I've been carrying the same question with me for months: why do I always have the same dream?
It's not exactly a nightmare—not entirely, dear reader. It's something that seems to call my name from afar, something that grips me by the collar of the heart and won't let me go. At night, the moment I close my eyes, in this vision I see myself, in my true form: tall, slender, with full breath and my back straight as on the best of days.
I walk through a forest.
I notice the smallest details, which in the dream seem so vivid: the foliage filters a pale green light (it feels like early morning), the earth smells of rainwater and damp, earthen leaves. Every step I take is silent; the cloak on my shoulders now and then brushes against low branches without making them tremble and at least in the dream, for once, I don't feel the weight of anyone on my shoulders—only that of the air flowing in and out of my lungs. I do not run, though. I walk. And serenity surprises me like a caress.
The forest, as I move forward, thins out little by little and opens onto fields of wheat. Golden waves bend with a gust of wind, a flutter of wings shakes them from side to side. The horizon before me is clear and bright, stretching as though it were projected toward infinity and there, always at that very moment, I see it: at first only a black speck in the distance, a figure that seems to move along the edge of the world. It advances slowly among the stalks, brushing them with a pale hand, its gaze turned toward the sky.
Even though I know what it is, each time in the dream I draw nearer, curious, as if it were the first time.
The black speck finally becomes a figure.
A woman.
She is turned away from me. Her black hair slips down past her hips, straight and shining like threads of ink. She wears a white dress, long, simple and solemn all at once—something like a wedding gown, something ancient, as if the fabric still held the memory of whispered promises between her and someone else. The white shifts against the gold of the wheat.
"Good evening, miss! Are you lost?" I ask each time, stopping a few steps behind her. I realize that my voice is the one I once had: youthful and warm, able to fill a square without effort. "Do you need help?"
And yet the woman never answers… never.
The wind makes the wheat rustle and sway, and the sound is like a hundred hands clapping from afar. I take another step forward toward her. The scent comes with the breath of the field: I smell the aroma of warm bread, fresh from the oven, its crust just browned in a wood fire, mixed with flour and the touch of skilled hands. Impossible, I know—and yet it is there, as if somewhere beneath that sea of grain, someone were pulling soft bread from the oven, kneaded not long ago by hand.
"Miss?" I repeat, more gently this time. She does not turn, does not answer. Her shoulders remain straight, her neck unmoving, her hair like a dark waterfall dancing with the rustle of the wind.
But when I am just two meters behind her, the earth suddenly betrays me.
Countless hands burst from the ground—cold, strong—grabbing my ankles and dragging me down. The wheat thrashes wildly with a louder rustling. My body, so steady only an instant before, sinks as if into quicksand. I grit my teeth, stretch out my arms to break free, but the hands tighten, relentless, and my strength refuses to answer as it should. My heart races, each beat a sharp blow.
And then—she moves.
She doesn't fully turn: she tilts her face just slightly, enough for the sun to trace its outline. I don't see her eyes. I see the line of her nose, the curve of her mouth. And I hear her voice—not loud, not urgent—a whisper that reaches me without crossing through the air.
"It's a scent that brings you home."
The field falls silent. The wind stops. The hands tighten. And I plunge.
And so, for months now, every morning I wake with a start, the sheet clenched in my fist, my breath short, the taste of flour on my tongue like a memory that doesn't belong to the night I've just left behind. The room is dark, the city still asleep even though dawn is almost breaking. I lie there, listening to the beat of my heart while the phrase insists in my head, like a wave that recedes and then returns.
"It's a scent that brings you home."
Perhaps, young reader—I tell myself, with a sincerity that hurts—I only need a woman by my side? Perhaps (I believe) it is the loss of my powers that unsettles even my dreams, that makes me sink just when I should be flying? Or perhaps there truly is someone, somewhere, calling out to me because they need me?
I close my eyes, unable to give an answer. Yet the woman's words remain in my head each time.
And I do not know whether to fear them—or to follow them.
***
This morning, my young reader, I rise slowly; my knees, alas, creak like old wooden boards—a sound I know well and greet each day with a half-smile. I take a quick shower, put on a clean shirt and knot my tie with the kind of care one reserves for simple things. Then I hurry out; the morning air carries a freshness that feels new every time… and each time, I find myself amazed.
But above all… I'm hungry!! The dream leaves me every time with the craving for good, freshly baked bread. Not the packaged kind, but the real thing—made by hand, by the baker. So I take a detour toward a small bakery that opens early in the morning (the only one nearby). I push the door open, a cheerful bell announces my arrival, and an inviting aroma shifts my mood in a devastating way.
"Good morning, sir!" says the baker, with a smile full of teeth, her apron dusted with flour, and the bright eyes of someone who has already won her first battle with the night.
