The bucket had already left a deep mark on the palm of your hand when you realized you wouldn't be able to lift it again.

You wiped the sweat from your forehead with your forearm. It was summer, a time of long days and shorter nights. The air had that damp weight of hot afternoons, and the wind, when it appeared, was welcomed as a small relief.

It passed by you the next instant.

His large, calloused hands gripped the wooden cylinder before you could insist. The movement was easy for him, almost automatic.

"Leave it to me!"

The warm voice echoed across the yard.

You looked up.

Kyojuro's chest was bare, except for the bandages that still protected the deep scar on his abdomen. He wore only loose pants, his hair partially tied back, letting a few blond and orange strands fall around his face. A dark bandage covered one eye.

It had been almost a year.

The previous autumn, after the mission on the Infinity Train, Kyojuro Rengoku had been presumed dead. The Demon Slayer Corps had lost one of its Hashira that night. His body, however, did not remain among the wreckage.

You found him.

The wound in his abdomen was so deep that, for the first few days, you didn't believe he would survive. His family knew herbs, sutures, treatments, and the fragile boundaries between life and death. Still, no knowledge guaranteed that this man would open his eyes again.

But Kyojuro did.

It took a few months for that to happen, but when it did, he began to improve tremendously. Soon after, he could walk around the yard, eat on his own, and complain when you stopped him from doing something.

And, apparently, he could carry a heavy bucket without your permission.

"I insist!"

His smile appeared before you could retrieve the bucket.

Kyojuro wasn't forcing himself against you. On the contrary. He held the cylinder with an almost absurd delicacy for someone whose hands were capable of wielding a Nichirin sword and facing an Upper Moon.

By then, you had learned that when he said he was perfectly fine, he should probably check the bandage.

Kyojuro wasn't disobedient, nor stubborn enough to ignore his own body's limits. He just wasn't very good at standing still.

The wind swept through the yard again.

The wisteria beside the well swayed, scattering moving shadows across the ground. Some purple flowers detached from their clusters and fell onto the damp wood.

Kyojuro observed the flowers for a few seconds.

Then he looked at you.

He expected you to say something. From the almost satisfied expression on your face, he also seemed hopeful that, this time, you would simply let him help.