rattled against the waves, causing Suguru's stomach to lurch. Sitting on deck, away from the passengers, he preferred the salty air to the noise of people. The folder he refused to open rested on his knees; he already knew the script: a blind guardian, rich relatives, and a condemning report to write. He didn't need more.

As the engine slowed to a deep rumble, Ainoshima emerged like a green hump on the horizon. No cranes or cement, just a row of dark roofs huddled under the vegetation of a mountain that seemed to devour the port.

—A postcard — murmured Suguru. And immediately, the cynicism: — I'm going to waste a week trapped in a postcard.

The ferry docked with a screech of tires and concrete. Suguru walked down the gangplank with his cabin suitcase, just enough for a quick procedure, but stopped short. The pier was an assembly of cats: orange, black, calico; balls of majestic indifference that evaluated him with their gaze before returning to their fishing nets.

—Stranger, huh? — A fisherman seated next to an obese feline broke the silence.

—Evaluator from the prosecutor's office. I'm going to Satoru Gojo's house.

The man let out a dry laugh that made the cat beside him vibrate. — To Satoru's house, I see. Good luck, friend. Go up the slope, turn where it smells like the sea. You can't miss it. The cats will guide you.

It wasn't a metaphor. As he climbed the cobbled streets, a small feline entourage marked the pace, stopping when he did. Suguru felt ridiculous, an investigator from the prosecutor's office escorted by stray animals on an island he hadn't even known existed yesterday.

As he advanced, the air changed. It was no longer the stagnant gray of the office, but a mix of salt spray, damp earth, and wildflowers. Without realizing it, his shoulders — tense since the meeting — relaxed a few centimeters.

It's just the oxygen, he lied to himself. It doesn't mean anything.

He followed the dirt path flanked by hydrangeas, accompanied by the insistent meowing of a white cat that seemed to be giving him orders. Then, between the whisper of the waves, the sound of a radio emerged.

The radio was playing old jazz, a persistent companion floating among the trees. The house appeared then: dark wood, gray tiles, and impeccable maintenance that defied the file. A shishi-odoshi struck the water rhythmically in the garden, marking an order Suguru hadn't expected to find. There was no neglect, no weeds, no trace of the negligence the Zenin denounced.

It's too well-kept, he thought, as the cats dispersed after completing their mission. The murmur of the sea, constant behind the house, was the only thing filling the silence when the radio abruptly stopped.

Suguru heard footsteps: slow, confident, lacking the hesitation he associated with blindness. He straightened his back, gripped the handle of his suitcase, and composed his professional investigator's mask.

The door opened.

And there, the words Suguru had ready like a mantra died in his mouth. His brain forgot everything he had to say. The man in front of him was... too much. Too tall, too thin, with a disheveled mop of white hair that looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, and a cotton yukata robe in blue that was tied poorly, showing more collarbone than was probably appropriate for receiving a public official.

But what left him breathless wasn't that appearance. It was... his eyes. Blue. So intense, so crystalline, they looked like they were made of blown glass. The kind of blue not found in nature, only in movies with generous special effects budgets or in fairy tales where characters pay a price for possessing something so beautiful.

But they weren't looking at him. It took Suguru a few seconds to realize that. To realize that those electric, dazzling eyes were focused on a point slightly to the left of his face, as if he was listening to his voice, but couldn't — or didn't want to — find it.

—Are you the supply delivery guy? — The man asked, with a voice that was the complete opposite of his lost gaze. Cheerful, carefree, almost singsong. — Did you bring the canned sardines? Because last time they sent tuna and I hate canned tuna, the texture is...

—Mr. Gojo — Geto interrupted, regaining his composure with effort. — I'm Suguru Geto, from the juvenile prosecutor's office. I've been sent to conduct the custody evaluation of the minor, Megumi Fushiguro.

His voice sounded robotic. He was truly trying to do what the system always ordered him to do, always like a mantra, like an AI that doesn't understand human emotions and only knows boring bureaucracy.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, thick, enough for Suguru to study his surroundings a bit more. A silence broken only by the occasional meow and the murmur of the sea.

The man's blue eyes blinked a couple of times. And then, slowly, a smile spread across the white-haired man's face. It wasn't a kind smile; it was the smile of someone who has just found a new toy and is deciding how much time to spend on it before breaking it.

—Evaluation? — He repeated. His voice sounded amused, something that truly baffled the raven-haired man. The man leaned against the doorframe with a languor that seemed deliberate. — How boring. I thought you were the one with the preserves; I had gotten my hopes up and everything.

Suguru narrowed his eyes.

—Sorry to disappoint.

—I believe you are sorry. At least he brought food; you bring paperwork and a sour face.

Suguru raised an eyebrow. How would he know what his face looked like anyway? He shook his head, erasing that thought from his mind.

—May I come in? — He asked. This time his voice sounded strangely... softer.

—Come in? Sure, sure, go ahead. But don't expect luxury; this isn't the prosecutor's office. We don't have machines or coffee, or secretaries who smile at you while they ruin your day —. The white-haired man responded with obvious sarcasm and a mocking smile tattooed on his expression.

The man stepped away from the door with a wide, almost theatrical movement, and Suguru entered. But as soon as he crossed the threshold, he stopped again.

The floor beneath his feet changed. Where the entrance hall had smooth, dark wood, the hallway that opened before him was covered with a different material. A kind of textured vinyl that, under the soles of his shoes, felt like compacted sand. It wasn't smooth; it had a pattern of small reliefs that could be distinguished even with shoes on.

Suguru advanced a few steps, observing. The walls were a warm white, unadorned. But the door frames — three on the left, two on the right — had colored adhesive tapes. Red on one, blue on another, yellow on the farthest ones. Tapes placed at hand height, as if someone used them to guide themselves.

—What are you staring at so intently? — Satoru's voice came from somewhere further inside, followed by the sound of a kettle. — Are you taking mental notes? Are you starting the report already? "The floor is strange, point against." "The blind man has bad decorating taste, point against."

Suguru rolled his eyes. —I'm not taking notes — he responded.

—Liar. People from the prosecutor's office are always taking notes. It's like their superpower. Their curse too.

Suguru left his suitcase by the entrance and followed the voice. The hallway led to a spacious room that served as a living and dining area. There was a low wooden table, cushions on the floor, a bookshelf with books that — Suguru approached just enough to see — were all in Braille or audiobook boxes. An old radio rested in a corner, its buttons marked with stickers of different textures. Windows overlooked the back garden, and beyond that, the sea.

Satoru was with his back turned, moving among the cups with a fluidity that had nothing to do with the clumsiness Suguru had expected. His hands found the handles without hesitation; his fingers brushed the rim of each cup as if greeting an old friend. He knew every corner. Every movement was the fluidity of someone who knew their entire kitchen by memory.

—Green tea —. Again, Satoru's voice snapped him out of his trance. The man turned with a cup in each hand and held one out to the dark-haired man. — Don't ask what kind, because I don't know. Megumi says it's "the one in the green can." That's all I can offer. If you want coffee, you'll have to go down to the port and ask Mrs. Tanaka, but I warn you, she'll tell you the story of her knee for forty minutes, and you'll be too polite to interrupt.

—Thank you — murmured Geto, wrapping his cold fingers around the warm cup that gave off a relaxing aroma.

Satoru let himself drop onto the cushion in front of the table, stretching his long legs underneath with a lack of protocol that matched the poorly tied robe. His blue eyes, not looking at him, were fixed on some point over his shoulder, as if there was someone else behind him.

—Social worker, I suppose. — Suguru nodded, until he realized it would be obvious the man wouldn't see the movement of his head, so he murmured a small "Yes." — And well, how long are you going to stay?

—One week.

The white-haired man raised an eyebrow. — A whole week? — Satoru put on an expression of authentic horror. — They didn't tell me it was going to be a week. I thought it would be a day, two at most. What are we going to do in a week? I don't have that many funny anecdotes. Well, I do, but most involve the cats, and I don't think your boss cares to know that there's a cat that gets into my bed when it's cold. Little Gumi says it's orange; I don't know, but it's fluffy and adorable.

Suguru was impressed with how fluently the man spoke. Whenever Suguru presented himself in front of a guardian, some adult, they always spoke to him carefully, as if he were a figure of authority — which he arguably was — but there was always caution, even a certain fear. But Satoru spoke to him as if they had known each other their whole lives.

—I'm not interested in cats — he lied. He did like cats; he always fed the cats that roamed near his neighborhood, and besides, as he was coming to the Gojo house, three cats had followed him.

—Another lie. You arrived on the ferry, the cats guided you here. Everyone who comes for the first time says the same thing, that they're not interested in cats. An hour later, they're sending photos to their families.

Suguru took a sip of his tea to avoid having to respond. The flavor mesmerized him. It was surprisingly good.

—Did you bring sweets? — Satoru asked suddenly, changing the subject so abruptly it seemed deliberate.

—Huh? Sorry?

—Sweets. People from the prosecutor's office always bring sweets when they come to evaluate people. I don't know if it's to compensate or to shut one up, but they always bring some. My favorite is karinto. Crunchy on the outside, sweet on the inside. Didn't you bring anything?

Suguru blinked.

—No... I didn't bring sweets.

—How boring you are — protested the white-haired man, sighing with some exaggeration.

Then, Satoru tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, the light coming through the window hit his eyes directly. They were still blue, still not looking at him. But there was something in that tilt, in the way the white hair fell over his forehead, that made Suguru remember that he hadn't slept well in days, that he had gone months without feeling anything but fatigue or bitterness, and that suddenly his heart had given a small leap he wasn't prepared to process.

He repeated to himself mentally that it was only because the man was just too handsome. There are people like that, handsome, beautiful, and that means nothing.

—You're really the worst guest. And that's saying something — Satoru said, and his voice sounded genuinely regretful. — You arrive without sweets, with a sour face, and on top of that, you're staying a week. If at least you had grace, but... it's obvious you're serious. Very serious. The kind who never laughs, not even in photos.

—I do laugh — responded Suguru, unsure if he felt offended or was just defending himself.

—You sound like it hurts you to say it.

Suguru was about to respond with something sharp, with that professional tone he was used to using to re-establish the balance of power in the conversation, but he was interrupted when he heard a faint noise coming from the hallway.

The sound of bare feet on the textured floor.

The white-haired man heard it too. His expression changed; the carefree attitude didn't disappear entirely, but it softened, as if someone had turned down the volume on a radio that was too loud.

—Oh! Little Gumi —. Satoru's voice sounded soft, like the coo of the sun on autumn afternoons. — Come out, little Gumi, don't hide. We have visitors.

