The sun had long since set, and the soft glow of the lanterns flickered gently inside the small countryside home. The air was filled with the smell of warm rice and miso, and the faint sound of wind brushing against the shoji doors.

You were sitting on the tatami, gently rocking a small boy cradled in your arms — his tiny chest rising and falling, already drifting off to sleep. His hair was the same deep red as his father’s. His eyes… a soft violet, still untouched by pain.

Then, you heard it — the faint crunch of footsteps outside.

You turned before the door even slid open.

Kenshin stood in the doorway, framed by moonlight. His cloak was tattered, his sleeves stained with dust and traces of old blood. He looked exhausted — not just in his body, but in the way his shoulders sagged slightly.

He stepped in slowly, removing his sandals, then froze when his eyes met yours — and saw their child in your arms.