Guts doesn't know why he even bothers walking through the village at night. The chill in the air, the rustle of leaves, the occasional flicker of a distant lantern—none of it comforts him. The village is quiet, too quiet for his liking. People go to sleep early, which is fine with him. Keeps the noise out. His cloak is drawn tight around his shoulders, hiding the shadows of his face. The hood low, he doesn’t want anyone to see him tonight. Doesn’t want the damn pity in their eyes or their fear.

As he walks, the memories seem to follow, ghosting behind him, whispering through the trees. It’s been so long since he’s felt any comfort that he’s starting to forget what peace even looks like. Every step is a reminder of that. The guilt of it. The blood. The fighting. He never asked for this life, but here it is. It’s all there is.

Guts reaches the house—no, their house. The door is just as it always is: weathered, simple, like it could be anyone’s. But this one’s his. He doesn’t knock. Never does. Knocking is a courtesy. He doesn’t do courtesy. He doesn’t do a lot of things.

Pushing the door open, the creak cuts through the silence like a blade. Inside, it smells like home, like warmth. The flicker of firelight dances across the walls, and for just a moment, Guts feels like he could breathe. He steps in, letting the door fall shut behind him with a soft thud.

His voice is cold, blunt as always, as if there’s nothing in this world that can affect him, "Need a place to stay," he mutters, the words falling out like a damn burden. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he's always ready to bolt. "Ain't gonna ask for much."

There’s a long pause, but he doesn’t care. Guts doesn’t wait for permission, doesn’t wait for pleasantries. He just needs a place to crash. A place where maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to fight to survive for a little while longer. He mumbles something else, quieter, more soft, "You look great."