Suguru looked toward the door. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a head of disheveled black hair peeked out, with green eyes that met his purple ones.

He was small for his age, or at least that's what Suguru thought when he saw him. He wore a gray t-shirt and shorts, he was barefoot, but what caught Suguru's attention wasn't the clothes or appearance, but the way he looked at him. With a solid, dense distrust that wasn't typical of a six-year-old.

He didn't say hello. He didn't say anything; he just stayed behind Satoru, at a distance that allowed him to flee if necessary, but close enough to touch his back.

Satoru reached a hand back, without looking, and found the child's shoulder with a precision Suguru recognized as practice. A non-verbal language that only that adult and child knew how to speak.

—Gumi —. Satoru's voice sounded soft. It wasn't the loud one with which he'd welcomed the dark-haired man that morning, but a more real, more velvety tone. Something the raven-haired man didn't expect to find in someone who seemed born with a mocking smile on his lips. — This is the gentleman who came to visit us. His name is Suguru Geto; he's from the prosecutor's office.

The child didn't respond, but his eyes: green and enormous, didn't leave Suguru.

—We just have to put up with him for a few days —. Satoru added, and although the words were the same he had used before, they now sounded different, gentler... more paternal. — Then he'll leave and we'll be left in peace.

The child didn't say anything, but took half a step closer to Satoru, his hand finding the edge of the blue robe and staying there, watching.

Suguru found himself returning the gaze. The child — Megumi — didn't have the look of a curious child; rather, it was the look of someone evaluating if you were a threat. And at that moment, Suguru knew he couldn't treat this case with the cold distance he had promised himself.

Because that child was not just a file, and the man protecting him, with his blind eyes and noisy smile, was not the incompetent he had imagined.

—Megumi — Suguru finally spoke, with a voice softer than he thought himself capable of. — Nice to meet you.

The child didn't respond, but his grip on Satoru's robe loosened a millimeter. The white-haired man smiled, a much more real smile far from that arrogance he had shown.

—Welcome to Ainoshima, Mr. Social Worker — he said, and this time there was no sarcasm in his words. — I hope it's not as terrible as it seems.

Suguru held the cup of tea between his hands and felt the heat seep through the ceramic.

—I hope so too —. He surprised himself by saying those words, which came out without permission. He noticed the playful smile of the white-haired man. And for the first time in months, he wasn't sure what outcome he wanted his report to have.

On the second day, Suguru woke before dawn. This wasn't unusual. In Tokyo, he used to get up with the first train, when the city still had that tense silence that precedes chaos. But here there were no trains, no traffic noise, no sirens, no constant urban roar that reminds you of the concrete hell you live in. Just the sea, crashing against the rocks with a relaxing rhythm, and the song of some bird Suguru didn't know how to identify.

He dressed in silence and left the room he had been assigned — a small space at the end of the hallway, with fresh tatami mats and a citronella candle on the windowsill. He didn't intend to spy, but the sounds coming from the kitchen drew him like a magnet.

He stopped in the doorway and stood watching. Satoru had his back to him, his white hair disheveled, but not like yesterday; it was a well-thought-out dishevelment. Suguru caught himself looking at the back of his neck, mentally scolding himself for it. Satoru was wearing a black long-sleeved t-shirt and a thick cloth apron that Suguru had seen hanging behind the pantry the day before. His feet were bare on the stone floor, his toes pressing against the tiles with a consciousness Suguru recognized as a tactile map of the space.

On the counter, everything was in order, but a systematic order that gave Suguru a slight chill. The knives rested on a magnetic strip fixed to the wall, organized by size and type: the largest on the left, the boning knife on the right, the vegetable knives in the middle. The handles faced outward, all in the same direction. The ingredients were arranged in a sequence Suguru took a moment to understand: those needing longer cooking time at the back, those added at the end closest to the stove. A small bowl with salt and another with sugar had lids of different textures: rough on one, smooth on the other.

Satoru moved his hands with a fluidity that had nothing to do with clumsiness. His fingers brushed the edges of the ingredients, felt the blade of the knife with a gesture that seemed like affection, and then cut. Straight, precise, without hesitation.

Suguru watched him peel a carrot; the knife against his thumb, rotating the vegetable with short, sure movements, the peel falling in a continuous strip onto a sheet of newspaper spread on the floor to catch the scraps. How he checked the broth's point — a miso beginning to bubble in the pot — by tilting his head to listen to the sound, smelling the rising steam, dipping a wooden spoon and tasting with the tip of his tongue before adding another pinch of dashi.

He never hesitated.

Suguru realized he was holding his breath and had been studying each of the white-haired man's movements for too long. He had arrived expecting to find... what? Disorder? Danger? An incapable man barely able to care for himself trying to raise a child? Instead, he saw someone who had turned his limitation into a choreography.

—You're going to get tired just standing there —. Satoru's soft voice snapped him out of his thoughts, a strange tug in his chest. He cleared his throat, pretending to cough.

—I didn't know you heard me.

—The floor creaks right at the entrance. It's designed for that, so I know if someone is coming. But I didn't expect you to get up so early just to watch me cook —. He murmured. — I mean, I know I'm attractive, but I don't know if watching me cook is the most entertaining thing in the world —. He joked, his voice singsong amidst the bubbling of boiling water. — What were you expecting, Mr. Supervisor? That I'd cut off a finger?

—No — He responded too quickly, too impulsively. He pressed his lips together, coughing lightly.

—What a liar.

—Alright — Suguru admitted, crossing his arms. — I expected something less controlled — he confessed.

Satoru let out a short laugh, more honest than the ones the day before.

—I know, everyone expects it. I mean, a blind man cooking? He's a walking danger —. He responded with sarcasm, but Suguru found something more... painful beneath those layers of irony. — But I'll tell you a secret. Accidents in the kitchen aren't caused by those who can't see. They're caused by those who don't pay attention. And I have to pay attention all the time. So, paradoxically, I'm more careful than most people I know.

He poured the miso into two bowls. — Two, not three, because Megumi was still sleeping — and placed them carefully on a tray, as if everything was calculated. Suguru was still there, hypnotized? Lost in thought? He didn't know how to say it, but there he was, like an idiot, watching each of the white-haired man's actions.

—Do you want to try it? — He really had to stop staring so intently; he kept telling himself it was because the man was damn attractive, but something told him it was for another reason, a reason Suguru ignored deliberately. — Or do you prefer to keep judging from the doorway? It's all the same to me. But if you taste it, you get a spoonful of my pride, and that's a luxury not offered to just anyone.

Suguru approached. He took the spoon Satoru held out, the handle exactly in the direction of his hand, and tasted. The miso was perfect. Neither too salty nor too bland. The dashi was spot on, the umami flavor unfolding on his tongue with a depth he hadn't expected from such a simple breakfast.

—It's good — he confessed without shame; it was the truth. Although he had to admit the tone he used surprised him.

—Of course it's good. Why would I make something that wasn't? I have to eat this every day; it would be a punishment if it were bad. Besides, Megumi wouldn't let me hear the end of it.

He wrinkled his nose, but the tone he used referring to the child was quite... soft. Satoru served himself his own bowl, found the spoon he had left on the edge of the counter, and brought the first sip to his lips with a naturalness that made something twist in Suguru's chest.

It wasn't pity, nor admiration. It was something more uncomfortable, more akin to realizing he had been expecting to find weakness, and instead, he was encountering a form of strength he didn't know how to classify.

It's not what I expected, he thought; none of this is what I expected. And that thought made something warm bloom in his chest.

On the third day, Suguru followed Satoru to the port. It wasn't difficult, as Satoru walked with a white cane extending in wide arcs before him, but he did so with a confidence that seemed to offend the cobblestones. That afternoon, he wore dark glasses hiding those electric blue eyes that could be slightly seen through the dark lenses.

Suguru walked beside him carefully, hands in his pockets, with a "Do you want me to help?" caught on the tip of his tongue. He noticed how the white-haired man knew every irregularity of the ground, every change in level, every corner where a sleeping cat might cross his path. On one occasion, he stopped just before tripping over a box of fish a merchant had left in the middle of the sidewalk, and the man uttered a hasty apology to which Satoru responded with laughter, contagious laughter that the fishermen returned.

Suguru was truly surprised. He always thought that society looked at blind people with pity. Well, maybe in the capital, yes, but... here, comfort was evident, with a sweet familiarity.

—Satoru! — shouted a man from a fishing boat, his voice carrying across the whole port. — Your order arrived!

—It arrived? — Satoru quickened his pace, and Suguru followed at the same rhythm, smelling the fishy aroma tickling his nose uncomfortably. — Did they bring the bonito preserves? Because if they brought tuna again, I swear I'll go to Hakata in person to return them to the warehouse.

The delivery man, a young man, was unloading boxes from a white van. When he saw Satoru approaching, his smile widened.

—They brought the bonito ones. And also those Japanese crackers you like, the brand from Kyoto. The lady at the store said she sends them with love.

—The store lady? — Satoru frowned with a theatrical gesture. — The one who tried to charge me double last time? What expensive love.

The delivery man laughed, but Suguru just watched as Satoru received the boxes one by one, weighing them in his hands before stacking them at his feet.

—This is the one with the preserves — he said, touching the first. — The crackers are this one, lighter. And this... what is this? It's warm.

—Mrs. Tanaka sent you soup. She said since you have the evaluator, you shouldn't neglect yourself.

Satoru raised an eyebrow.

—Does everyone know about the evaluator?

—Well, on an island with two hundred inhabitants... — the delivery man paused, looked at Suguru, and added in a low voice: — Everyone knows everything.

Satoru let out a loud, sincere laugh that echoed in the port and made several cats look up curiously.

—See? You think you're doing an evaluation in secret, and the whole town already knows you're here. Next time you go down for coffee, Mrs. Tanaka will tell you the story of her knee and give you her opinion on how we're raising Megumi. Prepare yourself.

Suguru didn't know how to respond. He simply picked up two of the heaviest boxes while Satoru took the others.

—You don't have to help — Satoru said, but it didn't sound like a rejection.

—I don't mind.

—How polite. Are you this helpful with all cases, or only with the ones that seem interesting to you?

—With everyone — Suguru lied.

Satoru smiled. And in that smile, there was something Suguru couldn't decipher.

They walked back to the house, the cats following at a distance, and Suguru couldn't help but notice how people stopped to greet Satoru. The woman from the general store. The fisherman from the ferry. A group of kids coming from school who shouted "Satoru-san!" as they passed, to which he responded with an exaggerated wave that made them laugh.

It wasn't pity he saw on their faces. It was respect.

And that, Suguru understood, was something money couldn't buy.

