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No answer.
Gojo snapped his fingers. The dust didn’t vanish. The mold didn’t disappear. But the air shifted. The oppressive weight of cursed energy—the memory of violence—thinned, just a little.
Gojo stopped. He turned, and for the first time, Yuji saw the exhaustion behind the smile. It was the same exhaustion Yuji felt in his own bones.
Hope.
This was the apartment he’d shared with his grandfather. This was the place he’d left every morning, shouting “I’m off!” to a grunt and a wave. This was home .