The impression of the infinite

The air of the Institute of Occult Arts had a different scent in the morning. It stirred the leaves in the inner courtyards, crossed the gravel paths, and brushed the open windows like an invitation to stay.Yuzu breathed it in slowly—each day a little more. Classes followed one another like chamber concerts. The circle arrangement, materials chosen with care, her voice modulated like a violin—slender yet precise, never intrusive. Each day she tackled a new theme: Escher's sacred geometries, the primordial anguish in Egon Schiele's contorted bodies, color as an emotional language in Chagall's lithographs.

The students didn't just take notes. They watched her. They listened. Yuzu—with her elegant gestures, even tone, hair always neatly gathered, and a beauty that didn't seek attention yet drew it all the same—became part of the content. Living, speaking art. With every hour, something inside her seemed to knit itself back together.

In the evenings, Yuzu often took refuge in the Institute's library. There was something in the silence of those rooms—a silence that asked nothing, that didn't weigh. Only presence. Paper, dust, and invisible thresholds.

The forbidden section wasn't marked. But it existed.

Those who knew how to move among the oldest stacks—the ones with faded inscriptions in scripts no modern catalog recorded—found thick volumes bound in worn leather. Books without authors, without titles. Margins full of handwritten notes, like confidences left by those who had leafed through them too long.

Yuzu sat beside them the way one sits by a fire. Not to feel its warmth. But to listen to it crackle.

Her eyes moved over the pages with measured slowness.

She had started a new notebook: neat lines, fine ink, each question marked with almost calligraphic precision.

When does an image become a portal?

Who decides what is aesthetic and what is damned?

The gesture creates. But what passes through it?

It was on one of those evenings that Geto appeared beside her. Unannounced. Unintrusive.

Just… present.

Hair gathered with distracted elegance, uniform immaculate yet lived-in, hands hidden in his sleeves. His steps made no sound on the old floor.

"Losing yourself in the borders, Tachibana-sensei?"

His voice was low, tilted like the rim of a porcelain cup.

Yuzu raised her gaze without surprise—only attention.

"I'm trying to understand whether aesthetics summons… or whether it's something that hides in the act itself."

Geto sat beside her, leaving an exact distance. Neither too much, nor too little. Like a note on a score.

"Many rituals are born of repeated gestures. Painters know them well—the wrist, the cadence, the breath."

"Like mantras. But with pigment instead of sound."

He nodded. Slowly.

"Some images don't communicate. They act. Like blades with an invisible edge."

Yuzu lowered her eyes to the book—a Japanese woodblock print, worn at the edges.

"Then maybe painting isn't just language. It's a vehicle."

"Or a container."

Time between them stopped existing.

Only the distant ticking of a clock, the faint rustle of pages turned by unseen hands. They stayed there, in an intimacy made of thoughtful silence.

No useless gestures. No extra words.

But the space between them—like an unfinished painting—seemed to be waiting for something.

Gojo would pass by.

Not often.

But when he did, it was impossible not to notice.

Always with that smile bent halfway between irony and challenge, hands in his pockets, black jeans sketching his long legs with studied nonchalance. Hoodie pushed down at the neck, the light-colored blindfold—detail that made him even harder to read. And yet he watched. Always.

Above all, he watched her.

"You're neglecting rest, Tachibana-sensei."

His voice low, tipped with its usual playful lilt.

"You know too much study brings mystical visions—and artistic dark circles."

Yuzu lifted her eyes from her notes with the unhurried poise of someone who knows exactly where to rest her gaze.

"Not everyone can afford your lightness. You wear it like a coat."

"It's an innate gift." He stepped closer. "But I can teach you. With dedication. And a private lesson."

She gave a small shake of her head, not hiding the half-smile.

"I'll ask when I need to practice the art of escape."

Gojo laughed. Not his usual open laugh.

A shorter sound. Truer.

Always a little softer when he spoke to her. And every time he came by, he left something.

Never to impress. Never to distract.

Small gifts—precise objects, chosen with care. A jasmine tea shaded with bergamot. A fine brush, its handle hand-carved. A Japanese print folded in quarters, with notes in the margins.

Nothing declared. Nothing explained.

Only presences. Traces.

Like pencil marks left on a canvas still unfinished.

And Yuzu—though she never said it—kept everything.

Anything that touched that new world—and Gojo was part of it, though she didn't yet know in what way—ended up in her studio, in her notebook, or in her hands. As if waiting for the right moment to understand its meaning.

It was near evening when Gojo asked her out. Not a casual outing. Not ramen, not a stroll through back alleys. "There's a place I want to show you," he said.

And the way he said it was enough for Yuzu to accept without questions.

They got in the car. Lights slid slowly over the glass, and the radio played a dense, almost liquid jazz. He didn't speak. But now and then he looked at her—quick glances that didn't last long enough to turn into awkwardness, yet weren't innocent either.

The place was outside Tokyo.

