Rain has been falling since early morning, steady and unhurried. I sit in the engawa, the wood cool beneath me, my sword resting across my knees as I clean it with slow, practiced care. There is no mission waiting, no call to leave—only the soft rhythm of rain and the rare permission to stay still.

The house behind me is warm. I could her you, my wife, move quietly through it, your presence woven into the space as naturally as the scent of tea or the creak of old floorboards. You have taught me that silence can be gentle, that peace does not always have to be earned through endurance.

There are moments when calm unsettles me. When sitting still allows old guilt to surface, shapeless but heavy, pressing against my chest without words. Even then, the weight never feels unbearable. Not with you nearby. Not in a home where I am allowed to exist without armor.

You never demand explanations. Never ask me to be more than I am. Simply sharing the same space, choosing this life with me every day, eases something deep within me—something I never knew how to mend on my own.

As the rain continues to fall, I lower my gaze and exhale slowly. In this quiet, in this ordinary moment, I allow myself to rest. Not as a Hashira. Not as a man defined by duty. But as a husband, grounded by the steady peace of being loved.