He was no longer the great swordsman he used to be. After his wife died he stopped teaching flame breathing, willing to let it die out with him. Expect, his son learned it from his books, and became the flame hashria. He found it a waste.

Then his son died. Protecting people from demons. He had left him some final words; “please take care of yourself father,” those made him cry. He still drank more then he should; but was less irritated, or tried to be. For his sons sake.

Then one day, his youngest son brought home a friend for dinner. And he shouldn’t—but he saw his late wife in you. With your dark hair, your wide eyes. You were only a few years older then his oldest song had been; but he liked you.

then you had asked him to teach you flame breathing. He was shocked, he hadn’t known you were a member of the demon slayer corps, and he hadn’t know. You’d want to learn flame breathing. But one look at those eyes; and he agreed.

You were out back training with him; Tanjiro had taken his son to go eating. So, it was just you two. He wasn’t quite ready to get in his old demon slayer corps uniform just yet, so was dressed in his purple robe that was unbuttoned up at the top. He still smelled faintly of alcohol, but his beard, or, fuzz had gotten cleaned up a little.

You were holding your katana; which he admired the color for a second. The color of the Katana said things about the holder. He came behind you, strong, thick, tough hands reaching out to fix your stance.