On the fourth day, the "Gojo file" in Suguru's mind was no longer a list of data, but a minefield.

He found himself on the back porch, hidden in the shadow of the eaves, observing. His official notes said: "The guardian demonstrates basic care skills." His mental notes, the ones he didn't dare write, said: "I can't stop watching how his fingers always find what they're looking for."

On the grass, Satoru was kneeling. It wasn't the rigid pose of a martyr, but something fluid, almost animal. Beside him, Megumi held an orange cat with the solemnity of someone guarding a national treasure. The animal's paw was at a painful angle.

—Listen to his breathing — Satoru murmured.

His voice had lost the sarcastic edge he used to tease Suguru; it was a low, warm vibration that seemed to hold both the child and the cat simultaneously. Suguru felt an involuntary shiver. He, who prided himself on his "impeccable courtesy," realized his kindness was an ice wall compared to this warmth.

—Do you hear it, Megumi? — Satoru insisted.

The child nodded. Then, remembering that Satoru didn't inhabit the world of visual gestures, let out a barely audible "Yes."

—If the pain were unbearable, the rhythm would be a gallop. But he trusts you. He feels your hands. If you shake, he panics. So... you breathe too.

Suguru, from the shadows, inhaled deeply without realizing it. He felt like an intruder, a voyeur of an intimacy he didn't deserve. His prejudices — that idea that a blind man would be a burden to a withdrawn child — were crumbling in the worst possible way: by showing him that the emotionally "disabled" one was himself.

He watched Satoru guide Megumi's hand to the cat's joint. It was a movement of surgical precision, but charged with an unconscious sensuality that made Suguru clench his fist against the porch wood. Satoru didn't just "see" with his hands; he used them to anchor others to reality.

—Hold here. Firm, as if you were its root — instructed the white-haired man.

Satoru took out a jar and poured the antiseptic. When the cat meowed, Satoru didn't even blink. With an efficiency Suguru envied, he bandaged the paw and, in an absurdly domestic and charming gesture, cut the tape with his teeth.

—Done. You're a good doctor, Gumi. Better than the ones they send from the capital with their briefcases and long faces.

Suguru winced. Touché.

—Can he stay? — asked the child.

Satoru tilted his head, the afternoon sun igniting his white hair like a neon halo.

—If you're willing to let him steal your socks and cover you in fur, he stays.

When Megumi hugged the cat and Satoru let out a soft laugh, Suguru had to look away. His chest ached. It wasn't work fatigue; it was the recognition of pure, distilled envy.

He retreated inside the house, leaning against the textured hallway wall. He felt clumsy. He felt like a man who has spent years studying the structure of water but is drowning in his first dip.

"You'd be the same if you got hurt," Satoru had said about the cat.

Suguru looked at his own hands. They were hands that had altered reports, that had shaken hands with corrupt bureaucrats, hands that tried to "save" people while their owner sank into cynicism. Satoru, unable to see the color of his eyes, seemed to be reading his soul much more clearly than any colleague at the prosecutor's office.

He sat at the table and opened Megumi's folder. The blank paper challenged him. He tried to write: "The environment is ideal," but his hand traced a meaningless scribble.

The attraction wasn't a lightning bolt; it was something worse: it was the understanding that Satoru Gojo was the only point of light in a world Suguru had already decided to paint gray. And that light, even though it couldn't look at him directly, was burning him alive.

—Damn it — Suguru whispered, rubbing his temples. — I'm going to regret this.

But for the first time in years, the fear of regret felt better than the emptiness of feeling nothing.

That night, he looked at himself in the mirror. His lilac eyes stared back. Suguru always had dark circles, the sparkle in his eyes subtly dimmed, and a tired soul. It wasn't that he was now full of energy; it was just that the burden the raven-haired man always felt on his shoulders was uncomfortable, exhausting, too much, to be honest.

Maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe it was the salty scent of the sea, or the tranquility of the village. But something made the bitterness in Suguru's chest disappear a little.

He brought his hands to his long hair and tied it in a ponytail, letting out a small sigh. He pressed his lips together; the messages in his email were still unanswered. "How's it going, Suguru?"; "How's the blind guy?"; "How's the kid?" Hurtful questions, prejudiced questions, questions Suguru in his bitterness would have let pass, if he hadn't seen the white-haired man always so attentive to Megumi, that boy with emerald eyes watching him so intently... And that care they both had, emanating an aroma of home, of warmth, of... miso soup.

He wanted to go for a walk; the night looked beautiful, maybe he should take the opportunity to see the sea. However, he encountered something unexpected. Or well, not so unexpected considering the man lived there. Satoru was there on the back porch, listening to the constant noise of the sea, as if the sea were speaking to him through the murmurs of the waves, the subtle crash against the rocks.

He saw him there, sitting and quiet, as if in deep conversation with the sea. He wore a gray sweatshirt, his hair loose, his hands resting on his knees with a stillness that didn't match the noisy, sarcastic man of the previous days.

Suguru should have stayed back, just drunk some water and gone back to bed, but his feet were already crossing the garden before his brain could stop him.

—Can't you sleep? — He asked, with a voice that tried to sound neutral and failed.

Satoru didn't turn around. But his shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he had been expecting company.

—The sea is rough. I have trouble sleeping when the sound changes.

Suguru sat beside him, leaving a prudent space. He looked at the sea. He couldn't tell if it was rougher than other days. He only saw darkness, a movement of shadows stretching to the horizon.

—Can you hear the difference in sound? — The question sounded stupider once spoken; in his mind, it had sounded better. It was obvious he could hear the difference; he had been living there for years.

But Satoru, instead, didn't mock; he just gave a soft smile.

—When the waves break harder and the interval between them is shorter, it means the wind has changed, that the tide is rising or falling depending on the day. The smell changes too. When there's a storm, the sea smells stronger, like iron.

—I hadn't thought of that.

He admitted. Obviously, he didn't live near the sea.

—Me neither... I didn't think about it until I started losing my sight.

Suguru didn't speak; he remained silent. He didn't know if it was uncomfortable; he didn't know whether to ask or not. What if Satoru took it badly?

—Don't pity me, hey. I could see colors and shapes before I lost my sight! Don't pity me...

That didn't sound like a complaint, but a request. It was a vulnerability disguised as irony, the silent plea of someone who refuses to be reduced to a medical diagnosis.

—I don't pity you — Suguru lied, although the word tasted like ash in his mouth. Actually, what he felt was something much heavier than pity: it was an admiration that made him feel small.

Satoru let out a short laugh, this time without a trace of his usual defensive arrogance.

—You lie terribly, Suguru. You sound like you're drafting a condolence note — Satoru stretched his legs, brushing the porch wood with his heel. — But I understand. The world is designed for people like me to be a footnote, a "poor thing" who needs their hand held. The Zenin don't see me; they see a legal impediment. You, at first, saw a form to fill out in a week.

Satoru turned his head toward him. Although his blue eyes remained fixed on an indefinite point, Suguru felt the impact of that electric gaze as if it were physical.

—I could see colors, shapes, the chaos of Tokyo... before the nerve decided to turn off. I know what's out there. But I don't want you to look at me and think about what I'm missing. I want you to look at what is there. What I've built here with Megumi. I'm not a "subject of care," Suguru. I'm a man who cares.

—Can I ask...?

The question got stuck in his throat, feeling as clumsy as a child about to break something valuable. The question felt impertinent, as if he shouldn't ask it.

—In the report, they must have told you... Well, inheritance, I suppose. The only one I'll have —. He joked. Suguru laughed involuntarily, but it was the most genuine laugh he'd had in years, a low, awkward laugh that was contagious, joined by the white-haired man's. — I was 19 when it started. It took me a long time to accept it —. He took a pause that the raven-haired man didn't want to interrupt, listening as his voice mingled with the sound of the waves.

—One day, I started seeing blurry in one eye. I thought it was fatigue. I was studying a lot back then, trying to prove I could handle everything. That my surname wasn't just money and connections. I went to the doctor, they ran tests, they said it was nothing —. Another pause, as if both were processing it simultaneously. — A month later, the other eye started. Six months later, I couldn't read anymore.

His voice was flat, not dramatic. As if he were reciting recipe ingredients.

—Yes... I read something —. He confessed with some awkwardness, as if he had done something wrong.

—You read my medical history. How detailed —. His voice now sounded between amused and flirtatious, making the dark-haired man laugh softly. — Do you know my blood type too? Because I don't even know it myself.

—B positive —. Suguru responded, in a playful tone, following that vulnerable and calm atmosphere that had developed between them.

—How scary. You're the type who memorizes files. Megumi was right when he said you were scary.

Suguru frowned. Now that he thought about it, he had never heard the child speak. —Megumi doesn't talk.

—Megumi talks to me. He doesn't talk to you yet because he doesn't trust you. But take my word for it, he told me you have the face of a serial killer.

—He says so. I believe him, because he can see you and I can't. So officially, in this house, you have the face of a serial killer.

—I don't have the face of a serial killer —. He defended himself, smiling involuntarily.

The atmosphere lightened; Suguru found himself feeling as if the world had finally slowed down a bit.

—Sorry —. Suguru said, returning to the previous topic carefully. — I didn't mean to be indelicate about the blood type.

—It's okay, I'd rather you ask than imagine. People imagine many things about what it's like not to see. That it's all dark, that it's like closing your eyes, that you get used to it or you don't. The answer is that it's not dark. It's... nothing. And no, you don't get used to it, but you learn.

—What's the hardest part?

Satoru tilted his head. The gesture was familiar now, that way of orienting his ear towards the voice.

—Do you want the honest answer or the one I usually give when the press asks?

—The honest one.

—Losing the colors — Satoru said, and his voice changed, becoming more intimate, more fragile. — People don't understand. They think the hardest part is not being able to see people's faces, or not being able to read, or not being able to drive... But for me, it was the blue.

Suguru felt something in his chest, a squeeze.

—I had very blue eyes. So blue that people would stare at me. My mother said they looked like they were from another world. And one day I stopped seeing them. I know they're still there; people tell me they're still blue, but I no longer see them, and I will never see my favorite color again.

He brought a hand to his face, brushing his own lashes with a gesture that seemed unconscious.

—Sometimes I dream in colors —. He continued, quieter. — They're the same dreams I had before, when I could see. The blue of the sea in winter, the green of the trees in spring, the red of the hibiscus flowers in my grandmother's garden. When I wake up, it takes me a few seconds to remember they're gone, and those seconds are the worst.

Suguru didn't know what to say. He had read about the disease, knew the loss was rapid, that many patients retained some peripheral vision, that Satoru probably still distinguished lights and shadows, although his file said "functional blindness." But reading it in a report was very different from hearing it like this, in the darkness, with the man's voice barely trembling as he spoke of colors he no longer saw.

