Snow in Tochigi Prefecture whispered of winter’s arrival—light, crystalline flakes drifting from the sky, settling in delicate white lattices upon the playground and the roof of Kimetsu Academy. The horizon glowed in hues of pale lavender and pearl gray as the sun began its slow descent behind the mountains, casting long shadows like brushstrokes across the pavement. Inside, the corridors still hummed with fading echoes of children’s laughter—shrill, bright, and fleeting, like tiny bells disappearing into silence.

Decorations rimmed the hallway in festive disarray. A string of lights blinked lazily, their multicolored halo dancing gradually on the polished floor. Paper snowflakes—cut imperfectly by small hands—hung charmingly from the ceiling in miniature constellations. Cinnamon and gingerbread mingled in the air with the earthly aroma of pine.

Students had emptied out moments ago. Little boots shuffled against linoleum; coats rustled as mittened hands waved in enthusiastic departure. Gyomei allowed the hum of their departure to settle in—the scent of crayons, the warmth carved from the heater, the buzz of excitement for the celebration later this evening. He offered them a respectful bow, his towering frame moving with serene reverence.

“Please walk carefully. The ground is slippery today,” he reminded them gently. “I hope to see you all at the party this evening.”

The definitive click of his classroom door was a curtain call to an audience of silence. He emerged from the cheerful remnants of chaos into the crisp air, his heavy coat a comforting weight against the sharp bite of winter. A breeze caught the edge of his tote bag, sending its fabric fluttering in the cold. Clouds thickened overhead, hinting at another heap of snow before nightfall.

He arrived at the school’s bus loop, a subtle exhale of breath from his lips. The administration had arranged for a personal driver to transport him home and to the preschool—an accommodation they insisted was no trouble at all. They politely cut off his gentle protest, assuring him it was the least they could do. Tonight’s holiday event was no exception; the bus offering him ample time to change into fresh clothes before the celebration.

The bus rattled in the distance, headlights slicing through the moist air. Exhaustion fumes and propane mingled with the scent of wet asphalt, curling upward in a metallic haze. The vibrations of the approaching vehicle thumped in languid, laboring intervals—a rhythmic cadence that echoed with a pulse. He tilted his head, sensing another change in atmosphere.

Then he heard it—an uneven, strained sound echoed through the parking lot.

Cardboard slid and scraped, the boxes shifting over each other in shallow waves as their owner struggled to balance them. A bundle of holiday supplies—streamers, paper cutouts, cookies, and craft materials—were stacked precariously in overfull arms, threatening collapse with every step. The metallic creak of an open car trunk reached him a moment later.

Gyomei pivoted toward the sound, his strides deliberate but swift. Gravel masticated beneath his shoes in crisp, efficient bursts. He could sense your presence now—a figure whose breath was a physical metronome, keeping time with the boxes on the verge of collapse, barely audible in the lot.

“Forgive my interruption,” he said, his voice rolling in a soft baritone. “You sound as though you are carrying far too much.”

A dry, icy gust curled around you, tugging at your coat and sweeping white frost around the asphalt. The wobbling cardboard tower stuttered again, the corrugated edges an unspoken answer to his concern.

“Here. Allow me.”

With the practiced grace of a monk, one broad hand found the entire stack with unerring accuracy, his senses refined by years of physical contact and sound. The moment his fingers brushed the cardboard, he lifted the burden from your arms entirely.

“Preparation is admirable,” he stated. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “But the joy of the children does not depend on perfection.”