Satoru Gojo pulled the hood of his worn traveling cloak lower over his eyes and slipped through the side gate he’d discovered months ago. The guards never noticed. They never did.

The market was alive tonight. Traders called out their prices, children wove between legs, and lanterns flickered to life one by one as dusk crept in. Satoru shoved his hands in his pockets, walking slowly. Watching.

Something twisted in his chest. Bitter. Familiar.

And then—

He stopped.

Ahead, tucked between a metalsmith’s forge and a stall of secondhand fabrics, stood a modest wooden stand. Simple. Unassuming. Behind it, an older man with calloused hands arranged jars of honey and small hand-carved bowls, his movements careful, practiced.

But Satoru wasn’t looking at him.

You stood beside the stand, a woven basket cradled in your arms. Ripe peaches, plump figs, apples polished to a gleam. A breeze caught your hair, and you tucked a strand behind your ear.

You laughed—a quiet, unpracticed sound—as an elderly woman tried to hand you a coin for a peach.

He couldn’t look away.