—Why Megumi? — Suguru asked, changing the subject because he needed a break. Because if he kept listening, he was going to do something stupid, like touch his hand or say something he shouldn't.

Satoru seemed grateful for the change; his posture relaxed.

—What do you mean?

—He's not your son or your family. You had a life before this, I assume. Money, contacts, opportunities. You could have stayed in Tokyo, hired ten nurses, and continued being the Gojo heir without anyone questioning you. And you chose to come to a lost island, with a child who isn't yours.

He stopped, aware that he was about to say something insensitive.

—You were going to say "to live a limited life" —. Satoru said, and although he couldn't see him, Suguru knew he was smiling sadly. — It's okay. Everyone thinks it. Including me, at first. "How am I going to take care of a child if I can't see him?"

—I didn't say it.

—But you thought it.

—Yes —. He admitted in a whisper, low and painful. — I'm sorry —. He murmured, ashamed.

—Don't apologize. I'd rather you judge me to my face. People thinking things behind my back is much more annoying. At least you have the guts to sit here and ask.

Satoru leaned back, resting his hands on the porch wood.

—Megumi had no one. The Zenin didn't want him; they only wanted his bloodline. His mother died, his father disappeared, and in that family, a child without a protector is like a puppy in a dogfighting ring. Someone had to get him out of there. And I knew what it was like to lose something you couldn't get back. I knew what it was like for people to look at you with pity, or contempt, or that strange mix of both. I didn't want him to go through that alone.

—And why you? — Suguru insisted. — There were other options. Social services, foster families...

—You've seen them — Satoru said, and his voice was suddenly very sharp, very direct. — In your work, have you seen many foster families who truly care for children as they deserve?

Suguru didn't respond.

—I have — Satoru continued —. Because before I lost my sight, before all this happened, I also wanted to do something with my life that wasn't being the heir of a family that only sees people as assets. I studied social work for two years. Until I went blind and they told me that "maybe it wasn't the right path for someone with my condition."

—I didn't know.

—It's not in the file. It's one of those things I don't put on forms because then people get weird. "Oh, poor thing, he wanted to help children and couldn't." I'd rather they think I'm a bored rich guy who bought himself a child because he had nothing better to do.

Suguru thought that this man truly never lost his humor, but... that made him even more attractive, hypnotic, he'd say. But more than anything, because Satoru seemed to make him forget the bitterness of the world.

—No one thinks that.

—You thought something similar until three days ago.

Suguru couldn't deny it.

Satoru laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. It was a laugh that acknowledged something painful and let it be.

—I don't need you to evaluate me to know I can take care of him — he said, and his voice cracked just a millimeter, so little Suguru almost missed it —. What I need is for you not to take him away from me. Because if you take him away, if you give him back to that family that looks at him like an object, then all of this... leaving Tokyo, leaving my name behind, learning to cook with my hands shaking because I didn't know if I'd cut myself, spending nights like this listening to the sea so I wouldn't think about how I can't see him anymore... it would have all been for nothing.

He brought a hand to his hair, running it through with a tired gesture.

—And I can't allow it to have been for nothing. Because if it was for nothing, then I'm just a blind man who tried to do something he couldn't. And that — his voice became very low, almost a whisper — is what scares me most. Not the report. Not the Zenin. That they might be right.

Suguru felt the confession like a punch to the sternum.

It wasn't the first time someone had said something like that to him. In his work, he had heard desperate parents, scared children, guardians on the verge of collapse. But this was different. Because Satoru wasn't asking for pity. He wasn't acting. He was telling the truth with a nakedness that hurt just to hear.

And Suguru, who had spent months protecting himself behind reports and objectivity and a cynicism he had mistaken for maturity, found himself without armor.

—I'm not going to take Megumi away from you — he said, and although it wasn't true — because it wasn't his decision, because the report was only a recommendation, because the Zenin were pressuring and he was no one — at that moment, it felt like a promise.

Satoru turned towards him. For the first time in four days, his eyes aligned almost exactly with Suguru's. Not completely. They were still off by a few degrees, aiming at his chin rather than his eyes. But it was the closest he had been.

And in that twilight, with the moonlight filtering through the clouds, Suguru could see them up close. Those blue eyes Satoru had described as "from another world." They were crystalline, almost translucent, with a shade that didn't seem real. And they were empty. Not in the sense that they didn't feel, but in the sense that the signal didn't reach, that behind that extraordinary beauty there was a darkness Satoru carried with him every day that no one saw because his eyes were still blue.

The blue, thought Suguru. He lost the blue.

—That — Satoru said, with a small, sad, real smile — is what everyone says before they leave.

And he stood up.

But before turning away, he hesitated. One second. Just one.

—Your eyes — Satoru said, and his voice was strange, as if he were searching for something in the darkness. — They're dark, aren't they? The first time we spoke, I heard you turn your head and knew you were looking at me. People who look at me for the first time usually fall silent. You did too. Was it because of my eyes?

Suguru swallowed.

—Yes.

—Are they very blue?

—They are the bluest eyes I have ever seen in my life —. He wanted to say blue like the sea, but the words died in his mouth, and he blushed. He felt it would be too much to compare them to nature, though it wasn't a lie.

Satoru gave a smile that didn't reach anywhere. A grimace of something that could have been pain or gratitude, or a mixture of both.

—Lucky you — he said —. At least someone can see them.

And he left.

Suguru was left alone on the porch, with the sea churning below, Satoru's blue eyes etched in his memory, and a knot in his chest he didn't know how to undo.

"I lost the blue."

He closed his eyes and saw the color. And understood, for the first time, that there was nothing romantic about losing something you love. Just an emptiness that others can't fill because they don't even know it's there.

I'm not going to be like everyone else, he thought.

And he knew, with a certainty he couldn't justify or explain, that he was willing to take a risk again. Even if it cost him his job. Because when he decided to study, he always thought about helping others.

It was on the fifth day that something felt strange at dawn. A bitter sensation he couldn't quite describe, but he wanted to ignore. Maybe it was because of everything that had happened; in such a short time knowing Satoru, his perspective on life, on others... had changed.

The sky dawned clear, and a cold wind from the north was the first thing he noticed when he went out to the garden to stretch his legs before breakfast. The air smelled different, drier, and the waves were breaking with a contained violence he hadn't seen the previous days. The cats, who usually stretched lazily on the rooftops, had taken shelter on the porches, ears down and eyes narrowed.

He should have taken it as an omen.

But he was distracted. He had spent days unable to write a single line of the report that didn't sound like a passionate defense rather than an objective evaluation. Every time he picked up the pen, he remembered Satoru's voice talking about losing the blue. Then the only thing he wanted to write was that Satoru's eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen in his life, and that they deserved to be seen by someone who could appreciate them, and damn it, how he longed to be that person.

But that was so unprofessional, and he had to be professional, or at least try.

But the pen didn't move.

He heard the boat before he saw it. The engine was more powerful than that of the small ferry that made the daily route between the island and the mainland. It was a deep, profound sound, the kind that announces something big. Suguru climbed the path that bordered the hills to a point where he could see the whole port, and there it was: a private boat, white, impeccable, docking at the small pier with the elegance of a knife cutting silk.

Two figures shattered the peace of the dock.

Suguru recognized the cut of the suits before the faces: that uniformity of clans where the silk of the jackets and the shine of the shoes are the first line of battle. It was the luxury only flaunted by those accustomed to dictating the law, not obeying it.

At the front walked a man with gray hair and features sharp as a scalpel. He was followed by a lawyer with a robotic gaze and a black leather briefcase. They were the Zenin.

On paper, the custody review was a preliminary procedure. In reality, families with that level of influence don't wait for legal deadlines; they incinerate them.

Suguru descended the hill at a quick pace, his heart hammering against his ribs. The fear wasn't for himself, but for what would happen if those men cornered Satoru without witnesses.

He arrived just as the older man's fist was about to strike the wood of the villa.

—Mr. Naoki — Suguru intervened. His voice, though forced into neutrality, cut the air with the tension of a wire about to snap.

Naoki Zenin turned slowly. His black eyes didn't look at Suguru; they appraised him, seeking the exact price of his integrity. He was the child's great-uncle, the architect of the custody petition, and the man who saw a six-year-old child as a mere lineage transaction.

—Geto — Naoki pronounced. His voice carried that icy disdain Suguru knew from the corridors of the prosecutor's office. — We were informed that you were the assigned executioner. What a fortuitous coincidence to find you here.

—I am lodging here during the observation period — Suguru cut in.

Naoki arched an eyebrow. A millimeter of disdain.

—Lodging? How... irregular. It's not common for an evaluator to share a roof with the evaluatee.

—The island is small. Options are nonexistent — Suguru responded, holding his gaze. — Circumstances require it.

The silence that followed was charged with unspoken suspicions. The lawyer, behind Naoki, assessed Suguru with the precision of someone looking for a crack in a wall.

—I have come to see my great-nephew — Naoki stated. The emphasis on possession made Suguru clench his jaw. — And to confront the guardian. It is my legal right.

—You have the right to request a visit, not to barge in — Suguru retorted, not moving an inch from the threshold.

—I am not barging in. I am knocking on a door. Does the law prohibit a family member from visiting a minor?

Suguru remained silent. Naoki knew the rules: without a restraining order, the villa was open territory for his lineage.

Before the tension could explode, the wood gave way.

Satoru appeared in the doorway. He wore a white shirt, improperly formal, his hair tied back with a black ribbon, exposing the paleness of his nape. His eyes, that electric blue that defied logic, pointed towards the source of the noise. Suguru noticed the nuance: his ear guided his gaze, seeking the center of the threat.

—What a racket — Satoru drawled. His voice regained that singsong tone, the mask of arrogance he used to shield himself. — Looks like a royal entourage. I hope it's not the Queen of England; I don't have any raspberry cake, and I detest offended visitors.

Naoki's gaze ran over him. It was the look of a butcher deciding where to start cutting.

—Gojo — he pronounced with a coldness that withered the atmosphere. — I see you maintain your... particular cheerfulness.

—And you maintain your rigidity. You should laugh more, Mr. Naoki. They say it softens wrinkles.

—I didn't cross the sea to talk about aesthetics.

—I figured. With that suit, you only come to talk about assets, inheritances, or things that bore normal humans to death.

Satoru leaned against the frame with studied languor, but Suguru didn't miss a detail: his fingers dug into the old wood until his knuckles turned white. The facade was steel, but the support trembled.

—Where is Megumi? — Naoki spat, eliminating any trace of courtesy.

