The impression of the infinite

Not a minute later, they knocked again.

No.

This time it was the doorbell. Just once.

Yuzu didn't move. She held her breath.

Then a voice—muffled, yet clear:

"It's me."

She opened the door.

Gojo was standing there. Black jeans, a dark hoodie with the hood down, those tousled white hair, the usual spotless blindfold over his eyes. But his posture—usually relaxed—had shifted: alert, focused, every sense poised to shield her.

He looked at her in silence.

Then, with quiet composure:

"Everything's okay. I'm here."

Yuzu said nothing.

But her eyes—those shiny, dark eyes—said it all.

Gojo bent slightly, bringing himself level with her face, without crowding her. Just presence, warmth.

"Come away with me."

A gentle tone. No pressure. No questions. Only that sentence, spoken as though it were the most natural thing.

Yuzu nodded softly.

Gojo turned, running a hand along the still-open door.

"It was like this. Open. As if you were waiting for something."

A beat.

Then he closed it, without looking back.

He laid a light arm across her shoulders—only to guide her.

The contact wasn't intrusive. But firm. Certain.

Yuzu lowered her gaze.

"Thank you," she murmured.

He smiled.

"No need to say it. I already know."

And he led her away.

Away from that door.

Away from that whisper.

***

The car glided silently along the damp streets, Tokyo's night-lights shimmering across the windows.

Gojo said nothing for the first few minutes. He drove one-handed, the other resting on the gearshift. Behind the blindfold his gaze seemed turned inward rather than on the road. The usual smile had vanished—not grim, just… held back.

Yuzu kept her hands clasped in her lap, staring outside, eyelids heavy and breath still uneven.

He was the one to break the silence.

"Tell me everything. From the beginning."

His voice was low. No jokes this time—only genuine presence.

Yuzu nodded slowly, then spoke, calmly; each word was a step out of the nightmare.

She described the dream: the upside-down classroom, easels like suspended crosses, blackened canvases, Haru in the center, her own painting turned pitch-dark and dripping, the hands, herself bound, the voice.

When she finished, Gojo didn't answer at once.

Then, with a slight nod: "That message you said. The paintings back to normal the next day. Now I understand why I couldn't stop thinking about it."

Yuzu looked at him, hands clenched. "Do you think it's connected?"

"I don't think—I know." His tone was steadier than usual, but not alarmist, as though he was already mapping a strategy. "Something left an imprint. And it didn't vanish just because it's hiding."

Silence pooled again, heavy.

Then, more softly: "Why don't you stay at my place for a while? Just to rest. To feel… less alone."

Yuzu hesitated. "I don't want to be a burden."

Gojo smiled, a quiet smile that wasn't joking.

"Yuzu… you wouldn't be a burden even if you decided to knock down a wall of the villa to build an art gallery."

She lowered her eyes but didn't laugh. "I need to think. To breathe."

"Got it." He paused, then, without looking at her: "So how about this: a vacation from your school. Take a break. Come teach a few classes with me—at the Institute of Occult Arts."

Yuzu turned sharply.

"Yeah. Just temporary. Change of air, different students, fresh atmosphere. And we could… keep closer. That way, if something happens again, you don't have to wait until three in the morning to call me."

Silence.

Yuzu didn't answer—not yet.

But inside her, something shifted.

And Gojo felt it too.

He applied no pressure. He just put a light song on the radio and kept driving, as though merely staying beside her offered some protection.

The villa lay wrapped in a muffled hush, as if even the walls were asleep. No creaks, no mechanical hum; only the crisp turn of Gojo's key and the click of the door closing behind them.

"Gojo, I need to make a couple of calls."

He nodded.

"Pick any room you like."

His voice was deeper than usual, carrying the night's echo. Yuzu nodded faintly and followed him—barefoot on warm wood—down a broad corridor in pale tones. She chose the tea room.

The room was as orderly as a monk's thoughts: sliding paper walls, a low table of natural wood, cushions set in symmetry, a dark-ceramic teapot already waiting, as though someone—or something—had foreseen it. Liquid amber swirled inside as Yuzu poured the water, steam rising slowly, almost respectfully.

Her hands trembled just a little, yet the motion itself forced her into calm.

She picked up the phone.

The call to Airi lasted far longer than she had imagined. When her friend's hoarse voice finally answered—just a tentative "Yuzu…?"—she spoke, in a low murmur, a confession more than a report.

She apologized for the hour. She told everything: the dream, the overturned easel, Haru's hollow eyes, the hands emerging from her own mouth, the knocking on the hotel door, the voice calling her. Every detail. And then the notebook—how the black was not ink but something that seemed to grow across the paper.