"A whole loaf, fresh from the oven, please."
The paper rustles on the counter, the knife sings against the crust to let me hear its sound. The lady looks at me with lively eyes, waiting for my answer; I nod calmly. I pay, leaving a tip and a foolish smile, then thank her. The loaf in my hands is still warm, heavy enough to make me think that surely half of it won't make it to lunchtime.
At U.A. I arrive with a discreet, thoughtful step, in my lean form with my coat pulled tight across my chest. The students I pass in the corridors are still choosing between sleep and caffeine, and I barely manage to transform and greet them with my silent smile and a thumbs-up. Some return the greeting with a nod, others straighten their backs as if suddenly remembering that days are built from the very first minute.
I open the classroom early, just to spend a little time alone with myself. I set the loaf of bread on the desk and, without waiting any longer, cut two thick slices with the small knife I always carry—one to eat now, one for later. The first bite tastes incredible, like the flavor of things done right. I sit down, loosening the knot of my tie with one hand while flipping through my notes with the other: today, for Class 1-A, the subject is rescue ethics.
After about ten minutes the students come through the main door, and when they sit at their desks, the air in the room shifts—boys and girls who look like freshly trained bolts of lightning, all strong and well-kept. I look at them, and my back straightens on its own.
"Good morning, everyone!" I say calmly, and then, just for the start of the lesson, I let the energy surge through me—
"I AM HERE!"
A spark of stage presence escapes me, just enough to color the air and draw a smile from them. Someone claps softly with bright eyes, someone sighs; a pair of drowsy eyes light up. I quickly return to a quieter tone.
We begin to talk about small, decisive things: how to enter a scene without causing panic; how to use one's voice to inspire confidence; how to measure the boundary between one's own glory and the good of another. On the blackboard I draw a map of intersections with arrows and numbers, simulate radio calls, ask them in turn to improvise an announcement over a megaphone. They stumble, laugh, correct themselves. I see them thinking—and that is always the best moment.
By mid-morning I take the class to the gym for an exercise in perception: silences, noises, priorities. No showmanship—just listening. I stop young Bakugo with a glance when he tries to overdo it; I encourage Fumikage, who speaks softly but can see perfectly well from afar. Every piece of advice is a whispered aside, and every look an agreement: we can do this, but step by step.
After class, in the hallway, I run into Aizawa, wearing his usual expression of someone who's already fought three battles and is bracing for five more. "Don't make them run before they know how to walk," he mutters—but I know that's his way of saying good job. I lower my gaze with a smile and keep moving forward without stopping.
Later, Present Mic intercepts me near the teachers' lounge: "Toshi! That lesson of yours on voice? I want it as a podcast!"
I smile. "Only if you cut out the pauses—and throw in a nice commercial about me every now and then!"
"The pauses are the content! But all right, so be it!" he laughs, striding away with his stage-actor's gait.
I have lunch with Lunch Rush, who hands me a steaming bowl when he sees my half-eaten loaf of bread. "Perfect pairing," he says. I break the bread with my hands, dip it into the soup, listen to the chatter of the cafeteria, and savor that goodness: it's the sound of a beehive where no one inside is ever alone. It keeps me company better than any music.
In the afternoon I meet with two students for tutoring. We talk about limits and how limits are not enemies but architects: they draw the foundations in which you can grow strong without collapsing. For those who know me, young reader, I never utter grand statements, because I believe they are unnecessary. I do ask questions, though. And I leave space for them to ask me theirs. At one point a boy says: "So I don't have to be invincible to be a hero—I just have to be useful."
I nod. That seems like an excellent title for the day.
Before the last class of the day, I stop by Recovery Girl's office to drop off some files. She sizes me up with that eye of hers that sees everything.
"Are you eating enough?" she asks.
I raise the loaf toward the sky like a freshly won medal. "I'm doing my best."
"Right. Do our best every once in a while too." She dismisses me with a funny smack on the cheeks, as if she could paste energy onto me with glue.
I return to the classroom for farewells and, before leaving, I ask the students to write down three things: one they understood from today's lesson, one describing their fears, and one showing me that tomorrow they want to do better.
When the bell releases them, they linger a moment on the threshold, as if something had been left unsaid. "Never lose the desire to do good!" I exclaim, and I make my way out. Sometimes just a few words are enough to set the world right again.
I stay behind to tidy up the chalk and wrap the last slice of bread for the way home. From the tall windows, the sun casts a dusty light across the empty gym floor. I hear the school breathing in silence: a slow, patient breath that, honestly, soothes me.
I close the register. I gather the remaining loaf. Another "ordinary" day at U.A.—full of small things that, one by one, teach us how to stand tall.