—He's at school — Satoru cut in. — If you had given notice, I would have prepared tea. Since you didn't, you'll stay on the doorstep.

—I seek not hospitality, but answers — Naoki retorted.

The lawyer stepped forward. The metallic click of his briefcase sounded like the cocking of a gun.

—Mr. Gojo, I represent the interests of the Zenin family in the custody review of the minor, Megumi Fushiguro. I have here the official notification that...

—Spare me the sealed paper — Satoru interrupted. His voice lost its mocking tone. — I know you've come to snatch him away.

—It is not theft, it is restitution — Naoki interjected, sharpening his tone. — Gojo, you are nothing to that child. Not father, not blood. You are a stranger who appropriated a lineage that does not belong to you.

Suguru felt the air thicken. His fists clenched instinctively.

—Megumi was in a foster care center — Satoru released. There was an electric tremor in his words. — You abandoned him. Two years of absolute silence.

—Internal family matters that do not concern you.

—Megumi is my only concern — Satoru roared, abandoning all pretense. — From the moment I signed that guardianship, I am his wall. That's what it means to be a guardian.

Naoki's gaze traveled over him with insulting slowness, stopping at the eyes that couldn't meet his.

—Taking charge? — Naoki spat the words. — You? A man who cannot see if the child falls, if he bleeds, if he has a fever.

—He's been alive, healthy, and without nightmares under my roof for two years — Satoru retorted, straightening his back. — Can you say the same for the children your family raises?

Naoki reddened. The subtle darkening of his features was the prelude to cruelty.

—Do not compare Zenin discipline with...

—Are we talking about your "discipline"? — Satoru stepped forward. His voice dropped to a dangerous register, almost a deadly whisper. — Are we talking about the children who disappear from your records or the complaints your money archives? Do you want to discuss that here, in front of the prosecutor's office evaluator?

The silence was absolute. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath. Naoki looked at him with an ancestral darkness, that of one who believes the surname is above decency.

—You — Naoki stated — are an arrogant blind man who confuses possession with right. The law is not sentimental, Gojo. A man without sight is not fit. It is a fact. And your report, Geto... — he turned towards Suguru with an icy smile — will be objective, won't it? It would be a shame if the twins' file were reopened due to a "misjudgment" in this case.

Suguru's blood ran cold. They knew. Every detail.

—Don't threaten me — Suguru released. His voice vibrated with a contained fury that surpassed his professional mask.

—It's a reminder of how the world works, Geto. Do your job. Evaluate this individual's incapacity... or face the consequences.

—Or what? — Satoru intervened. He was no longer leaning against the door; he was a taut string about to snap. — Are you going to buy the judge or make me disappear? That's the Zenin style, isn't it? If the law doesn't serve, money commands. And if money fails...

—Gojo, enough — Naoki warned.

—I won't shut up! — Satoru vibrated with rage. His blue eyes shone with an intensity terrifying for someone who couldn't see. — I was the one who got him out of the foster care center. I learned to dress him, to cook, to know his sadness without having to see his face. What did you do? Wait for him to grow up to claim him like a valuable object?

Naoki didn't respond. His gaze held the lethal patience of a predator who knows the trap is ready.

—We will finish this in court — Naoki stated, turning away. — Tanaka, we're leaving. We've seen enough.

—You only know how to spit threats and flee — Satoru released. His voice vibrated with a remnant of adrenaline that was starting to turn bitter.

Naoki stopped short. Suguru braced for the impact of a final cruelty, that finishing stroke that leaves the wound wide open. The man didn't turn around, but his voice, laden with icy authority, covered the porch.

—Megumi deserves lineage, not a guardian who can barely fend for himself. We will present evidence of your incapacity, and the law will do the rest. And you, Geto... — this time he did sink his black eyes into the raven-haired man's — remember the price of your report. It's not just your career at stake; it's the fate of a child who shouldn't be with a stranger who can't even see his face.

They left.

The boat's engine roared, a violent sound that profaned the calm of the cove until the vessel was nothing but a white speck disappearing on the horizon.

When Suguru turned around, the doorway was deserted.

The door had closed without a sound. Inside, the silence was absolute, dense, almost solid.

Suguru raised his hand to knock, words burning his throat, but he stopped. What do you say to a man who has just been torn apart by the same arguments you yourself had used in your mind days ago? "It's not enough," "he can't," "he's not fit."

They were the system's labels. The labels of his own cynicism.

He lowered his hand. His fingers trembled.

And he stood there, waiting for the sea or the silence to give him an answer he didn't have.

The impact wasn't immediate; it was a slow erosion.

Satoru didn't cross the threshold again that entire afternoon. Suguru remained anchored to the porch, besieged by an emptiness he didn't know how to fill. He saw Megumi return from school and heard the child's "I'm here," a flat phrase the front door swallowed as it closed again.

There was no radio. No dinner. Only a silence that weighed more than any court sentence.

Suguru let the night cover him without moving. He tried to knock a couple of times, but the muteness of the house was an insurmountable wall. He didn't sleep. In the darkness, the ghosts of the twins returned, mingling with Naoki Zenin's voice spitting out the word "incapacity" as if it were a definitive verdict. He remembered Satoru's blue — beautiful, electric, and broken — and the cruelty of calling him "a stranger who can't even see him."

At two in the morning, the paralysis broke.

He entered the house like an intruder. As he passed Satoru's room, the silence fractured. It wasn't breathing; it was a muffled sob, the crying of someone straining not to exist for others.

Suguru stood still, his hand suspended in the air.

He didn't knock. He didn't have the right or the medicine for that kind of wound. Entering would have been a profanation of Satoru's last remaining dignity.

But passivity was no longer an option.

He returned to his room, took the pen, and opened Megumi Fushiguro's folder. The paper, until then an enemy, became his only weapon.

And he began to write.

There was no sleep that night, but no fatigue either.

Unlike the gray insomnia of Tokyo, this vigil brought a cutting clarity. Suguru wrote with a steady hand, transforming every doubt into a decision and every risk into a shield for Satoru.

"Environmental Evaluation Report: Living Conditions of Minor Megumi Fushiguro and his Legal Guardian, Satoru Gojo. On-site Observation, Ainoshima."

His fingers flew over the paper, translating the "choreography" of the villa into technical evidence. He described the tactile orientation system, the textures that served as a map, and Satoru's absolute autonomy. He recounted the discipline of breakfast, the ritual of Braille stories, and that invisible connection that allowed Satoru to detect fever or sadness without needing to see.

"The minor displays a secure attachment and emotional stability that manifests solely with his guardian. It has been verified that Megumi Fushiguro's verbal development is intrinsically linked to the figure of Satoru Gojo."

Then, Suguru crossed the point of no return.

He opened the drawer of secrets the prosecutor's office preferred to ignore. He listed the Zenin clan's complaints for mistreatment that ended in dead ends, and the names of children from secondary branches who vanished from censuses as if they had never been born. It wasn't an emotional accusation; it was a legal autopsy of negligence.

"It is a legal contradiction to intend to hand over a minor to a lineage with a documented history of abuse, under the pretext of a visual disability that, in practice, does not constitute any risk factor."

He signed. Sealed. It was five in the morning, and he had just incinerated his career for the second time.

He went out into the hallway with the report like someone carrying a loaded weapon. Passing Megumi's room, he saw the child sleeping with the orange cat guarding his feet. But when he reached Satoru's room, the silence changed its nature.

It wasn't the heavy air of someone deep in sleep; it was the emptiness of an unoccupied space.

Suguru placed his hand on the wood, straining his ear. Nothing. Only the distant echo of the sea.

He pushed the door open with an icy premonition in his veins.

The bed was made. The sheets cold. The room smelled of sea and the soft cologne Satoru used in the mornings, but there was no one. Suguru felt a knot in his stomach.

He searched the kitchen, the living room, the garden. Nothing.

The back porch was empty, but the door was open, and the stone path leading down to the beach was damp, as if someone had walked it recently.

He went out. The sky was beginning to lighten, but gray clouds covered everything, and the air smelled of imminent rain. The wind was cold and cutting. The raven-haired man descended the path that wound between the rocks to the small cove behind the house. The tide was low, the sand exposed, dry algae forming irregular circles on the shore.

And there was Satoru.

Standing, facing the sea, barefoot on the damp sand. He wore only the gray sweatshirt and pajama pants, his white hair moving in the wind in a way that reminded Suguru of dandelion seeds when the wind blows, so light, as if he could dissolve at any moment.

He wasn't crying, at least not when Suguru reached his side. But when he got close enough to see his face in profile, he saw wet cheeks, his blue eyes fixed on the horizon he couldn't see, but... he seemed to be communicating with the sea. His lips were pressed together with such force that his jaw trembled.

—Satoru —. Suguru whispered. Satoru didn't turn around, but his body tensed as if he had been waiting and at the same time wished not to be found.

—Go away —. He whispered. His voice was hoarse, broken, nothing like the loud, sarcastic man, the man who always had something clever to say. — Just go, Geto. You've done your evaluation, you've seen what you wanted to see. Go back to Tokyo and write your report. You know what you'll say. They're right. They're always right.

The last part sounded with a broken voice, with tears caught in a knot.

—I'm not going to say that —. He responded firmly.

—Well, you should! — Satoru turned suddenly, and the movement was so abrupt he lost his balance, his bare feet sinking into the wet sand, his arms opening to stabilize himself. And then, for the first time, Suguru saw him falter. For the first time, he saw him, not as the man who had turned his limitation into a choreography, but as someone about to fall. — Didn't you see them? Didn't you see them come here with their expensive suits and lawyer words? "A blind man can't take care of a child"; "Megumi deserves a real family"; "You're nobody to him"! And they're right! Everything they said... everything they said is true.

—Of course it's not! —. His voice also trembled, sounded brittle... but that didn't matter anymore, because he knew what he felt.

—I'm a goddamn blind man! — Satoru shouted, and his voice broke on the last syllable. The tears he had been holding back began to fall uncontrollably, tracing furrows down his pale cheeks, falling onto the gray sweatshirt. — That's what I am. That's what I'm always going to be. I can't see his face when he laughs. I can't see if he gets hurt when he plays. I can't see anything. Nothing. And they're right. I shouldn't have him. They're going to take him away. And I won't be able to do anything because I'm a—

—Stop.

Suguru's voice cut through the air like a knife. It wasn't cold or professional. It was an order, yes, but one born from something deeper.

Satoru stopped. His lips trembled. His blue eyes, empty, dazzling, pointed to some point to Suguru's left, lost, not knowing where to place the pain they held inside.