Airi never interrupted. Only at the end did she say, "Please, that's enough. Come stay with me. Or I'll come get you. Right now."

"No." Yuzu's voice was quiet. "I can't. Not until we understand more. I don't want anything happening to you because of me."

"We're already in this, Yuzu. You, me, that school… that thing in the paintings. Don't isolate yourself. That's exactly playing into its hand."

Yuzu drew her knees to her chest, seated on the cushion, phone in hand.

"Let me protect you, just this once. While I still can."

There was a pause. Then Airi, after a deep breath, asked, "Have you thought about Gojo's offer?"

Yuzu traced a finger along the warm rim of the cup. "Yes. I might go. A few weeks. To step back, see things from outside. Put some distance."

"To stay close to him, you mean."

Yuzu didn't answer right away. Then she smiled softly. "That too."

They talked on—about paintings, the void in dreams, about Haru, about art that warps whatever it touches—until the words began to fade of their own accord, exhausted. They said goodbye with a silence worth more than any promise.

When Yuzu left the room, Gojo was standing in the corridor, leaning against a wall. He hadn't gone far. His collar was unbuttoned, hands in his pockets, face more serious, staring at nothing.

"Everything okay?" he asked without turning.

"For now. Talking to her helped."

"You help her too. Always."

Yuzu stepped closer, stopping a meter away. Warm light filtered from a low lamp.

"Tomorrow I'll stop by school. Tell the principal I need some time off. Pick up a few things from home."

Gojo finally turned, watching her for a long moment—not with his eyes, hidden behind the usual blindfold, but with something that went beyond them.

"I'm coming with you."

"No need."

"There is. Even if you don't want it."

She merely sighed, tilting her head, then almost smiled. "You never wait to be asked, do you?"

He moved a step nearer—close enough for her to feel his warmth. "Only when I know silence says more than a yes."

Yuzu looked at him, then turned slowly away. "Tomorrow, at dawn."

"Perfect." A beat. "I'll make coffee too. It'll be awful."

"I trust you."

When she walked off, the house remained suspended in a strangely vivid hush, as if something—or someone—had held its breath all that time.

And now, slowly, it began to breathe again.

-----

Dawn light slid across the windshield in liquid reflections. Tokyo was waking slowly, yet the Institute of Occult Arts already seemed alert—bathed in an unreal calm. The main entrance, broad and austere, appeared to scrutinize whoever approached. Ancient stone met glass; neat moss grew between the blocks. There was beauty, yes, but a restless one, as if the very air were holding its breath.

Gojo killed the engine with one fluid motion and turned toward her.

"Welcome to the house of misfits. No spirits on an empty stomach, promise."

Yuzu kept her hands folded in her lap, eyeing him sideways. "One of your promises is worth about as much as a contract scrawled on torn paper."

"Touché." A gentle, lopsided smile touched his lips. "But admit it—you're enjoying yourself."

"It intrigues me. That's different."

"You say that as though they weren't the same thing."

They got out. They walked abreast—her step short and poised, his long and loose, slicing the air. Anyone who crossed his path lowered their gaze, greeted, fell silent. But when they spotted Yuzu, some students lingered, struck by the newcomer's quiet confidence: composure, refinement—an elegance that didn't ask for attention; it imposed it.

They reached the headmaster's office. Gojo knocked twice and entered without waiting.

Inside was sparse but thick with silence: low shelves, a window onto a dry garden, an old clock on the wall. The headmaster was already standing there, hands clasped behind his back—an older man, narrow dark eyes behind thin sunglasses, his voice rough as worked wood.

"Tachibana-san." A slight bow. "Satoru told me about you"

Gojo offered a half-bow. "I introduced you as an artist, a teacher, a survivor, and a witness to the horrors of modernity."

"A curious résumé," the headmaster said, without sarcasm. "We'll give you a temporary chair. Two hours a day, starting this morning, for a month. Second-year students—bright, but fragile."

Yuzu bowed. "I'll do my best. Thank you for the trust."

"Trust here is earned through experience," he replied, dipping his head slowly. "It isn't a favor."

Back in the corridor, only their shoes echoed.

Gojo shot her a sideways glance. "Even wooden puppets like you. Congratulations."

"I speak little. You speak too much," she answered.

"And yet you don't chase me off."

She lowered her eyes, a half-smile that said enough.

He led her to a small studio classroom. Yuzu went straight to work, choosing three pieces: a distorted Kandinsky, a little-known Hokusai, and a detail from Bacon. She wanted to talk about chaos, order, and form—about beauty that exists even where it hurts.

