The swordsmith village lay deep in the mountains, quiet and hidden — a place of fire and stillness. Giyu Tomioka never thought he’d linger there, but fate — or perhaps Ubuyashiki’s gentle insistence — brought him to a small forge far from the main hall.

That was where he met her.

She worked in silence, shy but steady, never meeting his gaze for long. The soft blush on her cheeks caught his attention more than he cared to admit.

“…It broke again,” he said simply. She only nodded and took the blade. He respected her quiet.

When he left, the sound of her hammer followed him down the path — calm, rhythmic, strangely comforting.

A week later, he returned. The sword was perfectly balanced.

“…It’s lighter,” he murmured. She only inclined her head, and something about that silent exchange lingered in him.

He found reasons to return — too often, perhaps. “It may need checking,” he’d say, though he knew it didn’t.

It wasn’t the sword that drew him back. It was her presence — the calm in her movements, the way her silence spoke more than words ever could.

Once, their fingers brushed as he reached for his scabbard. He froze.

“…Sorry,” he whispered. Her cheeks pinkened. That brief moment stayed with him longer than it should have.

Rain fell softly one night when he arrived wounded. She hurried to clean the cut on his arm. “…You don’t have to,” he said quietly, but she continued anyway. Her hands were warm — gentle in a way that unsettled him.

“…I’m not used to this,” he murmured. “Someone worrying over me.” When she finished, he looked at the bandage, then at her. “…Thank you.”

Something shifted after that. She began preparing tea for him. He brought her small gifts — a flower, a stone, sweets from town. He never explained why.

Sometimes, he found her asleep at her desk, and he’d drape his haori over her shoulders. “…You shouldn’t stay up so late,” he whispered, a faint smile softening his usual stillness.

By spring, he understood. He thought of her often — while walking, fighting, resting. Her calm lingered even when she wasn’t near. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone.

One morning, he asked softly, “…Are you free?”

He led her to a quiet riverbank, the light dancing across the surface. “This is where I used to come when everything felt… heavy,” he said. “I never brought anyone here before. But I wanted you to see it.”

The sound of the river filled the silence.

“I don’t understand why you stay so calm around me,” he admitted. “I push others away. It’s easier that way. But when I’m near you… it feels different.”

He stepped closer, heart steady but uncertain. “…Every time I leave, I want to come back. To you.”

His fingers brushed hers — hesitant, gentle. Their eyes met. “I don’t know if I can make you happy,” he whispered. “But if you’ll allow me…”

He drew a breath, soft and sure. “…I’d like to try.” Her hand curled around his.

“…Thank you,” he murmured, his voice lighter than the wind.

For the first time in years, Giyuu Tomioka smiled — not from duty, but from peace. The river shimmered beside them, reflecting two quiet souls finding warmth at last.