Chapter 11: Threshold.
Yuzu stood still, her back to the door, eyes staring into the darkness.
In the silence, she thought she could still hear something moving, slowly, outside the room.
The door was ajar. Just a crack.
Gojo didn't ring.
He didn't buzz the intercom.
He entered.
The hallway of the apartment was shrouded in semi-darkness.
A faint smell of dampness and... something metallic lingered in the air, almost imperceptible.
The floor creaked slightly under his steps. The wall clock ticked too loudly.
No other sound.
Then, a sharp noise.
A footstep?
A door slowly closing?
No. Silence again.
Too much silence.
Gojo moved forward slowly, his body relaxed — or so it seemed.
Beneath the blindfold, his eyes were wide awake.
And then... the bedroom door opened.
Yuzu appeared on the threshold.
Bare feet. Bare leg. Loose T-shirt.
Hair down, face pale. Eyes wide and glossy as if she had been crying — or screaming into nothingness.
Gojo saw her. And stopped.
He leaned in slowly, carefully, until he was just a breath away from her.
He — statuesque, too big for the space.
She — small, still as if the floor might give out beneath her at any second.
"Yuzu."
His voice wasn't as bold as usual.
It was laced with shadow, like something pulled from a dream that wouldn't end.
"What did you see?"
She didn't answer. Her lips parted slightly, but nothing came out.
Just a tremble in her chest, visible even from the outside.
Gojo didn't touch her shoulders. Didn't brush her skin.
But he moved a little closer.
"Stay here."
He crossed the house in silence.
Kitchen.
Study.
Bathroom.
Hallway.
Everything was in order — but too in order. As if something had just hidden away.
Then, in the kitchen, the detail.
The glass.
Broken glasses on the floor, but not simply fallen.
Scattered. Shattered.
A couple had slid under the cabinet, as if thrown with force.
Gojo crouched down. Ran a finger over one of the thinnest shards.
It was warm.
The windows closed.
The gas off.
The lock… not fully latched.
He returned to the hallway.
Yuzu was still there.
Petrified.
"The door was open when I arrived."
She barely shook her head. "I had closed it. I locked it, Gojo."
Silence.
There was no need to add anything else.
Gojo held out a hand.
This time, he didn't keep her at a distance.
"Grab your keys. Come with me."
Yuzu grabbed her bag with slow, mechanical movements. She turned one last time toward the inside of the house, as if waiting for a second sound. A confirmation.
It didn't come.
Only the beating in her chest. Only that sense of something left behind.
They left.
Gojo closed the door. Calmly.
But his expression — even under the blindfold — seemed to say that something in that house hadn't wanted to be disturbed, and yet it had been.
Gojo's house – night
The car stopped in front of a modern villa, wrapped in silence. Yuzu hadn't expected it. When she got out of the car and followed him up the path of smooth stone, she realized it was all real.
The house was elegant, spacious, minimalist architecture. Grey façade, black frames, glass walls and clean lines. A discreet garden. The door opened with a soft click. Inside, the space was… calm. Too calm.
Five rooms, maybe six. A long central hallway. Pale wood, soft lighting, white walls dotted with pieces of ancient Japanese art. No mess. No strong smells. Everything precise. More than a house, it felt like a zen composition.
Gojo led the way without speaking. He seemed to know that words, at that hour, were too fragile.
She took off her shoes. The floor under her feet was warm. She cast her gaze around. In one corner, a teapot was already steaming.
"I'll make it," he said, as he set out two cups. "Chamomile, ginger and… a secret ingredient. It relaxes the senses, but doesn't make you fall asleep right away."
Yuzu sat on a high stool near the kitchen counter. Her hands still cold.
"Thank you for coming."
Gojo turned. For a moment, he looked at her. No jokes. Just his eyes — or whatever showed behind the blindfold. Then he poured the golden liquid into the cups. Handed her one.
"The night feels longer if you face it alone."
She drank slowly. The warmth slid down her throat like soft honey.
When she finished, he handed her a T-shirt — black, incredibly soft, with a neckline that fell open on its own.
"Want to change? That shirt you're wearing is all creases and fear."
She nodded. Took the garment gently. When she came out of the bathroom, it was the only thing she wore. It reached almost to her knees, the sleeves falling past her fingertips.
Gojo, already seated on the couch, looked at her.
"Looks better on you than on me."
"It's huge."
"Or you're very small."
"Both."
A quiet silence. She moved closer. Didn't know where to sit. Didn't ask. He stretched an arm along the back of the couch. Didn't touch her. But the space was clear. Come here. If you want.
She let herself sink down next to him, slowly. They didn't speak. Every sound was too loud. Breath, heartbeat, fabric shifting.
Gojo closed his eyes — or maybe left them closed. He seemed to sense her without seeing her. The scent of her skin, the sound she made when she moved just slightly.
"If you want to sleep here, there's a free room. Closed door, safe window. No rogue glasses."
She smiled softly. Didn't say yes. Didn't say no.
"Will you stay a little?" she whispered.
Gojo didn't answer. He simply placed a hand between her shoulder blades. A warm touch. Present. Not invasive.
They stayed like that. In silence. Two bodies a breath apart. No more words.
***
Yuzu woke with a deep breath, wrapped in the soft silence of a place that didn't belong to her — but didn't feel foreign either.
She was still wearing Gojo's oversized T-shirt — tight on him, but on her it hung like a nightdress. Underneath, just her black underwear. The cotton smelled like detergent, tea, and something that was simply him. Subtle. Spiced. Not unpleasant.
Just… different.
She stepped out of the room on tiptoe. The house was quiet.
Then: a noise from the kitchen. Dishes. Jam. The sound of a song, sung badly.
