Vanilla, Dust and Distruption.

Morning

The morning opened with the scent of filtered coffee and a fine mist fogging up the kitchen windows. Yuzu had been up before dawn: planner on the table, blue pen, neatly written notes. She was supposed to go to school that morning.

She wore a simple but well-put-together outfit — high-waisted sand-colored trousers, a white shirt with sleeves rolled up with identical precision, and cream loafers. Her dark hair, straight and shiny, was pulled into a soft yet tidy ponytail; a touch of eyeliner, a hint of cherry lipstick.

She wore her usual discreet fragrance of vanilla and warm spices — not to be noticed, but to be remembered.

In the Classroom

She entered classroom 3B with a calm stride, her hands full with folders and a tube of prints. The hum — laughter, scraping chairs, clicking pens — quieted almost immediately.

Not because she shouted.

Yuzu never shouted.

It was enough the way she set the materials on the desk and looked up: the class fell into order.

The students respected her. All of them.

Not out of fear, but because she respected them first: she remembered their names, their grades, even who ground their teeth when nervous.

And she had that natural elegance — not something she taught, but something one could sense — like the invisible lines beneath a perfect composition.

"Good morning, everyone."

Her voice was clear, soft.

"Today we're talking about harmony. About grace. About a man who made human beauty almost liturgical: Raffaello Sanzio."

She unrolled the prints on the magnetic board: Sistine Madonna, Portrait of Baldassare Castiglione, a detail of the hands from the Transfiguration. Each image had a handwritten label — small, slanted, blue letters. Some students stood on tiptoe to get a better look.

Yuzu stepped closer to the prints.

She ran her fingers — without touching — along the edges of the Madonna's face.

"Look at the eyes," she said.

"He didn't copy: he listened. The line is calm, the light is gentle. Even pain, in Raffaello, has good manners."

A pause.

A murmur of chuckles.

Then, attentive silence.

She continued.

"His idea of beauty wasn't perfection, but balance. His figures don't beg. They don't shout. But they communicate. Raffaello knew that what is most human… is also what lasts the longest."

Her words fell like drops on glass. Precise.

She wasn't performing.

It felt like she was living the painting as she spoke.

After the theory lesson, they moved easels and canvases into the light room. The large south-facing windows sliced the air into golden beams; the dust suspended in the air looked like pigment.

The scent of linseed oil, solvents, and wooden frames created the familiar perfume of the studio.

Yuzu moved silently among the easels.

Her steps light, her gaze watchful but never intrusive.

She corrected improper brush grips, suggested dilutions, pointed out the ideal direction of light with two fingers, never raising her voice.

Two students, usually withdrawn — Haru and Kenta, always seated at the back during theory lessons — were working that day with long-settled focus.

They spoke little. They had chosen oil paint.

Haru began sketching a Saint Sebastian: the head tilted, eyes not pleading but asking forgiveness.

Kenta, next to him, was building a Madonna with a faint smile that didn't belong to the Renaissance, but to the kindness of a real mother.

The brushstrokes, slow, loaded with medium, made the damp light vibrate on the canvas.

Yuzu stopped behind them, her hands clasped behind her back.

She didn't interrupt.

She remained silent, observing them.

She felt something shift in the air — an intention? An attentiveness?

And she made a mental note:

"Watch these two. They have an ear for light."

She lingered a few more seconds in front of their canvases, then moved on.

Without making a sound.

...In the afternoon, at the museum....

That afternoon, she closed the attendance book and the studio, and decided to indulge in a detour.

She had read about a photography exhibition at a museum not far away: Light and Identity – Portraits and Surfaces in Contemporary Japan. It was the perfect continuation of a morning with Raffaello.

Or perhaps a counterpoint.

Before going out, she changed clothes: dark blue cigarette jeans, a soft tucked-in dusty blue shirt, and a light cream coat. She let her hair down; the dark length fell straight down her back.

Shoulder bag, digital ticket on her phone, and off she went.

The museum was quiet: pale stone floors, focused lighting, suspended panels.

The loudest sounds were the hum of the air conditioning and the measured footsteps of other visitors.

The photographs played with contrast — faces split in half by light, hands emerging from darkness, glossy surfaces reflecting distorted profiles.

Yuzu lingered in front of a portrait of an elderly woman, back curved, hands resting in her lap.

