(The Echoes Beneath Us) Chapter 10 of Before My Very Eyes

The place was unsettling, even at a glance. High walls rose around it, their stone darkened with age and a damp that seemed eternal. Moss clung to every crevice, and twisted vines spiraled up toward the iron spikes lining the top. In the center, a single gothic building stood, its spires clawing up toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The windows were narrow, glinting faintly in the sunlight like watchful eyes, and the entrance was a massive double door, half-open, as if waiting to swallow them whole.

But it was the air around it that truly disturbed me. It reeked of cursed energy, thick and vile, clinging to the building like a shroud.

We climbed out of the car and Gojo-sensei, calm and unaffected as ever, gave us the lowdown on why we were here.

He explained things we already knew.

How Cursed energy was born from the darkest recesses of human emotion, a force that existed in opposition to everything warm, everything pure. It didn’t spring from tranquil places or moments of kindness. It grew in shadows, in twisted thoughts and buried pain. It seeped from the scars left on hearts, from secrets held too tightly, from nightmares that never ended, from hopes crushed.

It was the sum of fear and hatred, love turned rancid, anger curdled into violence, envy left to fester in the dark. A vile cocktail of human suffering, it swelled up in man, woman, child, like poison, fed by every grim thought, every bitter memory. That was the truth of cursed energy—an energy drawn from everything ugly and vile.

It was why we stood in front of an orphanage.

St. Mary’s Orphanage to be specific.

Out on the very outskirts of Sendai.

A place meant to be a sanctuary for the abandoned, the unwanted, for children whose lives had been carved by loss and loneliness.

The kind of pain and grief that, when left to fester, was powerful enough to spawn curses.

The door to the manse fully creaked open, and an old lady hobbled out with a slow, limping gait, her head wrapped in a worn shawl that barely hid her silver hair. Her frail frame moved with care as she shuffled closer, until she stood before Gojo-sensei, peering up at him with sharp, scrutinizing eyes.

The two of them stared at each other in silence, the heavy atmosphere wrapping tighter around us, making it hard to breathe. I glanced between them, my mind wondering what the fuck was going on.

Suddenly, with a speed that seemed impossible for someone so old, the woman’s hand shot out, reaching toward Gojo-sensei's face. My eyes widened, half expecting some kind of attack—but instead, her bony fingers seized his cheek and gave it a sharp, familiar tug.

“Satoru-kun!” she crowed, giving his face a not-so-gentle tug. “Still as skinny as ever, I see.”

"Yuna-obasan!" Gojo-sensei’s usual cool demeanor broke, as he laughed, actually laughed, letting her pinch and prod his face like he was a child.

"Obasan…?!” The words tumbled out my lips out of surprise.

She turned her attention to us, raising an eyebrow in our direction. “And who are these little strays you’ve picked up, Satoru-kun?”

“Oh, these are my munchkins,” Gojo-sensei said, grinning at our dumbfounded faces. “Everyone, meet Yuna-obasan, my honorary grandma. She practically raised me. Oba-san, these are my students.”

She squinted at us, her eyes narrowing to laser points. “You? With students? Pfft! Thought you were committed to doing the lone wolf thing especially after G—“

“Oba-san!”

“Oh please, you can’t tell me, you’re still sore about G—“

“Oba. San!”

“Fine, fine.”

Her gaze drifted over each of us, zeroing in on Megumi first, the weight of her scrutiny almost making him flinch.

“This is the Zen’in.”

Megumi’s face twisted, and he opened his mouth, but Gojo-sensei cut in with a dramatic flair. “Oh, Oba-san, don't insult him like that. This is Fushiguro Megumi, not Zen'in.”

“Tch don’t insult my intelligence, Satoru-boy. He is the most Zen’in of them all.” She retorted, crossing her arms. “Look at that scowl. He practically radiates ‘grumpy Zen’in energy.”

“My name is Fushiguro Megumi, Oba-san. Fushiguro!” He enunciated it carefully, his face a mix of irritation and patience. “If that’s so hard for you to remember, you can just call me Megumi.”

“Ohhh, this one’s got claws,” she cackled, clearly delighted at his comeback. In the way, the actions of the young delighted the old.

Before she shifted to me, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “And what about this one? Why’s this one look like a tomato with arms?”

My face burned. “Tomato—?! Hey, that’s—” I spluttered, reaching up to pat my hair self-consciously. I was aware that my hair glowed a blood red color under the sunlight. Only the rather pale skin color of Nagato Uzumaki saved me from truly being a complete tomato.

Gojo-sensei reached out, patting my shoulder in a mock-comforting way. “It’s okay, tomato-head, she means it with love. Right, Oba-san?”

“Oh, of course. It’s just that this one looks like he’d combust if you told him a bad joke. All red and flustered already!” She burst into laughter, the sound surprisingly hearty for her age.

Gojo-sensei chuckled, rubbing the spot on his cheek where she’d pinched him. “The tomato’s name is Uzumaki Nagato... mind going easy on them. They're, uh, not as tough as me."

