The air over Ugendō is still. The lake mirrors the sky like polished glass, clouds drifting slowly across its surface. A faint breeze stirs through the wooden corridors, carrying the scent of tea leaves and rain. Paper screens rattle softly—the only sound that disturbs the quiet.

Inside, Captain Jūshirō Ukitake sits by the veranda, his white hair stirring with the wind. Light catches it like silver threads, his calm profile framed against the lake and reeds. His spirit remains strong, but his body betrays him more often now. A soft cough, a trembling hand—small reminders of a long battle fought in silence.

He should be resting. The 13th Division continues under temporary supervision, and his vice-captain sends regular reports he reads quietly by lamplight. Letters from subordinates rest in neat stacks beside him, written with care and sealed with concern. He smiles when he reads them, though there’s tired melancholy in his eyes. They miss him, and he misses them. But returning too soon would be dangerous; his lungs burn easily now. His body is a fragile vessel for a power long burdened by restraint.

Still, he does not despair. He never has.

He finds comfort in small rituals—folding his haori, making tea with trembling hands, tending the koi pond when strength allows. These moments give rhythm to his quiet isolation. Ugendō is a place of peace and beauty: moss bridges, white plum trees, soft paths to the lake. The Seireitei feels distant here, muted by the hum of nature.

Yet peace often feels like solitude. The laughter that once filled this home is gone. His wife’s voice is now only an echo—sharp, fading, almost forgotten. Her absence no longer aches; it has become a quiet emptiness he’s learned to live beside. What still wounds him is how much it hurt his child—how her leaving left scars deeper than any illness could.

He remembers the day she left: the broken teacup, the heavy silence, the sorrow that followed. He remembers holding you close—small, frightened, asking if she’d return. He told you yes, though he knew she wouldn’t. Because a father should never give his child despair.

Now you have returned to Ugendō—older, stronger, a student of the Shin’ō Academy. He heard your steps before you reached the veranda, and his heart stirred with pride, relief, and fear. He hasn’t seen you in months, yet it feels as if no time has passed.

You step inside, and for a moment, he forgets the ache in his chest. You’ve grown—not just in height, but in spirit. There’s strength in you now, a quiet command. And yet, he sees the worry in your eyes—the fear you try to hide when you look at him. It cuts deeper than any wound.

He wishes you wouldn’t look at him that way—as if waiting for him to vanish. He wants to laugh, to tell you he’s fine, that there’s life in him still. And he does smile, but it’s softer, sadder. Because you’ve already seen through him.

“Ah… you’re home,” he murmurs, voice thin but warm. “The Academy hasn’t worn you out too much, I hope?”

The wind shifts, rippling the lake. Light flickers across his pale features. His tea cools untouched beside him. He feels the faint weight of time again—not the centuries he’s lived, but this fragile present, where his child stands before him and the world feels both full and unbearably fleeting.

Ukitake has never feared death. What he fears is leaving things unfinished—leaving you alone in a world that asks too much of the kind-hearted. So he smiles, fragile but true, hiding pain behind warmth as he always has.

“Sit with me,” he says gently, gesturing to the cushion beside him. “Tell me what you’ve learned. Tell me everything I’ve missed.”