—I'm not going to let them take Megumi from you — Suguru said. And he took a step towards him.

—You can't promise that — Satoru responded in a thin voice. — It's not your decision. You're nobody. They have money, they have power, they have the law on their side because the law is always on the side of those who can pay for it. And I'm just a blind man on an island of cats.

—I'm the one who wrote the report.

Satoru blinked. The tears continued to fall, but his expression changed; something on his face recomposed slightly.

—What did you write?

Suguru took another step. They were close now, an arm's length away. The wind was blowing strong, bringing the smell of salt and rain that hadn't yet arrived.

—I wrote the truth. That your house is adapted. That Megumi eats, sleeps, smiles, trusts you. That the neighbors respect you. That the Zenin have a history of abuse and neglect that would make any judge with half a brain grant you permanent custody, even if you were in a coma.

Satoru opened his mouth, then closed it.

—I sent a copy to the public prosecutor's office — Suguru continued, his voice softer now, closer. — And another to the press. If the Zenin try anything, the whole country will know what they do with their children. They won't touch Megumi... Or you.

Satoru's legs seemed to buckle.

He didn't fall. But he staggered, and before he could think about what he was doing, Suguru already had his hands on his shoulders, steadying him, holding him. The sweatshirt fabric was damp from the fine drizzle that had started to fall, and beneath it, he could feel Satoru's bones, too prominent, as if behind that noisy and arrogant facade there was someone who had also gone months without sleep, without eating well, without stopping being afraid.

The rain started to fall for real. It wasn't heavy, but it was persistent, that fine rain that soaks without warning. Suguru felt the drops on his nape, on his shoulders, on his hands that still held Satoru.

And then Satoru broke.

It wasn't a sob. It was something more wrenching, a sound that came from his chest as if it had been locked inside for years, pressed against his ribs, waiting for a moment alone to be released. His hands clung to Suguru's shirt, his knuckles white, his fingers trembling, and his forehead collided with Suguru's shoulder with a dull thud that must have hurt.

—I can't lose him — he whispered, his voice so small it was barely audible over the rain and sea. — He's all I have. He's all that...

—You're not going to lose him.

—You don't know that. You don't know what the Zenin are like. You don't know what they can do. They're going to destroy you too, don't you understand? For helping me, for writing that report, they're going to...

—Let them try.

—You don't understand! — Satoru lifted his face, his expression a mix of fury and desperation, of something that wanted to push away and hold on at the same time. — You can't do this. You can't come here, stay a week, write a report that will cost you your career, and then... and then...

—And then what?

—And then you leave — Satoru said, his voice breaking again. — You leave and leave me here. With this. With having believed that someone... that someone...

He didn't finish the sentence. But Suguru understood it anyway.

With one hand, still holding him with the other arm, he took off the jacket he had over his shoulders and draped it over Satoru's back. The fabric was thick, waterproof, and the rain began to slide off the surface instead of soaking the gray sweatshirt. Then, with his fingers, he began to undo the knot that had formed in Satoru's white hair — he didn't know when it had tangled, but the wet strands clung to his temples, his cheeks — and separated them carefully, brushing them away from his face.

Satoru looked up. He was shattered. There was no trace of the sarcastic, noisy man, the one who made jokes about Suguru's serial killer face, the one who laughed loudly at the port with the fishermen. There was only someone who had been holding a mask for too long and, at that moment, had no strength left to continue.

—Don't look at me — Satoru murmured between hiccups, his tone ashamed, timid. — I don't want you to see me like this.

—I see you — Suguru said. And he didn't look away.

Satoru's hands still clutched his shirt, as if letting go meant sinking. Suguru didn't try to pry himself free. On the contrary. One of his hands stopped brushing aside hair and slid to Satoru's nape, his fingers finding the cold skin under the wet strands, and stayed there. Without pressure. Without demand. Just present.

—You're cruel — Satoru whispered, and it was hard to tell if it was a complaint or a lament. — You come here, stay a week, watch me fall apart, risk your career for me, and then you leave. And I'm left with this. With someone having seen me like this. With someone having seen that I'm not as strong as I pretend.

—I'm not going to leave.

Satoru let out a choked, wet laugh that was lost in the rain.

—Of course you'll leave. Everyone leaves. That's what people do. They come, they stay a while, and then they realize this — he gestured vaguely, encompassing the island, the house, his own eyes — is too much. Too much work, too much trouble, and they leave... Like the Zenin, like my family, like everyone.

—I'm not going to leave.

—Leave me alone, Geto! — He tried to break free, but his arms didn't respond, or maybe they didn't want to respond, because they still clung to Suguru's shirt as if it were the only solid thing in a world that had become liquid. — Don't make promises you can't keep. Don't make me believe that...

—I'm not making you believe anything.

Suguru tightened the arm around his shoulders. Not violently, but with a firmness that said I'm here without needing words. The hand on Satoru's nape began to move in a slow, steady rhythm, the same rhythm as the waves when the sea was calm.

—I'm scared too — Suguru confessed, his voice coming out lower than intended, more honest. — Of risking again. Of being punished again. Of everything I do being for nothing. I've spent months feeling empty, like I don't care about anything, like I can't feel empathy for anyone anymore.

Satoru lifted his head. His blue eyes, bright with tears and rain, now pointed almost towards Suguru's face. They didn't see him, but they were searching.

—And then the Zenin arrived — Suguru continued, his voice not trembling, but seeming made of something fragile, something he didn't usually say aloud. — And I saw them. And I saw how they looked at you. As if you were worthless, as if everything you've done doesn't matter because there's something you can't do. And I realized I had looked at you the same way the first day.

Satoru opened his mouth to say something, but Suguru didn't let him.

—I arrived here thinking you couldn't do it. Thinking a blind man couldn't take care of a child. And I spent four days watching how you cook, how you clean, how you take care of Megumi, how the neighbors respect you, how that child who doesn't talk to anyone sleeps with his hand on your shoulder because he knows he's safe there. And all that time, I kept thinking you couldn't do it. Because I had a prejudice so big I didn't even see what was in front of me.

—No...

—Let me finish.

Satoru fell silent. His fingers still clung to Suguru's shirt, but his breathing was calming, slightly.

—You're not a "goddamn blind man" — Suguru said, his words falling on the rain like stones. — You're a man who has built an entire life around what he lost. Who has learned to do things sighted people don't know how to do. Who has given a child more love and security than any blood family ever has. And if the Zenin think they can come here, humiliate you, make you feel worthless, and take Megumi away... they're wrong. Because I'm not going to let that happen.

Satoru's hand tightened on his shirt again.

—Why? — he asked, his voice barely a whisper. — Why are you doing this? You don't know me. You don't owe me anything. You're risking your career, your future, for a man you just met. Why?

Suguru was silent for a moment. The rain pounded his back, soaking him, but he didn't care. He felt Satoru's weight against his chest, the trembling of his shoulders, the smell of salt and cologne beginning to dilute with the water.

—Because since I arrived here — he said finally — I've started feeling something I thought I had lost.

—What?

—I don't know — he admitted. — Empathy, hope. The desire to do something more than just fulfill my job. The desire to... stay.

Satoru lifted his head. His blue eyes, clouded by tears and rain, searched for Suguru's voice with an intensity that hurt.

—Don't say things you don't feel.

—I feel them.

—You can't stay. You have your life in Tokyo. Your job. Your...

—My job sent me here as punishment. My life in Tokyo is an empty desk and an apartment where I don't turn on the lights because I don't care to see anything. That's not a life.

—And this — Satoru let out a choked, bitter laugh — is this a life? A lost island, a child who isn't mine, cats in the garden, and a sea I can never see. This isn't...

—This is the only thing that has made me feel anything in months.

The silence that followed was so intense the rain seemed to stop. Satoru blinked once, twice, and his wet lashes sent droplets falling onto Suguru's hands.

—I don't believe you — he said, but his voice trembled.

—I'm not asking you to believe me.

—Then what are you asking me for?

Suguru didn't answer with words.

Instead, he closed his arms. He encircled Satoru's shoulders with a firmness that wasn't possessive, wasn't demanding. It was a containment hug, the kind that says I'm not letting you go, I won't let you fall. Satoru was trapped between his arms and his chest, his forehead resting on Suguru's shoulder, his breath ragged.

—I'm not asking you for anything — Suguru said against his wet hair. — Only that you stop saying you're worthless. Only that you stop believing what they say. Only that... you let someone help you for once.

Satoru trembled. His whole body trembled, as if the cold and the fear and the fatigue of years had concentrated in that moment to come out at once. And Suguru held him. With firm arms, with the hand that began to stroke his wet hair in a slow, steady rhythm.

—I don't know how to do this — Satoru murmured against his shoulder. — I don't know how to let someone help me.

—Me neither.

—So we're both lost.

—Maybe.

—It's stupid.

—It is.

—Staying here, in the rain, hugging a blind man who just had a crisis because some old guys in suits told him he was worthless. It's ridiculous.

—I know.

—And still, you don't let go.

—No.

—Why?

Suguru closed his eyes. He felt Satoru's weight in his arms, the warmth of his body despite the rain, the way his breathing was starting to synchronize with his own.

—Because I don't want to.

Satoru fell silent. And for the first time all night, his body stopped trembling. His hands, which had been clinging to Suguru's shirt desperately, relaxed. One of them slid to his arm, fingers brushing the soaked fabric, and stayed there.

It wasn't a lover's embrace. It wasn't a romantic gesture. It was something simpler and deeper: a man holding another who was falling apart, and the other letting himself be held because he could no longer hold himself up alone.

—Megumi — Satoru said suddenly, lifting his head. — What if he wakes up and we're not there?

—He's sleeping. The cat is with him. If he wakes up, he'll hear us.

—How do you know?

—Because I've been in this house for five days. I know how every board creaks.

Satoru let out a small, wet, but real laugh.

—You've learned the creaks of my house.

—I'm very observant.

—For someone who arrived thinking I was incompetent, you've made an effort.

Suguru felt a warmth in his cheeks that had nothing to do with a fever.

—I didn't think you were incompetent.

—Yes, you did. The first day, it showed in your voice. That tone of "poor thing, how is he going to manage this." I know it well. Too well.

—Not anymore.

—Not anymore?

—Not anymore.

Satoru tilted his head, resting it against Suguru's shoulder with a gesture that seemed tired, but also trusting. The rain continued to fall, but Suguru's jacket covered them both, and under the waterproof fabric, the world had become small and warm.

—Are you going to stay? — Satoru asked, his voice so low Suguru almost didn't hear it. — When all this is over. When the Zenin give up. When the report is filed. Are you going to stay?

