Tonight, the dream truly changed its tone.
The forest? Yes, it's still there, my young reader—but the wind is warmer now, almost summer-like. The foliage no longer casts shadows: it embroiders light over the fields of fennel and strawberries.
And she's no longer just a trace of shoulders in the grain, finally. She walks beside me! I don't know when she matched my stride; I only know that her presence doesn't weigh on me—on the contrary, it carries me along.
She wears a red dress—not a shouting red, but a mature, wine-deep red—that draws simple lines over her slender frame. Her black hair falls as always: straight, long and free. Every now and then, she turns and smiles. Not at me, though, nor at the forest: she smiles at the walking itself, as if the act of moving forward were a promise of something to come.
We don't speak. And yet, something seems to speak on its own: the rhythm of our strides matches, our breathing falls into harmony.
I reach out a hand—not to take hers, but to make sure the path ahead is clear. She doesn't quicken her pace, doesn't fall behind. She walks right beside me and her second smile—that one—meets me with glistening eyes.
As we go on, we come to a wide expanse of wheat.
The field opens in golden waves of grain, the scent of crust and flour rising like a lyrical song into our noses. No hand emerges from the earth this time, no sudden, perilous lunge. Only her, who—without turning back—brushes a stalk with two fingers and murmurs:
"Strength doesn't lie in the fist that clenches, but in the heart that stays steady."
The phrase doesn't pull me down—it roots me right there, beside her. That's when I understand I'm not chasing a shadow: I'm learning a step that holds together with another person's.
I wake up slowly, opening my eyes—not with a start, like the other times. My body is alert as always, my mind clear. And yet, there's something new that unsettles me more than any alarm: I'm moved. Deeply, yes. A good kind of emotion—upright, vertical—one that asks to be worn with order and courage.
I get ready, step out in my true form, just like every morning. But today, I decide not to stop by the bakery: the bread can wait. The Institute can't.
The entrance lane of the U.A. glistens with dew and post-rain puddles; it's bad weather, and quite cold. Students gather in clusters, each with their own group, while I hear muffled laughter in the distance and the chatter of a few hysterical girls. I quicken my pace in my hero's form... when suddenly—I see her.
She's there, just a few meters from the gate, holding a slim blue notebook in her hand. Her black hair is tied up in a bun—a little onion shape—with a few strands loose across her face. The same beige coat, the same slender frame I saw at the bakery. She's talking to one of the institute's gate attendants; she nods, then thanks him and steps aside so as not to block the way, brushing the man's elbow lightly with her hand.
Her profile, in the morning light, is clearer than in the dream—and yet it matches that same serenity: she seems to walk close even when standing still.
I feel my presence expand, as it always does before an entrance. Then the unexpected happens: I stop—not of my own will. My heart is pounding.
What's happening, Toshinori?
I, who can walk into any room certain I can bear its weight—chest lifted, stride firm—now measure the distance as if those few meters couldn't be crossed by legs alone, but needed a declaration.
Come on, Toshinori. It's a woman in front of a gate, not a cataclysm.
Right. But some thresholds rise higher than the roofs I've broken through.
I take a step. The gravel crunches beneath me, and evidently she hears it too, because she lifts her gaze—just for an instant, just long enough for a polite acknowledgment.
She hasn't recognized me; she's seen me. There's a difference.
A second step. The voice—my voice, the one that can fill an arena—shrinks small in my throat.
Introduce yourself. Keep it simple. Don't ruin the threshold with the weight of the persona. Remember the dream: two steps in sync, her beside me...
"Good morning," I say.
The word comes out measured, almost timid, as if I were stepping into someone else's house with my hat in hand. "Do you remember me? We've... already met. At the bakery."
She tilts her head, a faint smile — not inviting closeness, but granting it. "Oh, good morning, Mr. All Might. Mmm... I don't think we've met there, though."
What a blunder! Of course she wouldn't recognize me — I was in my lean form, not the Muscle one!
"Oh... perhaps I'm mistaking you for someone else..."
A deep breath. My command habits push for space: a quip, a gesture, an 'I am—'. They're about to slip out, but I stop them — gently. No need. Don't always be the Symbol. Be present — but above all, be yourself, Toshinori!
The gravel crunches again under my step. She lifts her gaze just enough to register me — not a surprised face, but a present one.
My voice comes out smaller than usual: "Do you need something... here?"
"Yes," she answers naturally. "I'm the supervisor for the company that handles the institute's cleaning... and some of the technical areas. We needed to check the shifts and the new safety routes."
I nod. The information steadies my heart: she's not an apparition, but a presence with a purpose — a clear role within this place I protect.
Good. She's in the real world. She's here to work. Then speak to her with respect, not with wonder.
I find my breath again. "I can walk you to the gate, if you'd like."
She looks at me, surprised but not at all displeased.
"O...of course."
She takes a half-step and falls into line beside me. Her stride is calm; it doesn't trip over mine.
We walk. The silence doesn't bite. It's just like in the dream!
I feel the temptation to fill it with a flawless speech — experience can build those in an instant — but I let it pass and stay quiet. I choose honest shyness over automatic charisma: a strength I've almost never used, and today it feels like the only fitting one.
You've faced monsters. You can face the fact that she's beside you — and that it matters. Don't hide behind carved phrases; tell her the smallest truth.
"I'm sorry about the commotion at the entrance," I say calmly. "Did you manage to access the technical areas without trouble?"
She nods, professionally. "Yes, we collect the badges at reception, then run inspections along stairwells B and C."
"Perfect. There's a bus arriving today — if you find the corridors crowded, ask security for assistance. They'll open the fast routes for you."
"Understood! I'll note that right away, thank you very much, All Might-san."
She smiles with polite detachment. To her, I'm just the man at the gate. The hero everyone knows.
I stop for a moment before crossing through.
"Well then... have a good day." I smile and lift my chest.
"To you, All Might," she replies with a smile. Then she adds, almost to herself, "Today the wind carries far. Please, make sure to keep warm — it's cold outside."
Then she turns and walks toward the service entrance. I head the other way, stepping into U.A. with my back straight and a neat timidity in my chest.
It isn't weakness: it's a new method of listening.
And I feel that, from now on, my confidence won't be a shining armor, but a stride that knows how to wait for the other.
My heart, strangely, beats harder than it should, while the scent of bread — somewhere in the city — does the rest.