Report

It was already afternoon when they returned to Jujutsu High.

Suguru Geto parked the car and switched off the engine, but stayed in his seat. The sunlight outside the window was bright, reflecting off the teaching building's white walls in a blinding glare. He watched that patch of light, then unbuckled his seat belt.

Satoru Gojo had already gotten out. Leaning against the car door, he said, "You're writing the report."

"Why?"

"Because Mr. Yaga can't understand what I write."

Suguru Geto glanced at him and didn't argue. Satoru Gojo had a habit of condensing his mission reports into three lines: "Arrived. Fought. Came back." Every time Masamichi Yaga saw a report like that, he would fall silent for a long while, then write "Redo" in red pen.

They entered the teaching building. The hallway was quiet. The second afternoon class hadn't ended yet, and the sounds of a teacher lecturing and students turning pages drifted out of a classroom. As Suguru Geto passed its doorway, he saw Yu Haibara through the glass pane in the door. Haibara sat by the window, diligently taking notes, his pen racing across the page without him once looking up.

Suguru Geto didn't stop. He continued down the hallway to the office door and knocked.

"Come in."

Masamichi Yaga sat behind his desk, with several mission sheets and other documents spread out before him. He looked up, glanced at Suguru Geto, then at Satoru Gojo, and set down his pen.

"You're back?"

"We're back," Suguru Geto said.

"How did it go?"

Suguru Geto sat down across from him and recounted the mission, from the art museum's layout to the cursed spirit's traits, from the structure of the world inside the painting to how the security guard's consciousness had returned. He went into detail, but left a few things out. Those things didn't need to go into the report, nor did Masamichi Yaga need to hear them.

After listening, Masamichi Yaga was silent for a few seconds.

"A special grade cursed spirit that hurt no one and only trapped the security guard's consciousness," he repeated, as though confirming something. "It didn't attack you after you went in?"

"No," Suguru Geto said.

Masamichi Yaga glanced at him but didn't press further. He picked up his pen, wrote a few lines on the mission sheet, then closed the folder.

"Hand in the report tomorrow. I'll speak to the Association. You don't need to worry about that."

Suguru Geto nodded, stood, and headed for the door. Satoru Gojo had already left the office ahead of him, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

"Geto," Masamichi Yaga called after him.

Suguru Geto stopped and turned.

"What did you do with the painting?"

"We left it where it was," Suguru Geto said. "Once the cursed spirit disappeared, it was just an ordinary painting."

Masamichi Yaga nodded and said nothing more.

Suguru Geto left the office and closed the door.

Instead of returning to his dorm room, he went to the rooftop.

The rooftop door was unlocked. He pushed it open, and the wind immediately rushed toward him, blowing his hair across his forehead. Satoru Gojo was already there, leaning against the railing and facing the sports field. He heard the footsteps but didn't turn.

Suguru Geto walked over and stopped beside him. About half a meter separated them, neither close nor far.

"What are you thinking about?" Suguru Geto asked.

Satoru Gojo didn't answer right away. He watched a few first-year students running on the field for a while, then said, "That painter."

"Kazuki Hashimoto?"

"Yeah," Satoru Gojo said. "He painted his whole life, and no one ever understood his work. After he died, his loneliness became a cursed spirit. That cursed spirit stayed inside the painting for over twenty years, and no one ever understood it either."

Suguru Geto turned his head to look at him. Satoru Gojo's profile was clear in the sunlight, but his sunglasses obscured his expression.

"Did you understand it?" Suguru Geto asked.

Satoru Gojo was silent for a few seconds.

"No," he said. "But you did."

Suguru Geto looked away, toward the students on the field. They had finished running and were bent over, gasping for breath. One of them raised his head and glanced in their direction, then lowered it again.

"I only described what he saw," Suguru Geto said. "The mountains were moving, and the sky was growing light. That wasn't something I understood. It was what he wanted people to see."

"Is there a difference?"

Suguru Geto thought for a moment.

"Yes," he said. "Understanding means comprehension. Seeing means acceptance."

Satoru Gojo said nothing. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and braced them on the railing, leaning forward slightly. The wind stirred his hair and billowed his white shirt.

"Geto. Do you think that painter wanted someone to understand that painting while he was painting it?"

Suguru Geto thought about Kazuki Hashimoto. An obscure painter who had painted his whole life without anyone understanding his work. When he painted that self-portrait, he knew he was dying. He left all his loneliness, fear, and bitterness in the paint, then died. More than twenty years later, two jujutsu sorcerers walked into a private art museum and opened the door to the east gallery.

"He did," Suguru Geto said. "But later, he gave up hoping."

"Why?"

"Because if you hope for too long, that can become loneliness too."

Satoru Gojo straightened up and turned around, resting his back against the railing to face Suguru Geto. Sunlight fell across his face, reflecting off his sunglasses and hiding his eyes. But Suguru Geto could feel him looking at him.

"Are you still lonely now?" Satoru Gojo asked.

Suguru Geto froze for a moment.

The question came so suddenly that he had no time to prepare an answer. He looked at Satoru Gojo, and Satoru Gojo looked back. The wind blew between them, sweeping Suguru Geto's hair across his forehead. He didn't reach up to brush it aside.

"I don't know," Suguru Geto said.

Satoru Gojo nodded, as though he had known all along that he would answer that way.

"It's okay not to know," he said, then pushed away from the railing and headed toward the rooftop door.

"Come on. Time to eat."

Suguru Geto followed him down the stairs.

When they reached the cafeteria entrance, Satoru Gojo suddenly stopped.

"Geto."

"Yeah."

"The next mission will be the two of us again."

It wasn't a question, but a statement. Suguru Geto looked at him, and he looked back. Light spilled through the gap in the cafeteria doors onto Satoru Gojo's shoulders, illuminating the collar of his white shirt.

"Okay," Suguru Geto said.

Satoru Gojo pushed the door open and went inside.

There weren't many people in the cafeteria. Yu Haibara was sitting in a corner. When he saw the two of them enter, he waved. Shoko sat beside him with a bowl of ramen in front of her, picking out the seaweed with her chopsticks and putting it on a small plate.

Suguru Geto got a meal and carried his tray over to sit across from Haibara. Satoru Gojo sat beside him.

"Did the mission go well?" Haibara asked.

"Pretty well."

Suguru Geto lowered his head and began eating. The curry tasted the same as always, sweet rather than spicy, with carrots and potatoes in it.

Shoko pushed the seaweed she had picked out to one side of the plate, took a sip of soup, then set down her bowl.

After dinner, Suguru Geto helped Haibara carry his tray to the return counter. By the time he left the cafeteria, it was dark. When he reached his dorm room door, he stopped and turned around.

Satoru Gojo stood two steps behind him, holding a half-finished can of strawberry milk.

"Good night," Suguru Geto said.

"Good night," Satoru Gojo said.

Suguru Geto opened the door, went inside, and closed it.

Suguru Geto walked to the window and opened it. The night air rushed in, carrying the scent of leaves and the barking of a dog somewhere in the distance.

He remembered the question Satoru Gojo had asked on the rooftop: "Are you still lonely now?"

Suguru Geto stood at the window for a long time.

Then he closed the window, drew the curtains, and lay down on the bed.

The pillow was soft, the blanket was light, and the bed beneath him was a little hard.