The side lighting brought out every wrinkle in her skin like engravings on copper.

A disarming realism.

Raffaello would have loved this tenderness, she thought. He, too, sought the sacred in flesh. But with a grace that moved with restraint.

This photograph, instead, spoke with rougher silences. Truer ones.

She took a step back.

Then another.

Breathed in softly.

And that's when the air shifted.

At first she felt it — a subtle variation, a sound wave too alive for such a space.

Then she recognized it.

A laugh.

Open. Melodramatic. Swaggering.

She turned.

Gojo Satoru.

Dressed all in black, as if the museum were a catwalk.

White blindfold over his eyes, white hair gleaming under the 5000K lights.

Around him, three teenagers: dark jackets, notebooks, the clumsy energy of those on their first real field assignment.

Yuzu approached at a measured pace, arms folded in front of her.

"Coincidence?" she asked, tone neutral.

Gojo spread his arms like a game-show host.

"Fate! Or—" he tilted his head, "—you're following me, Tachibana-sensei. I get it. My charm is a logistical issue."

She held back a smile.

"I don't give you that much importance."

"Cruel. In front of my students." A mock gasp. Then, whisper: "Personal field trip?"

"Photo exhibition. Reviewing light."

"Perfect. We're here for…" he twirled his hand, "technical inspections. Light, shadows, stray reflections, any rebellious photographic entities. You know, the usual artistic-cosmic bureaucracy."

She glanced at him sideways.

With that expression that doesn't judge, just records.

"In a museum."

"There are more anomalies under a museum spotlight than in some abandoned temples. Never underestimate curatorship."

She was about to reply when the intercom crackled:

"Dear visitors, please proceed to the main exit for a brief safety procedure. Thank you for your cooperation."

The audience began to trickle out.

Yuzu grabbed her bag, ready to leave.

Gojo didn't move.

"You're not coming?"

"In a moment."

He twisted his wrist, as if checking an invisible watch.

"Wait for me outside, if you can. I promise I'll be quick. Ten… fifteen minutes? Okay, twenty tops. Fine, don't time me."

"Should I?"

"No. But I'd like it if you did."

He smiled beneath the blindfold.

"Trust me."

And she — against all professional logic — stepped outside.

...The wait…

In the courtyard, the mild wind blew strands of hair across her face. Visitors stood in loose circles, some on their phones, bored children in tow.

Yuzu checked her watch: five minutes had passed.

Then twelve.

Then twenty-six.

Quick, he had said.

She sighed.

And yet she stayed.

Hands clasped over her bag.

Admission ticket still in her coat pocket.

When staff reopened the doors ("All clear now, thank you for your patience!"), she was among the first back inside.

Gojo was just beyond the threshold, as if he'd timed her steps precisely.

"See?" He spread his arms.

"Not even long enough for a full green tea."

"You have an elastic sense of time."

"I have an elastic sense of everything."

A pause.

"Including you."

She crossed her arms. A pause longer than necessary.

Then:

"Do you need something, Gojo-sensei?"

"Yes. A tiny favor." He leaned forward, hands behind his back in that mock-innocent pose of his.

"If, let's say, fate were to organize a fourth surprise encounter… I'd rather have direct contact. That way we can avoid disturbing museums, puppets, or sushi bars."

Yuzu stared at him.

He stayed silent — rare.

Finally, she opened her bag and pulled out a cream-colored business card with blue lettering:

Yuzu Tachibana – Art History Instructor

She handed it to him with two fingers.

Precise. Light.

Gojo took it as if it were a talisman.

"Elegant. Neat. It speaks of you."

He rummaged through his jacket and returned the gesture:

Matte black cardstock, minimal silver print:

Satoru Gojo – Tokyo Institute of Occult Arts

A number. Nothing more.

"Occult Arts," Yuzu repeated.

"Long name. We pay outrageous taxes on brochure printing."

She shook her head slowly.

"Goodbye, Sensei."

"Harmonious dreams, Tachibana-sensei. And if Leonardo da Vinci shows up in your sleep… tell him I'm jealous."

He let her go.

And Yuzu, as she crossed the atrium with the black card gripped between her fingers, realized that her days — tidy, clean, predictable — had just acquired a variable impossible to categorize.