A hidden path among pines. A gravel lane, an ancient stairway carved into rock. Yuzu followed him, step by step, not knowing where they were going. But trust lay over her shoulders like a light blanket: present, warm, silent.

"We're close," Gojo said, his voice lower than usual.

When they arrived, she stopped.

Before them, a solitary torii—a sacred gate of dark wood, weathered but intact. Behind it, only trees. A threshold. A promise.

Yuzu drew nearer.

"What is this place?" she asked under her breath.

Gojo passed beside her. The scent of his skin—fresh, clean, with a faint note of citrus—mingled for an instant with the breathing of the trees.

"A boundary," he said. "Between our world… and everything else."

She turned to him, gaze in shadow but steady.

"Do you cross it often?"

He smiled softly. Didn't answer. He stepped forward and sat on a stone, letting his back rest against the torii's wood. Yuzu came closer and sat beside him.

For long minutes, they didn't speak.

The wind moved the leaves gently. The light belonged to that hour with no name: between day and night, between saying and not saying.

When she leaned forward to let down her hair—a slow, everyday gesture, full of grace—Gojo's hand brushed hers. Just a moment.

And he didn't pull away.

Yuzu's heart beat slow but clear, like a stubborn thought.

Then, suddenly, her voice. Low. Almost timid, for all its composure.

"May I ask you something?"

He turned just a little, the smile back on his lips, quieter. "Only one?"

"I'd like… to see your eyes."

Gojo was silent.

Then, slowly, he brought his hands to the edge of the white blindfold.

He loosened it with a fluid motion. A gesture that wasn't meant for everyone.

And Yuzu saw.

Two blue eyes.

But not any blue—not sky, not ice. A blue like molten glass, like an unfindable mineral, like light in a mirror of deep water.

They looked inward.

They were too beautiful. Too precise. Too impossible to belong to a human face.

There was an entire cosmos in those eyes. And yet they seemed to look at her with an almost distracted tenderness—as if the world were too much, and she the only thing to bring into focus.

Yuzu held her breath.

Not from astonishment.

From respect.

She thought—no one should be looked at like that without falling a little.

He smiled softly, eyes still uncovered. "Disappointed?"

She shook her head once.

"No. It's like looking at something you can't keep—but can't stop wanting."

Gojo looked at her a second longer. Then he lowered the blindfold over his eyes, as if it were a curtain to shield the world from himself.

"Then it's better to close them, before something dangerous happens."

When they returned to the villa, night had fully fallen. Gojo opened the door with his usual ease; the lights came on automatically.

Yuzu took off her shoes and walked toward the corridor.

He stayed back, watching her.

When she turned, they were only a few steps apart.

They stopped.

Eye to eye.

No one spoke. No one moved.

But there was something there. In her scent lingering in the air. In the curve of a smile not yet born. In the hands that no longer touched, yet seemed to remember every centimeter.

"Good night, Tachibana-sensei."

"Good night to you, Satoru-sensei," she said, smiling.

***

The morning was clear—light as a half-finished cup left on the windowsill.

Yuzu stepped out onto the villa's veranda with her phone in hand, her face just touched by the golden light filtering through the garden trees. Hair tied in a low ponytail, her usual cream turtleneck and loose beige trousers—sober, impeccable as always.

The phone rang. The name flashed: Airi.

"Yuzu! Have you packed?"

Her voice was bright, cheerful, as if she were already in another world, all steam and cherry blossoms.

Yuzu raised an eyebrow. "We're talking about the hot springs, not a journey to some mystical Orient."

"Oh, excuse me, Sensei of emotional control. But I need a break—and so do you. Don't forget I booked the biggest room just for you."

From inside, Gojo appeared with two cups, his usual theatrical smile and hair tousled by the morning wind. Black jeans, a light hoodie, blindfold over his eyes—an icon of magnetic disorder.

"Let me guess," he said, handing her tea, "the siren has called. And now she's dragging us into the depths… of relaxation."

Yuzu lowered the phone and looked at him. "Yes. Airi's expecting us in two hours. And you, theoretically, are driving."

"I put the duffel in the car before I even woke up."

"Impossible."

"I'm special. Don't forget."

Airi and Geto were already there when they arrived. Airi greeted them with a pink headband and a smile that spelled trouble. She'd brought three matching yukata for the occasion—but only mentioned it afterward.

"I brought these!" she announced, proudly lifting the bag. "I want photos. And memories. And, if possible, a little inner peace."

"I can offer two out of three," Gojo said, adjusting the blindfold on his nose. "Inner peace isn't in my contract."

Yuzu walked a few steps behind, watching the three. The landscape shifted: pines, stone paths, small wooden bridges. The ryokan lay nestled in the mountains, a perfectly preserved traditional inn. The scent of sulfurous water mingled with the distant sound of birds.

While Airi handled check-in, Gojo drifted over to Yuzu with an air of practiced innocence.

"Single room, double futon. Who occupies it depends on karma."

"I don't believe in karma. But I do believe in locked doors."

"Then I'll have to use my charm."

"Unlikely. But I appreciate the persistence."

