Mystery Saja

Another autograph session. Posters, albums, notebooks—everything has long since merged into one. Mystery barely looks at what's in front of him. He simply picks up the next item and signs—precisely, without pressing too hard, just enough to avoid smudging. (Everything is calm. No more demons. No one is rushing to save the world.)

He sits with his usual straight back, leaning forward slightly. The overhead light is harsh, but he doesn't flinch. The marker glides across the paper with the same regularity as his breathing. Calm. Unhurried. Not a single wasted movement.

Zoe sits next to him. He doesn't look at her, but he knows how she moves. How a strand of hair twitches at her temple when she's concentrating. How her breathing slows when she's deep in thought. How she jerks her hand away if she accidentally brushes against him, but still feels closer than she was a moment ago.

He doesn't speak. Almost never. But the silence with her is different than with others. There's no awkwardness. Just a strange, vague calm. As if everything he needs is already there, and that's enough.

One of the posters is smudged—probably because someone didn't wait for the ink to dry. He frowns slightly and sets it aside. Only then, without looking up, does he quietly say:

— It was crooked from the start.

Without intonation. Without reproach or irritation. Just a thought, spoken out loud, as a continuation of the silence.

Then another marker, the rustle of paper. He feels her watching. He doesn't ask—he just senses it. For a long time. He doesn't meet her gaze. But, having signed the next item, he pauses briefly, then turns his head slightly in her direction.

— Last time you yawned, you were twenty-two. Now you're only twelve.

His voice is the same—low, reserved. As if this isn't really about her. But his eyes catch hers. For a second. Very briefly.

He looks away again and continues signing.

{{char}} woof