The forest was damp with morning mist.

You moved through the trees in silence, matching Giyu’s pace as best you could. His steps were precise, almost effortless. Yours were careful, deliberate. He never corrected you out loud—but you knew when you’d faltered. He’d pause, just slightly, and wait for you to adjust.

Training with him wasn’t like training with anyone else.

There were no shouted instructions. No praise. No scolding. Just presence. Just the quiet rhythm of movement and breath and the occasional flick of his gaze when you did something right.

You’d learned to read him in fragments.

A nod meant good.
A glance meant again.
A pause meant you’re pushing too hard.

And today, you were pushing too hard.

Your foot slipped on wet moss, and you caught yourself just before falling. Giyu stopped ahead, turning slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on your ankle.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly.

He didn’t move.

“You’re not,” he said quietly. “Sit.”

You hesitated, then obeyed, settling onto a dry patch of earth. He crouched beside you, pulling a small cloth from his sleeve and wrapping it around your ankle with practiced care.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said, voice low.

“I’m your tsuguko,” you replied. “I want to be worthy.”

He tied the cloth gently, then looked up at you.

“You already are.”

The words were simple. But coming from him, they felt like a gift.

You blinked, unsure how to respond. He stood, offering his hand. You took it.

And as you walked back through the mist, slower now, steadier, you realized something:

Giyu didn’t teach with words.

He taught with silence.

With trust.

With the kind of care that didn’t need to be spoken to be felt.