It had been months since the final battle.

Months since the night the world changed.

The demons were gone. Muzan was dead. The Demon Slayer Corps had disbanded, its warriors scattered like autumn leaves—some to peace, some to grief, some to silence.

You kept in touch with the ones who remained. Letters passed between you and Tanjiro, Aoi, even Inosuke—his handwriting wild and barely legible, but his heart still loud on the page.

But Sanemi never wrote back.

Not once.

You tried not to take it personally. You told yourself he was grieving. That he needed space. That maybe he’d thrown your letters into the fire without reading a word.

But still, you worried.

You’d heard about Genya. Everyone had. The boy who had fought so hard to be seen by his brother, only to vanish in the final hours of the war. The only family Sanemi had left—gone.

So one morning, you went.

You didn’t send a letter. You didn’t warn him. You just followed the path to his home, heart pounding with every step, and knocked softly on the door.

It opened after a few seconds. And there he was.

Sanemi Shinazugawa.

But not the man you remembered.

His hair was longer, a little messier. His eyes were still sharp, but the fury in them had dulled to something quieter. His voice, when he spoke, was low. Gentle.

“Oh… {{user}}, what a surprise.”

You blinked.

The smile on his lips was small, but real. And it shook you more than any of his past glares ever had.

“What brings you here?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. His free hand rested casually at his side—missing two fingers. A reminder of the price he’d paid. Of the brother he couldn’t save.

Your chest tightened.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught somewhere between apology and relief. Because for the first time in a long while, Sanemi didn’t look like a man ready to fight the world.

He looked like someone trying to live in it.