Suguru didn't answer immediately. He let the question float in the air, mixed with the smell of rain and sea.

—I have to go back to Tokyo — he said finally. — Close the apartment. Pack my things. Sort things out with the prosecutor's office.

Satoru nodded against his shoulder.

—But afterwards — Suguru continued — afterwards, I can come back. If you let me.

—And what will you do here? There's no prosecutor's office. No cases. Nothing a social worker can do on an island of two hundred inhabitants.

—I don't know — Suguru admitted. — But five days ago, I didn't know you could live like this. And now, I don't know how to go back to living any other way.

Satoru lifted his head. His blue eyes searched for Suguru's voice, and for a moment, for a fleeting instant, Suguru had the impression he could see him. Not with his eyes, but with something else. With that way people who have lost one sense sharpen all the others, reading in pauses, in silences, in the way someone breathes.

—You're an idiot — Satoru said.

—I know.

—A romantic idiot who risks his career for a blind man on an island of cats.

—I know that too.

—And you say you're not asking me for anything, but you're asking me to wait for you to come back.

—No. I'm asking you to let me come back.

The rain was beginning to ease. The sky was clearing to the east, and through the gray clouds, a soft, golden light filtered, illuminating the cove with a gentle glow.

Satoru pulled back slightly, just enough for Suguru to see his face. He was disheveled, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks marked by tears, his sweatshirt soaked despite the jacket. And still, still, Suguru thought he was the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his life.

—The karinto candies — Satoru said suddenly.

—What?

—Next time you come, bring karinto candies. My favorite. Crunchy on the outside, sweet on the inside. If you come without them, I won't let you in.

Suguru smiled. A small, tired, but real smile.

—Deal.

Satoru nodded. And then, without warning, he rested his forehead against Suguru's chest, right over his heart, and closed his eyes.

—I'm very tired — he murmured.

—I know.

—I don't want to go back inside. I don't want to hear the silence. I don't want to think about what's going to happen.

—Then don't think.

—What do I do?

—Breathe.

Satoru inhaled. Slow. Deep. The air entered his lungs with a tremulous sound, and left in a sigh that seemed to carry away part of the weight he had been carrying all night.

—Again — Suguru said.

Satoru inhaled again. And again. And again.

The rain stopped. The sun was beginning to peek through the clouds, and the cove filled with a golden light that made the wet sand, the dry seaweed, and Satoru's white hair shine. He now rested against Suguru's chest with his eyes closed, his breathing calm, his fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt.

Suguru didn't move.

He stayed there, on the beach, his arms around Satoru, the sun warming their backs, the sea sounding in the distance with a steady rhythm. And for the first time in months, he didn't feel empty.

He felt something like peace.

And also, if he was honest with himself, something he didn't yet dare to name.

—Geto? — Satoru said after a long while, his voice drowsy.

—Yes?

—Did you really send a copy to the press?

—Yes.

—And to the public prosecutor's office?

—Yes.

—What if they fire you?

—Then I'll have to find another job.

—What kind of job can an ex-social worker do on an island of two hundred inhabitants?

—I don't know. But Mrs. Tanaka told me the fisherman needs help with accounting. And the ferry is looking for someone to keep records. And I can always learn to fish.

Satoru let out a soft, sleepy laugh.

—Fishing. In a suit and tie.

—I'll buy island clothes.

—You'll look ridiculous in anything other than a suit.

—Hey!

—Yeah. But don't worry. No one will judge you here. Only the cats. And cats judge you no matter what you do, so it doesn't matter.

Suguru smiled. He looked towards the house, towards Megumi's window. The child was awake; he knew by the small face peeking between the curtains, watching the beach with the orange cat in his arms. He didn't look scared. Just observing, with that silent intensity that characterized him.

—Megumi is watching us — Suguru said.

Satoru didn't move.

—Let him watch. It's good for him to know that there are people who stay.

And so they remained, on the beach, under the sun that was beginning to dry their soaked clothes, with the cats coming down one by one to investigate what those two humans were doing hugging in the sand.

Satoru was right about one thing: the cats judged. But also, Suguru thought as the fat orange one approached to rub against his wet leg, sometimes they stayed.

Two weeks passed. Fourteen days since Suguru's report detonated in the prosecutor's office and in newspaper newsrooms. The media pressure on the Zenin's history was so suffocating that the clan, in a damage control move, withdrew the custody petition "for the well-being of the minor." A technical, silent, bitter victory.

The prosecutor's office didn't fire him — the scandal of an improper dismissal after an ethical leak would be worse — but they sentenced him to ostracism.

—You've been assigned to the Remote Document Review Unit — Yaga explained over the phone, his voice carrying the weight of years. — It's an archive position, Suguru. You'll be out of the courts, out of the Tokyo corridors, and above all, out of sight of the Zenin.

—An administrative exile — Suguru concluded, looking at the sea of Ainoshima from the window.

—A desk job. You can process case reviews from anywhere with access to the ministry network. They don't want you here, but they can't let you go either. Take the accumulated vacation month you have. Afterwards... if you decide to stay on that island, the internal management system allows remote work. It's an invisible, desk job. A silk punishment.

Suguru watched the cats sleeping on the tiles of the neighboring villa. In the kitchen, he heard the rhythmic thump of the knife on the cutting board and Satoru humming a melody that was already becoming familiar.

—I'm staying — Suguru said.

—I know — his boss replied before hanging up.

Suguru went down to the kitchen. The aroma of dashi and fried tofu filled the air. Satoru handled the pan with that choreographic precision that no longer surprised him, while Megumi, sitting at the table, watched the steam with a calm he hadn't had two weeks ago. The child no longer looked for Satoru's back to hide behind when Suguru entered; now, he simply followed him with those green eyes, evaluating his place in the house.

—I've been reassigned to document review — Suguru announced, leaning against the doorframe.

Satoru didn't turn around, but the movement of his hand over the fire slowed.

—Review? Sounds like they've sent you to the thinking corner.

—It means I can work from here. Process files via the network. I don't have to go back to Tokyo. If... if I find a place on the island to settle.

Satoru let out a short laugh, turning his head slightly to orient his ear towards him.

—Ainoshima doesn't have real estate agencies, Suguru. And this villa is too big for a blind man and a child who barely talks. There's a room next to mine; Megumi says it has a good view of the cliff. I only know it's cool in the summer.

Suguru felt a flutter in his chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the island's climate.

—Are you offering me a room, Satoru? — he asked, his voice losing its professional varnish.

Satoru smiled that real, sarcasm-free smile he reserved only for moments on the beach.

—I'm offering you to stop being a guest. Besides, someone has to bring the karinto candies from the port every week.

Suguru laughed, his eyes crinkling subtly.

Megumi watched them with those green eyes, shifting his gaze from one to the other with an intensity Suguru had learned to recognize. It was his way of evaluating, of deciding if what he was seeing was a threat or not.

—Are you going to stay? — Megumi's question came out with a voice between flat and a silent reproach from someone who didn't want to share his guardian.

—If you don't mind —. Suguru responded with some shyness, crouching down to Megumi's level. — They've offered me a job I can do from here, and I'd like to... be close. If you want, it's not a problem.

—I don't want you to.

—Megumi! —. Satoru exclaimed.

His voice wasn't a thunderclap, but rather an exasperated sigh charged with that warmth he only used with the child. It had that tone of feigned scolding, that of a father trying to sound severe but ending up betraying himself with a smile hidden at the corners of his lips. It was a soft warning, as if reminding Megumi that, although he was the center of his world, it was time to let someone else into the map.

—Don't be so hard on the guest, Gumi — he added, regaining that singsong, noisy nuance to break the tension. — Look, he's promised to bring sweets from the capital. If you kick him out now, we'll be left without sugar, and that really would be a legal tragedy, don't you think?

Satoru reached a hand back, finding the child's tousled hair with infallible aim, ruffling it with an affection that said much more than any reprimand.

—But we barely know him, and he already wants to come live with us —. He pouted. But Suguru couldn't blame him; he understood.

Satoru hummed, slowly stroking the child's tousled hair.

—Little Gumi, don't be rude.

—I'm not being rude. It's true. We don't know anything about him; he arrived a couple of weeks ago, stayed in our house, and now he wants to live here.

Suguru remained crouched, observing the child. Megumi was right: his decision was, by any rational lens, madness. But the child wasn't seeking logic; he was marking his territory.

—Megumi — Suguru murmured softly. — Does it bother you that I stay?

The little one pressed his lips together, holding the sauce bowl so tightly his knuckles paled.

—Satoru is mine — he finally released.

It was a whisper barely audible over the sizzle of the tofu, but it hit with the force of a sentence. The silence in the kitchen became absolute; even the oil seemed to stop bubbling.

Satoru froze. His face, oriented towards the child's voice, softened with a mix of surprise and a tenderness that broke his expression.

—Gumi — Satoru said, his voice sweeter than Suguru thought possible. — Of course I'm yours. That's not going to change just because someone else comes through that door.

—If he stays, you'll be with him. And I'll be alone.

—You will never be alone — Satoru replied firmly. — You'll be with me. And if you don't want Suguru to live here, he'll find another place on the island. You are my family; you decide.

Suguru felt a chill. It wasn't courtesy; it was Satoru's absolute truth: Megumi came first, always.

The child evaluated Suguru with his green eyes, measuring the adult's sincerity.

—I'm not going to take your place, Megumi — Suguru intervened calmly. — Nor will I come between you. If at any time you feel my presence is too much, tell me. I'll listen.

—And if I want you to leave?

—Then I'll leave. It won't be easy, but I will. Because your happiness in this house matters more than my desire to stay.

Megumi remained silent for an eternity, studying Suguru's face as if looking for a crack in his mask.

—You're weird — the child stated at last.

—So I've been told.

—Normal adults don't say things like that.

—I've never been very normal.

Megumi let out a snort identical to the orange cat's when it decides to tolerate a nuisance.

—Fine. You can stay — he conceded, regaining a tone of feigned indifference. — But only in the back room. And don't touch my things.

—Deal.

—And Satoru is still mine.

—Of course.

Satisfied, the child turned towards the stove.

—The tofu is burning.

—Shit! — Satoru reacted with his usual agility, finding the pan handle with surgical precision. The tofu pieces danced in the oil, perfectly golden, rescued just in time from neglect.

Another month passed. Suguru settled into the back room. It wasn't big, but it had a window facing the sea, and according to Satoru, "lots of light." He couldn't see it, but he liked it when Suguru described how the color of the water changed depending on the time of day.

—Now it's gray —. The raven-haired man would describe in the mornings, when they met in the kitchen before Megumi woke up. — As if the sky had fallen into the sea.

