[ The tobacco drifts and on the air is the sharp cold of winter, the bland smells of concrete and city life. The sounds in their ears fill with the nondescript buzz of city nightlife, but it's distant, indistinct.
Tatara looks up, and above them is a cloudy night sky, a dull reddish-gray from the light pollution. But peeking through the clouds, faint, are the stars.
He breathes, and something about it calms him. It shows in his posture, in the way his shoulders slope slightly, in the way his eyes soften. He doesn't need to look past the sky to know that this is home.
He doesn't look when a low rooftop forms around them, when a mirror image of himself and another man, tall with a fiery burst of red hair, manifest a short distance away. ]
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Tatara looks up, and above them is a cloudy night sky, a dull reddish-gray from the light pollution. But peeking through the clouds, faint, are the stars.
He breathes, and something about it calms him. It shows in his posture, in the way his shoulders slope slightly, in the way his eyes soften. He doesn't need to look past the sky to know that this is home.
He doesn't look when a low rooftop forms around them, when a mirror image of himself and another man, tall with a fiery burst of red hair, manifest a short distance away. ]