They looked at each other—one of those suspended gazes that carry expectations without needing words.

Soon after, each went to their own room. The afternoon was theirs. Yuzu slipped off her shoes at the entrance with a slow, orderly motion. She set down her bag and looked around. Pale tatami, a window onto a small garden of stones and moss. Perfect silence.

For a moment she allowed herself to close her eyes and be still.

She'd agreed to come for Airi. But also because, deep down in a place she didn't name, she wanted to stop thinking. Stop analyzing. She wanted only to breathe—at least for a day. And yet she knew—in a way not logical but certain—that even this calm was a kind of waiting.

Because Gojo was there.

Yuzu slid open her room's door with a slow motion.

She wore her ivory one-piece—simple yet elegant, cut with geometric precision. An unfolded towel over her arm, hair loose on her shoulders. Every gesture was calm, but beneath the composure a faint tremor ran—like a string vibrating below the surface.

The corridor was quiet, bathed in the warm light of wood and tatami. From far off came the murmur of voices, a few laughs, the steady rush of thermal water. The relaxation room was circled by broad windows looking onto the inner garden. Bamboo and rice-paper walls let the light filter through in soft lines.

Airi was already there, stretched on a chaise longue with a hydrating mask on and a glass of sparkling water in hand.

"Finally! I thought you'd been reincarnated as a bonsai!"

Yuzu gave a slight smile. "I was only choosing the right towel."

"You brought three."

"Exactly."

Seated by a fruit tray, Geto looked up, at ease. Hair tied back, skin still slightly damp from the bath.

"Elegant even in sulfurous steam. A rare talent," he said.

"It's just survival instinct," Yuzu replied, sitting beside them. "If I relax too much, I melt."

"That would be interesting to see," murmured a voice a little farther off.

Gojo.

He stood leaning against the wooden window frame. Black swim trunks, towel around his neck, damp hair falling messily over his forehead. The light blindfold on his eyes—but he seemed to see her anyway.

Yuzu didn't move. But their gazes—or rather, the path they traced in the air between them—met.

He came closer. Not much. Just enough for his presence to be felt on her skin.

"You know," he said softly, almost wry, "you're getting better. I can see it. You've got back the step of a woman whose thoughts are falling into place."

Yuzu looked at him for a moment, then lifted a shoulder. "Maybe. Maybe just for today."

"No," he said. "Not entirely. Not yet. You're missing something."

"What?"

"Letting go."

A small, dense silence.

Then Airi cut in, amused. "Careful, Yuzu. When he talks like that, it's because he's planning something."

"I didn't say anything scandalous," Gojo replied, taking a cube of pineapple from the tray and eating it slowly. "Only that it's good to see you among the living again."

Yuzu looked at him. Then, with a slight smile: "It's good to be here. But I haven't decided for how long."

The silence that followed wasn't tense. It was charged.

Geto cleared his throat. "In the meantime, I'd say we should take advantage of Tachibana-sensei's presence for a lesson on maintaining grace even with forty percent humidity and a backdrop of Japanese pines."

"All you need is an education in art—and a very high tolerance for pointless jokes," Yuzu replied.

"Touché," said Gojo. "But I warn you: sooner or later I'll make you laugh. Properly."

Yuzu didn't answer. But her cheeks warmed, just a little.

And Gojo noticed.

---

Shortly after…

Airi was dabbing her face with a lotus-scented towel while Yuzu fixed her hair in front of the mirror.

"You should see yourself," Airi said, half amazed, half amused. "Your eyes are lit up again—the kind that throws anyone off after three seconds of looking."

Yuzu raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying I look… alive?"

"No. I'm saying you look dangerous." Airi smiled. "And he knows it."

"He who?"

Airi shot her a meaningful look in the mirror. "Satoru. He pretends he's joking, but he watches you like he's trying to find your softest spot. And I don't mean dreams or dark figures."

Yuzu didn't answer right away. She dipped a cotton pad in the scented water and ran it slowly along her neck.

"He makes me feel… as if I were still whole. Despite everything."

Airi sat on the stool beside her. "You are. You're just remembering what it feels like. And he's helping—just by being near you."

A gentle silence stretched between them.

Then Airi added, more serious: "Yuzu… if he's the one you want, be with him. But don't hold back for fear of breaking something. Your grace isn't fragility."

Yuzu turned to her. "And if it's not enough? If what's inside me… isn't only mine anymore?"

Airi took her hand, threading their fingers.

"Then let him see it. If he doesn't fear it, it's because he's ready to hold it. And maybe… he'll help keep it at bay with you."

Yuzu smiled—a small, true smile.

Then she stood, squaring her shoulders.

"I needed to hear that. Thank you."

"Don't thank me now. Thank me later—when you finally decide to kiss him."

Yuzu gave a small laugh. "Don't count on it."

"I'm not. But I'll bet my most expensive body wash it happens before the night is over."

Yuzu looked at her for a moment.

Then she walked out, calm.

And in her eyes, a decision.