Gojo.
"'Cause you're amazing… just the way you aaaaare…" he was singing at full volume, opening a jar of sesame cream like it was part of a choreographed routine.
When he saw her, he froze — then applauded.
"Art model in deluxe pajamas. My morning finally makes sense."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You sang Bruno Mars before eight a.m. That's grounds for arrest."
"I'm divinely pardoned. Want tea?"
Yuzu ignored the question for a moment. She picked up her phone and, without thinking too hard about it, dialed Airi's number.
Her friend's voice came through groggy, still heavy with sleep:
"Yuzuuu… you okay? Where are you?"
Yuzu turned, watching Gojo spin around the kettle like a messy idiot.
She smiled, just slightly.
"At Gojo's place. Last night… I just didn't feel like staying alone."
A pause.
"Wait. What? Why?"
"I'll explain everything this afternoon, I swear. But it's nothing serious. I'm okay now."
A silence. Then Airi's tone grew serious.
"Did… someone come to your place? Did something happen?"
Yuzu lowered her voice.
"Yes. But I swear, nothing that can't be explained. I just want to ask you not to worry, okay?"
On the other end, Airi sighed softly.
"Okay. But don't shut down. And text me when you can."
"I will. And no, before you ask… we didn't do anything."
A quiet laugh.
"Shame. A man who sings Bruno Mars at seven a.m.? That's rare."
Yuzu laughed.
"I'll call you in a bit. Promise."
She hung up. Then, without hesitation, she opened the school app and dialed the office number.
"Good morning. This is Tachibana Sensei. I'll need to take a personal day today. Yes. I confirm I've submitted the substitute lesson plan. Thank you."
When she turned around, Gojo was leaning against the doorframe.
Mug in hand, gaze veiled by his white blindfold. But his expression was serious.
Only for a second.
Then he smiled again.
"I made you tea. But I didn't sign any waivers, okay? If it hurts you… blame fate."
Yuzu sat at the counter, elbows resting with composed grace.
"Don't worry. I trust your karma."
Gojo poured his own.
"Risky choice. But romantic. I like it."
Later, in the bathroom mirror, Yuzu was fixing her hair with slow, precise gestures. Her reflection was composed, almost still — but in her eyes, something remained alert. A dull trace of what the night had left behind.
She put on her earrings with care, then placed both hands on the sink. Inhaled. Tried to lock her emotions away, like closing a flimsy door in a creaky house.
When she grabbed her bag and stood ready at the threshold, a thought knocked again. The noise. The glass. The voice in the dream.
Fear had a tactile memory. It lived in her skin, at the base of her neck, in the way her breath caught just before leaving her throat.
She returned to the living room.
Gojo was sitting sideways on the armrest of a dark leather sofa, flipping through an art catalog upside down, as if he didn't need the captions. When he heard her, he looked up. But didn't smile.
Yuzu spoke first, her tone neutral — almost administrative:
"I was thinking of getting a hotel room for a few nights."
The catalog closed with a slow gesture. Gojo looked at her, serious.
"Are you scared?" His voice had dropped. Warmer. More real.
Yuzu hesitated. Then gave a small nod.
"I don't feel safe. And I don't want to be a burden."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
"You can be a burden on me as much as you need to, Yuzu. I mean it."
His words weren't just kind. There was something radical in his tone — like he was offering a kind of permission he didn't give easily.
Yuzu looked at him a second longer than necessary. Then lowered her gaze.
"Thank you." It was all she could manage.
She picked up her keys, her phone, and headed for the door. Opened it.
"Let me know where you end up," he said, without moving.
She turned, only slightly. "I will."
The door closed with a soft sound. The dull thud of distance.
Gojo stayed seated. Head tilted.
Silence returned to the villa — but it wasn't empty.
It was full, like a room holding its breath.
As if something, within those too-orderly walls, was still listening.
***
Yuzu returned home in the late afternoon, determined to take only the bare essentials. A change of clothes, underwear, charger, sketchbook. Nothing that would keep her there too long. No intention of staying more than a few minutes.
She stepped out of the taxi with a steady stride, golden sunlight reflected in the windows of the surrounding buildings. She knew coming back wouldn't be easy — but she wasn't prepared for what she saw.
In front of her apartment… the door was gone.
Not open. Not broken.
Simply: missing.
A clean, geometric void. Impossible to explain. As if the house had forgotten how to close a boundary. As if something had erased the threshold with a precise, surgical motion.
Yuzu stood on the landing for long seconds. Her heart beat slowly, but with an unnerving rhythm. No sound. No neighbors.
Then she stepped inside.
Everything was in perfect order. Just as she'd left it. But the air felt different. A smell. Subtle, metallic. Like something overheated.
She turned her gaze toward the studio.
The canvas.
The one she'd painted the night before — pale yellow, sage green, Prussian blue, and ochre — was gone.
The canvas was still there, yes. But now completely black.
Not painterly black. Absorbing black. Matte. Like compressed ash.
Daylight didn't reflect on it. It simply stopped.
Yuzu took one step forward. Just one.
Then stopped. A long, drawn-out pause. And turned back.
She left. She didn't close the door. She couldn't.
She descended the stairs with a calm pace, but inside, she was already running.
She didn't call Airi. She didn't message anyone. No one should worry. No one would understand.
She took a taxi to the station, stopped at the first convenience store she found: pajamas, toothbrush, gentle detergent, a plain white T-shirt, a small bottle of facial cleanser. As if she were going on a trip — not a flight.
Then she booked a hotel in Shibuya. A single room, high floor, anonymous.
When she closed the door of the room behind her, the first thing she did wasn't to take off her shoes.
It was to look at the handle.
To make sure it was really there.
And that it was locked.