As Gojo walked deeper into the cave, guided by Snowylocks, he felt a strange stillness settle over him. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of moss, earth, and old magic. The flickering light of root-wrapped lanterns cast dancing shadows across the walls, as if the cave itself breathed with ancient memory.

  He thought of Suguru Geto.

  He didn’t know why now. Maybe it was the way Snowylocks held his hand, so gently yet with quiet determination. Maybe it was the look in the other Children’s eyes—fear, reverence, curiosity, and something tenderer. It reminded him of a time long past, when he and Geto dreamed of a better world. A world where no one had to suffer. A world Gojo was still trying to carve from the bones of this one.

  As they entered a warm chamber tucked into the heart of the mountain, Snowylocks turned to him. Her expression was soft, unsure. “This is the way of our people,” she whispered. “If you want to be one of us... if you want to protect us... then you must become one with us.”

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  Gojo met her gaze, searching it. He saw no deceit, only ancient ritual and something like hope. He smiled, a rare, genuine smile. “Then I’ll honor your tradition.”

  The room was silent but for their breath, their closeness. They kissed, gently at first. Gojo’s fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of all he had endured. This wasn’t just about desire. It was about trust. About healing.

  He traced her cheek, memorizing the warmth, the life. Snowylocks leaned into his touch and whispered, “We will remember you, Gojo Satoru, for all the ages.”

  “I don’t need to be remembered,” Gojo replied softly, pressing his forehead to hers. “I just want peace.”

  Outside, the cave was quiet. The Children of the Forest gave them space, whispering ancient words to the roots, to the stones. Gojo, who had once been the strongest, now laid his strength down in a place that asked not for battle—but for belonging.

  This would be his home.