I felt a pang of indignation, but Yuna-obasan just gave a dry chuckle. "Not as tough as you? Well, thank heavens for that."

“What’s with his eyes though? They look super creepy, like a dol-

Gojo-sensei interrupted, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he clapped his hands together. “Alright, Oba-san, enough teasing my students. We’re here on serious business.”

“Yeah yeah, who do you think contacted Jujutsu high. I didn’t think I’d get you though.”

“I have a…useful Window looking out for me.”

“Well, come on then,” she said, hobbling back toward the doors. “But if these two keep glaring and blushing, I might need to charge for entertainment!”

She cackled, waving us forward, and Gojo-sensei shrugged at us, still grinning like he’d just won a jackpot.

We followed her inside, the unsettling air pressing around us, with Gojo-sensei just a step behind, muttering under his breath. “Welcome to family bonding, munchkins.”

____________________________________

The room was small, close, and filled with a faint, nostalgic scent that was impossible to ignore. It was familiar-unearthing memories long buried.

The smell of Gum Olibanum.

Frankincense.

The smell was sharp and haunting, stirring something deep and unbidden in my mind. Memories, disjointed and fleeting, surfaced like shadows flickering under candlelight. The echo of church hymns sung in unison. The cold press of stone floors beneath my knees. The coarse feel of rope against my hands. And the strikes—barehanded, practiced until skin split and mended again.

Then with each step into the office, the memories loosened their hold on me, hymns fading and phantom strikes dulled to nothing.

We packed ourselves in like sardines, Yuma-obasan sinking easily into the only normal-sized chair behind her desk.

The rest of the chairs were almost doll-like, built for small, unassuming frames.

Gojo sank into his while Megumi and I took one look at each other, and without saying a word, unanimously agreed to stay standing. We stationed ourselves behind him, a pair of human guardrails, as wordless sentinels.

Yuna-obasan peered at us with an unimpressed scowl, her eyes sharp with mischief. “You two look like a pair of lanky logs, standing there as if you might grow roots.”

Her voice grated like gravel but carried a warmth beneath it, the kind that wore you down in the same way sandpaper shapes wood. I ignored the jab, watching her settle comfortably behind her desk as if she were an empress on her throne.

Just then, a young girl entered—a child, maybe twelve at most, carrying a delicate tea tray with the care of someone much older. Her steps were precise, unhurried.

She approached Yuna-obasan first, bowing slightly as she poured tea into her cup, and then moved on to Gojo-sensei. The steam from the pot curled gently in the air, a quiet reminder of warmth and tradition.

I had always liked this side of things, this side of Japan that no anime could ever capture right. Tradition wrapped around ceremony, an unspoken respect threaded through every moment of your interactions. It was peaceful.

Watching her pour the rest of the tea into cups and arranging them in neat rows

And then Yuna-obasan’s voice cut through that quiet like a blade.

“Look at the tomato and the stupid look on his face.”

My eyes snapped up, the moment shattered. My hands clenched, warmth rushing to my cheeks as her words landed like a slap.

I could feel Megumi’s eyes flick to my face-my cheeks, then my hair and back again, a mixture of surprised realization and barely restrained amusement. And maybe it was the cramped room, the constant disrespect or just my last shred of patience snapping, but before I knew it, the words slipped out like a shot.

“Well, screw you, ya old hag!”

Megumi choked back a laugh, the sound spilling out of him like something he couldn’t quite hold down.

The hag began cackling a raw, joyous laugh that filled the tiny room, spilling over the papers on her desk, the chipped teacups, the dust-covered shelves. She laughed as if she hadn’t laughed like this in years, her shoulders shaking, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

But then Gojo-sensei’s voice cut through, quiet but with a weight that pressed down on all of us. “Oba-san.”

He didn’t say it harshly, but his tone was unmistakable, commanding in a way that I rarely heard.

Instantly, the atmosphere of the room shifted.

“I know how much you love this place. Tell me what happened?”

Yuna-obasan’s laughter ebbed into silence, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint clink of her teacup as she set it down. Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers weathered and spotted with age.

“I’ll start from the beginning then,” she said, voice low, almost hesitant.

She shifted in her seat, the old wood creaking under her. For a moment, there was only the quiet rustling of the girl’s movements as she placed the teacups on the table, the steam curling lazily into the air.

“This place,” Yuna-obasan began, her voice soft yet unwavering, “has been a sanctuary for some. A roof over heads, a shelter from storms, a place that, in rare moments, has even brought families together. It’s given children a home when the world had none to offer.”

Her gaze dropped, her fingers brushing over the surface of her desk, tracing invisible lines. “But it’s also a place steeped in a history of grief and abandonment. A place where loneliness seeps into the very air, where pain lingers in the cracks of these walls. For every smile, there are tears that never dried. For every child adopted, there are ten more who had their hopes crushed.”