Gojo watched her wrestle with the printer, sitting backward on a chair, chin on the backrest.

"What's today—Aesthetics of Pain?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"About urgency. About the truth you can't ignore."

"Quoting me?"

"Quoting myself."

"Presumptuous," he teased, sticking out his tongue.

"Mm… only honest." She smiled.

Their eyes locked; neither looked away first.

By 8:55 the materials were ready. They walked side by side through columned corridors. A female student bowed respectfully; Gojo replied with an exaggerated bow.

"See? Idol of the masses."

"They tolerate you because you're tall."

"And charismatic."

"And talkative," Yuzu corrected.

They reached the open-air lecture hall in the garden. Gojo paused to greet a colleague. Yuzu arranged her papers slowly, brushed the lectern's surface, smoothed her fringe, cleared her throat.

He watched her. Always. Finished greeting.

He came back to her side.

Softly he said, "You fit here."

She didn't turn right away. Then she did, silent.

"It's only for a month."

"Or for as long as you need."

Time hovered. She lowered her gaze. "Go. I have two hours of silence to keep."

"I'll pretend to obey."

The seats were still empty, yet the air had already taken shape.

The outdoor classroom nestled between two wings of the Institute: a broad courtyard framed by maple trees and moss-covered stones. An almost imperceptible breeze made the air feel alive—perfect.

While she waited, Yuzu moved slowly, precisely, arranging chairs in a circle with space between each one. She wanted the students to breathe art, but also space. In the center lay her materials—prints, notes, a few boards with preparatory sketches. No barrier. She taught like that: face-to-face.

At nine sharp, the first students arrived—quiet but curious. Some sat cautiously, others with the reluctance of not knowing what to expect. One whispered, asking if she was really the new teacher.

Then the voice began.

"Kandinsky, 1913. Composition VII."

Silence thickened. A few teachers, drawn by the unusual setup, lingered at the edge of the courtyard. No one spoke. Yuzu stood at the center, hands clasped behind her back, gaze intent.

"Chaos at first glance—a whirlpool. But not without rules. Kandinsky was a musician before he was a painter, and you can see it: colours chase one another like notes, overlap like instruments in an atonal symphony."

She paced among the students while she spoke, never raising her voice, yet every syllable was clear, precise—an engraving.

"Don't look for the subject. Look for the rhythm, the breath of the image. That's where the painting comes alive."

They followed her. Some took notes; others simply watched, spellbound.

Yuzu halted before the second print—a detailed reproduction of a Francis Bacon face.

"Now look at this. See the face. Human, yes—and no. It's disfigured, stretched, compressed, as though emotion—fear, pain—had overpowered the flesh itself."

She produced a small magnifying lens, handing it to a boy.

"Look here. The mouth. It isn't screaming, yet it might as well be—a visual echo. Bacon didn't want beauty; he wanted truth. His truth. And he taught us that sometimes it's hideous, yes—but it's real."

The boy nodded slowly, eyes shining with the recognition of something he hadn't known he was seeking.

Yuzu knelt beside a girl who had just raised her hand. Quietly they discussed colours, symbols, silences.

The circle—once mere spatial arrangement—had become ritual.

That was when she saw him.

Beyond the ring of students, Gojo had appeared, leaning against a stone pillar, hands in his pockets, the usual white blindfold, that smile that never gave everything away.

He said nothing.

Didn't move.

Watched her.

Yuzu kept her rhythm, yet when her eyes met his face she paused—for no longer than a breath—then smiled, and continued.

"Hokusai said art doesn't truly begin before seventy. I believe it begins every time we find the courage to see—to look beneath the surface."

Time seemed to stretch. When the eleven-o'clock gong echoed through the corridors, many students remained seated. No one rose at once. As if something had taken root there, in those words, in that voice.

Yuzu closed the lesson with a light bow and began gathering her materials, one print at a time.

Gojo approached only when the students drifted away, slowly, still absorbed.

"You hypnotised even me, and I don't even understand Bacon."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"But you know what?"

She looked at him sideways.

"That you seem made to be here."

Yuzu didn't answer—at least not immediately. She slid the last print into its folder, then turned to him.

"'To stay' is a word that scares me. But for today… ok." She smiled. 

Gojo dipped his head slightly.

Then turned. "Hungry?"

"Teaching horror and beauty drains you."

"Then let's go replace some calories. And afterward… I'll show you the Institute the way no one else sees it."

Yuzu adjusted her hair, allowed herself a faint smile— and followed him.