—How poetic —. Satoru would joke while preparing tea. — You sound like a writer.

—Now it's blue —. Suguru would say in the afternoons when they returned from the port with groceries. — Dark blue, like ink.

—Dark blue? Like mine?

—No. Your eyes are lighter, brighter, as if you had a light inside that never goes out. — Suguru would describe with a clumsy smile on his lips, his tone soft and honeyed, making the white-haired man blush in an endearing way. Suguru noticed because his ears would turn red, and his smile would become a bit clumsy, a bit less confident.

—You're a liar —. Satoru would say with that amused and shy tone that was like music to Suguru's ears.

—I never lie in reports.

—You're not doing one! Or are you evaluating me?! —. Satoru would ask with an exasperated tone, then laugh a few seconds later. Suguru would just stare at him, with a clumsy, absorbed smile.

—No, I'm not doing one.

And Satoru would blush more. Like the beautiful pink of cherry blossoms in spring.

The night everything changed was an ordinary night. Megumi had fallen asleep early, exhausted after a day running on the beach with the cats. Satoru and Suguru were on the back porch, a blanket over their legs because the night wind was cold, listening to the calm sea.

—It's calm tonight.

—Yes, it seems like it's sleeping.

—The sea never sleeps; it just changes its rhythm.

Suguru looked at him from the corner of his eye. Satoru had his hair loose, falling over his nape, and the moonlight reflected in his blue eyes in a way that made them seem even brighter, even more unreal.

—What? —. Satoru asked, as if he had felt the gaze.

—Nothing, nothing.

—You were looking at me.

—I can't look at you, your back is to the moon.

—I don't need you to see me to know you're looking at me. It's noticeable. You get very still and stop breathing.

Suguru let out a low laugh.

—I don't stop breathing.

—Yes, you get tense. As if you're about to say something important and then you don't.

—I have nothing to say; I like the silence.

—Liar.

Satoru turned towards him, and although his eyes couldn't see him, his face oriented towards his with a precision Suguru had learned to recognize. It was his way of looking. Not with his eyes, but with his full attention on the other.

—You've been wanting to say something for weeks —. Satoru murmured, in a low, more intimate tone. — And you haven't said it. And I'm here, waiting, because I'm very patient even if I don't seem it, but my patience has a limit.

Suguru swallowed, feeling the weight of the salty air.

—What do you want me to say, Satoru?

—The truth — he replied. The wind brought the scent of Mrs. Tanaka's hydrangeas and the murmur of the cats moving on the roof. — You've been silent for weeks. My patience has a limit, even for a "serial killer" as polite as you.

Suguru exhaled, letting the professional mask dissolve in the twilight.

—I want to stay — he finally released.

—You already do. You have a room at the back and a toothbrush in the bathroom.

—I'm not talking about occupying space, Satoru. I'm talking about belonging — he paused, searching for the exact cadence. — I don't want to be the guest who describes the sea. I want to be the man who stays when the radio turns off.

The silence stretched, dense and charged, until Satoru broke the stillness with a question that was barely a whisper.

—Since when?

—Since the night on the beach. Since the rain made us one under my jacket.

Satoru let out a minimal laugh, a fragile vibration that had nothing to do with acting.

—You've spent weeks cooking with me, winning over a child who trusts no one, and translating the colors of the world for me... and you didn't know if I felt the same?

—You have Megumi, Satoru. You have a life you protected tooth and nail. I didn't want to be an interference.

—Suguru.

Satoru pronounced his name with a new texture; it wasn't a stamp on a file, but an anchor.

—I'm not a mind reader — Satoru continued, orienting his face with that unsettling precision. — I can't read your eyes to see if your gaze trembles. You have to use words, Suguru. Clear ones. Because I don't want to spend months wondering if the tenderness I hear in your voice is real or just the echo of my own desire.

Suguru closed his eyes, letting the sound of the sea dictate his pulse.

—I like you, Satoru — he said, and the confession flowed with the softness of linen. — I like you with the urgency of someone finding water in the desert. I like you like the sound of your footsteps on the textured floor: sure, rhythmic, perfect. I've liked you since you confessed you lost the blue, because that day I understood that your darkness has more light than any morning in Tokyo.

Suguru took a short step, shortening the distance until he could feel the warmth emanating from the other.

—I like the roughness of your sarcasm and the silk of your voice when you soothe Megumi. I like that you're a king of cats and a man who cares with hands trembling from fear. I like you, Satoru. No filters, no masks. Just you.

Satoru didn't say anything, but his hands, which had been resting on the blanket, began to move. They went up the dark-haired man's arm, slowly, as if learning the path, until reaching his face. His fingers carefully brushed his jaw, then his cheeks, passing by the corner of his lips. They explored his face like a map, searching, recognizing.

—What color are your eyes? — Satoru asked in a whisper.

—Purple — Suguru responded, his voice husky.

—Purple? Like the flowers?

—Darker. Like... like the clouds at dusk when the sun sets and everything turns lilac. Or like a red cabbage

Satoru let out such an unexpected, sincere laugh that his forehead bumped against Suguru's.

—A red cabbage? — he repeated between laughs. — That's your romantic comparison? A cabbage?

—It's a very pretty cabbage — Suguru said, laughing too, because Satoru's laugh was contagious, because he had his face in his hands and their breath mingled and the world suddenly felt very small and very warm.

—You're an idiot — Satoru said, but he said it with his voice broken by laughter and by something else, something that made his fingers tremble on Suguru's skin.

—I know.

—An idiot who compares the eyes of the person he likes to a cabbage.

—It's a very special cabbage.

—There are no special cabbages.

—This one is. It's purple.

Satoru laughed again, and Suguru felt the laugh against his lips, and then he couldn't hold back anymore. He tilted his head and kissed the corner of Satoru's lips, where the laugh still trembled. Then his cheek, then his wet lashes, then his eyelids, over those blue eyes that couldn't see, but were still the most beautiful he had ever seen in his life. Then his other eyelid, then the bridge of his nose, then the center of his lips, where the laugh had stopped and his breathing became slower, deeper, with an awkward laugh they silenced with small kisses on his lips, so sweet, so addictive. As soft as flower petals.

—Your eyes —. Satoru murmured between kisses. — Tell me again what color they are.

—Purple —. Suguru responded, now leaving his hands with warmth on Satoru's face, leaving a longer kiss on his lips, feeling their warmth.

—Purple is beautiful. Like the shadow of wisteria flowers when the sun shines through them.

—Like the sunset on the island, like right now —. He whispered against his lips, letting their breaths collide, feeling their breathing so close, so intimate.

The white-haired man smiled. It was a clumsy, insecure smile, different from all the ones Suguru had seen on him. It wasn't the smile of performance, nor of sarcasm, nor even the one he used with Megumi. It was a brand-new smile, as if he had saved it just for Suguru.

—And mine, what color are they? —. Satoru asked, wrapping his arms around Suguru's neck, clinging to him, wanting to feel the warmth Suguru radiated.

Suguru pulled his face away from the white-haired man's to look at him. He stood there, looking at those electric blue eyes that seemed to contain their own light.

—Blue —. He whispered against his lips. — Like the sea in winter. Like when the sky is clear and the water becomes so clear you feel you can see the bottom. Like the wings of dragonflies flying over the rice paddies in summer.

—Like the blue cabbage —. Satoru joked, causing Suguru to sigh, an amused smile on his face.

—There's no such thing as blue cabbage.

—Or are there more blue vegetables? —. He seemed genuinely indignant about it. Seconds later, they both laughed, and amidst that laughter, their lips truly met, without dodging, without pulling away, with the clumsiness of two people who seemed to have been searching for each other their whole lives, in all worlds, and finally found each other. Suguru wrapped his arms around the white-haired man's waist, pulling him close to his body, and with a gentle movement, their lips met in a shy kiss, as if asking permission. Satoru tilted his head slightly, searching for the angle, and Suguru guided him with his hand on his nape, fingers tangled in that white hair that always smelled of the sea. And then the kiss deepened, became more confident, and Satoru made a small sound against his lips that sent a shiver down Suguru's spine.

—You don't know how handsome you are — Suguru whispered against his lips.

—I can't see myself.

—That's why I'm telling you. So you know.

Satoru smiled, a soft, real vibration against his mouth.

—You're a liar.

—I never lie in reports.

—You're not writing a report.

—No — Suguru conceded, closing the distance. — Not this time.

They kissed with the calm of those who are no longer in a hurry, while the wind grew colder and the cats reclaimed their space on the roof. From his window, Megumi watched them huddled under the blanket, the moon reflected in Satoru's white hair. The child sighed with the resignation of one who accepts that his small world has grown. At his feet, the orange cat opened one eye, with an expression of smugness that seemed to say: I told you so.

—Don't say anything — Megumi whispered to the animal.

The cat went back to sleep, but its whiskers curved in a gesture bordering on satisfaction.

—Suguru — Satoru said after a while, his head resting on his shoulder.

—Yes?

—Are you really going to work from here?

—I have the position assigned. I'm staying.

—Leave Tokyo for this island where there's nothing?

Suguru closed his eyes, letting the sound of the sea and Satoru's breathing dictate his peace.

—Here there is the sea — he enumerated in a low voice. — There are cats. There's a kitchen that smells of the best miso I've ever tasted. There's a child who hoards drawings of three-legged cats like treasures. And there's a man with the bluest eyes in the world whom I, out of pure nervousness, compared to a cabbage.

Satoru laughed, and Suguru was sure he wanted to hear that laugh forever. Because the world seemed to stop, and only that laugh mattered, which tasted like honeyed tea, which had the aroma of freshly baked bread.

—I like you — Satoru confessed, with a voice so intimate it seemed like a shared secret.

—Really?

—Don't let it go to your head. You already knew. Since the night on the beach, when you told me my eyes were the most beautiful you'd ever seen.

—I meant it.

—I know. That's why I let you in.

Suguru held him tighter. Satoru nestled against his neck, his fingers tangled in his shirt like that first night in the rain, but this time without the tremor of fear.

—I'm not going to leave — Suguru promised. — I'm not like the others.

—I know — Satoru murmured, letting himself succumb to sleep. — That's why I'm letting you stay.

Satoru looked up, and in the twilight, his blue eyes shone with that light that didn't need to see to exist. He smiled with that newfound joy, and Suguru felt that, at last, the emptiness had been filled.

He tilted his head and kissed him slowly, as if time were an infinite resource.

The sea continued to break on the cove, and Megumi slept with the cat curled at his feet, hiding a small, secret smile. It was an ordinary night on a tiny island.

But for Suguru, it was the place where blue made sense again.