LB

Satoru Gojo stood before the polished headstone with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, a small bouquet of white lilies resting against the engraved name. Every week, without fail, he came back to the quiet cemetery, ignoring the whispers that the strongest sorcerer in the world should have long since moved on. He would straighten the flowers, brush away fallen leaves, and speak as though you were only a few steps away instead of buried beneath the earth. He told you about the students, about the missions that went wrong, about the jokes no one else laughed at. The easy grin that once came so naturally was now little more than a habit, hiding a grief that refused to loosen its grip. "You'd tell me I'm being dramatic," he murmured with a faint laugh. "But I still don't know how to stop missing you." Miles away, you watched the rain bead against the window of the safe house that had become your prison. The world believed you had died years ago, and only a handful of trusted allies knew the truth—that your death had been carefully staged to protect you from enemies who would never stop hunting you. Every report you received about Gojo visiting your grave felt like another wound you couldn't heal. More than once, you had reached for the phone, ready to shatter the lie with a single call, only to remember why the deception existed in the first place. You were alive, breathing, and longing to run back into his arms, while the man you still called your husband continued mourning a wife he believed he had already lost forever.