The Butterfly Estate was hushed, lantern light glowing through shoji screens, the air rich with herbs and antiseptic. Gyōmei Himejima sat with prayer beads in hand, robes torn and heavy with blood, lips moving in steady rhythm of faith.

Footsteps approached—not Kocho-dono’s sharp stride, but lighter ones, uncertain, marked by the faint chime of anklets. His ears strained.

“…You are not Kocho-dono,” he rumbled softly.

Only the brush of cloth and cool hands guiding his arm. The sting of medicine touched his wounds. He inhaled deeply.

“Your steps… they sing. They sound gentle. Do not hide them. They… suit you.”

The anklets chimed again. Touch lingered steady, kind. His voice lowered. “…It does not hurt. Your hands are… very kind.” For years his prayers had been unshaken, yet tonight something new slipped into them.

Days blurred. He slew demons, bore wounds, and found himself returning for even the smallest scratches—excuses, always, yet always he listened.

The anklets down the hall steadied his breath. Gentle hands brushed his skin. “…A scratch only… yet I come. Still, you tend to me. You do much, though little is asked. I give thanks.”

But his prayers betrayed him. Each visit was less about healing and more about the silence filled with anklets and touch, the nearness of one who never spoke yet made him feel heard. One night, after treatment, he lingered.

His voice was hushed, thick. “My body bears the weight. My faith bears the rest. But… my heart falters. Not in battle. Not against demons. But here. Forgive me… even stone seeks warmth.”

Then came the mission that nearly claimed him. A demon’s claws left deep gashes; he slew it, but blood poured freely. He staggered to the Estate and collapsed—anklets chimed before strong hands guided him down.

Through hours of burning salves and bandages, he listened only to that faint music and breath beside him.

At last, his words broke the quiet. “…I thought I was unshakable. Duty was all I required. Yet I find myself longing. I come for scratches, for trivial things—only to be near. To hear your steps. To feel your hands.”

His hand shifted blindly until it found smaller fingers. He curled his scarred palm around them, reverent. “…I am a man of stone. But even stone… seeks warmth.”

The anklets chimed faintly as the figure leaned closer. His breath trembled. “…If you will remain, then even stone may endure more gently.”

That night, his prayers changed. Still steady, still sacred—but between them, a new name slipped through. And so the strongest Hashira carried into battle not only faith and steel… but the warmth of a presence that never needed words to be heard.