The week had gone by quickly. Or maybe it had just been full.
Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the two.
Monday was for lectures, Tuesday for meetings, Wednesday for two back-to-back classes that felt like they had come straight out of a chaos festival. And Yuzu was in the middle of it all, with her calm demeanor, her watery coffee, and her folder filling up with notes written in blue ink.
She had settled back into her usual place in the world. The same as always.
Her quiet apartment, her still-living succulents (miraculously), and voice messages from her friends piling up on her phone between one paper and the next.
She wasn't thinking about him anymore. Or, if she did, it was only in the way you think about something absurd.
Brief.
Too strange to stick around.
A meeting in front of a puppet show. A man with a blindfold and the uncanny ability to know exactly when to make her laugh.
But that was it. Or so she thought.
That Thursday evening, she had decided to treat herself. She wanted to take some time just for her. She'd heard that a new little Italian restaurant had opened on a side street not far from her apartment. People described it as minimalist, elegant, with ultra-fresh seafood and soft lighting.
She went alone.
It wasn't unusual for her. She quite enjoyed spending time in solitude—watching people, reading a menu in silence, choosing slowly.
She entered with confident steps, greeted the staff, and was seated at a table for two, already set in a chic, elegant style. She ordered a glass of white wine and a mixed appetizer, and only after she sat down at the light wooden table did she notice something. A laugh—a note in a laugh she'd already heard before and recognized instantly.
He was there.
Gojo Satoru.
He was sitting in the farthest corner of the restaurant, near a window. He wore a flawless black jacket, dark trousers, and—as always—a blindfold.
This time, it was black.
Clean. Tied neatly behind his head.
He was talking with three boys.
They looked like teenagers, much younger than him. She wondered if they were his students—or maybe relatives.
They were laughing softly, in a way that didn't quite suit such a quiet place. But none of the four seemed to mind.
Yuzu, on the other hand, froze.
She quickly looked down, adjusted her scarf, and decided to pretend she hadn't seen anything.
"With that blindfold on, he probably didn't even notice me anyway."
And really, what would have been the point?
Two encounters. Coincidental. That's all.
She focused on her food, trying to distract herself and enjoy the moment alone.
Eating helped her think.
She pulled out her phone, replied to a few messages, typing quickly on the touchscreen. Airi, Inoue.
She acted like everything was perfectly normal.
And it worked.
For a while.
Until a far too familiar voice broke the balance.
"Well, look who's hiding behind a glass of white wine. Pecorino, right?"
Yuzu slowly looked up.
Gojo was there, standing next to her table.
Still wearing the blindfold.
But his tone left no room for doubt. He had seen her. Or sensed her. Or both.
She swallowed, then gathered herself.
A small breath. An automatic adjustment of the napkin.
"Good evening," she said, in a tone far too neutral.
"Hello," he replied. "Or rather: welcome back to the stage of coincidences."
A brief silence.
Yuzu lowered her gaze, a faint smile on her lips.
"I didn't think you'd recognize me. I mean, you are wearing a blindfold."
Gojo tapped his chest, dramatically.
"I'm offended. My sixth sense doesn't need sight. It's refined. It recognizes people by the wine they order. You're white, obviously. With long silences and an elegant gaze."
Yuzu leaned back in her chair.
A slow, measured movement.
Uncertain whether to laugh or disappear.
"Sounds like a poetic diagnosis. Or a very polished scam."
"Both," he replied, sitting down without asking.
Hands folded on the table, his tone suddenly calmer.
"Do you have five minutes? Or am I stealing time from your date with solitude?"
A breath. She looked at him.
Then calmly placed her cup back on the coaster.
"You're already sitting. I don't think it matters much now."
Gojo adjusted himself, resting an elbow on the table.
He looked comfortable, as if he'd been there all along.
"You know, I'm starting to think these meetings aren't completely random. Twice, two different places, and no algorithm involved. Not even an app. Just… fate. Or passive stalking."
She laughed, this time for real.
A short, spontaneous sound.
"If it is stalking, it's very discreet. And silent."
"My favorite kind." he said.
A pause.
They looked at each other for a moment.
Brief. But full.
Yuzu noticed that, despite the jokes, he was actually paying close attention.
Every line, every pause, felt calculated—or maybe just natural.
"You're not really a teacher, are you?" she asked, in a moment of clarity.
"Or rather, you teach something you can't talk about."
Gojo slowly spread his arms.
A gesture that was almost ironic.
"I teach. I swear. Real students, real school. Just a bit… unusual. Those boys are mine," he said, nodding toward the teens sitting at his table.
He looked at her for a moment.
Then, in a quieter tone:
"But really, art history is also a world full of spirits, isn't it? Caravaggio, Van Gogh, Raphael... all a little tormented."
"Them, yes. My students? Not so much."
"And you? Are you tormented too, Yuzu Tachibana?"
She didn't answer right away.
She turned to the window, then slowly looked back at him, surprised he remembered her last name.
"Just tired. And curious. But that's as much as I'm willing to say."
Gojo smiled, slowly.
A smile that wasn't meant to impress—only to understand.
"That's enough. I'll save the next question for our third meeting."
"You're assuming there'll be one?"
"Of course."
He paused.
"Unless you stop it from happening. But even then... I'd still be very good at making you change your mind."
Gojo suddenly stood up, with a theatrical, oversized motion for the small space they were in. The stool creaked softly as he stretched his arms like he'd just finished a business meeting.
"I have to return to my table, sadly. Three students and a nigiri are waiting for me—and I swear, it gave me a dirty look. You know how it is, I can't allow culinary mutinies."
Yuzu watched him slowly roll up the sleeves of his jacket with exaggerated solemnity.
"But it was a pleasure to cross my aura with yours once again. Makes me feel less exclusive—but much luckier."
She smiled faintly.
A smile almost private.
"Safe return to your troops, Satoru-sensei…"
"Satoru-sensei…" he repeated, as if it were a noble title.
Then he touched his forehead with two fingers, a half-salute.
"Tachibana-sensei, see you soon. In one of those encounters orchestrated by the universe. Or by me. I haven't decided yet."
And with long, easy strides, he returned to his table, leaving behind a trail of lightness—like a curtain gently falling shut.
Yuzu remained seated.
She gave herself a few seconds before picking up her fork.
She sighed softly, without even realizing it.
Then returned to her menu.
The waiter brought her thin slices of cured ham laid over daikon—perfect with the Pecorino she had already ordered and received.
She settled more comfortably in her chair, replied to two messages from her friends (one was just a voice note filled with laughter), and took a photo of the plate—though she wouldn't post it anywhere.
For the rest of the dinner, nothing strange happened.
And yet, everything felt different.
Quieter.
More present.
A bit like the scent of wine that lingers on the rim of the glass, even after it's gone.