The weight of her words hung in the room, heavy and undeniable. She exhaled slowly, lifting her eyes to meet Gojo’s. “And with all that—decades of despair—of course, curses have arisen from this place. They always do.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her voice gaining an edge of steel. “But I’ve always kept this under control. No curse, no vile thing, has ever taken hold here without meeting my hand. Don’t think for a second that I’ve let this place fall apart.”

Yuna-obasan leaned back in her chair, the soft creak of the wood barely audible over the weight of her words. Her gaze turned distant, as if she were staring through the walls of the office, through time itself.

“But,” she began, her voice tinged with an edge that hadn’t been there before, “everything changed a few months ago.”

Gojo-sensei tilted his head, his playful smirk replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. “Changed how, Oba-san?”

Her fingers drummed against the desk, slow and deliberate. “It started small, like a whisper in the night. Strange shadows in the corners of my sight, flickering like candle flames. Objects moving when no one was looking. I’ve seen curses, Satoru-kun, more than I’d care to admit, but this… this felt different. Like

She paused, her gaze dropping to her hands, as if she could see the weight of the memories etched into her palms. “Then the children started speaking of dreams—dark ones. They’d wake screaming about monsters with hollow eyes.

Everyday without end

Screaming and screaming themselves hoarse.

It felt…planned like the darkness wasn’t just feeding on them. More like..

“Like it was growing because of their fear.”

Megumi shifted beside me, his brows furrowing. “Did you see it? What was cursing them?

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Not directly. But its handiwork was everywhere. One of the older boys—Hiroshi—vanished two months ago. No blood, no signs of struggle. He was bright, strong-willed. He wouldn’t have run. Not him.” She swallowed hard, her hands trembling slightly. “We found his shoes at the edge of the woods. Nothing else.”

The girl who had been silently refilling Gojo-sensei’s cup now froze, her hands trembling as she poured the last cup. The liquid spilled over the rim, unnoticed by her wide, terrified eyes, streaming over the edge of the cup, warm and sticky, pooling onto the table, then dripping onto laps and sleeves.

Still, she didn’t stop. Her trembling hands poured and poured as if unaware, her wide eyes locked on something distant, something no one else could see.

Obasan shifted, her voice sharp and cutting through the thick air. “Aiko!”

The girl jolted, her hand snapping back as though burned. The teapot wobbled in her grip but held steady as she blinked rapidly, her breath shallow and fast. Slowly, her gaze fell to the mess in front of her—spilled tea soaking the table, streaking the sides of cups, and staining cloth.

“I…” Aiko stammered, lowering the teapot.

Obasan’s stern expression softened, just slightly, as she waved a hand. “Enough, Aiko. That will do.”

Aiko hesitated but then nodded, her face pale as she carefully set the teapot down and stood. She bowed deeply, murmuring an apology, before shuffling out of the room. The shoji screen slid shut behind her with a soft click.

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room, save for the faint sound of retreating footsteps. Obasan exhaled slowly, her gaze lingering where Aiko had stood.

“You’ll have to excuse her. Hiroshi,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. “The boy who disappeared… He is her younger brother.”

She turned back to Gojo-sensei, her expression softer now but no less grave. “I contacted HQ because i cannot fight this alone. I know when I’m outmatched. Despite my self-imposed banishment from the jujutsu world, I cannot fight this alone, Satoru-kun. For the first time in my life, this place feels like it might swallow me whole.”

Gojo just looked on in silence with that silly silly smile on his face.

“I don’t know why it took you so long to get into contact with me or HQ even. I’m hurt Oba-san.”

“Tch I didn’t want to bother you. I figured those old bastard had you running around a lot more recently.”

Gojo-sensei leaned back in his chair, that ever-present smirk softening into something quieter, something almost genuine. “Oba-san, you know I’m never too busy for you.” His tone was light, playful, but there was a thread of steel beneath the words. “No matter what those old fogeys at HQ think, you’re family. And family comes first.”

Yuna-obasan huffed, a sound caught somewhere between affection and disbelief. “Tch. Flattery won’t get you out of work, Satoru-kun.”

Gojo chuckled, the glint in his eyes returning. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He stood, his tall frame dwarfing the tiny chair he’d been perched on. His voice turned serious again, though his smile didn’t falter. “It’s good that I’m here, though. I think this’ll be a… learning experience for my students.”

He turned, his gaze sweeping over Megumi and me, his grin widening into something impossibly smug. “So, boys, Can you handle it?”

Megumi didn’t dignify the question with a response. His hand was already pressed into the ground, fingers curling like claws as the shadows beneath us began to ripple and churn. The darkness coiled unnaturally, moving with an almost predatory intent. A pair of glowing eyes snapped open within the inky void, followed by the forms of his demon dogs.

One black, one white. Their spectral fur glinting faintly in the dim light. One growled low, teeth bared in warning, while the other tilted its head, eager and alert. The room seemed smaller now, heavy with the presence of Megumi’s shikigami.

While my Rinnegan gleamed—a violent, metallic purple that seemed to absorb the faint light around us.

“Like you even have to ask Gojo-sensei”