Kashigi Omi's residence remains calm, set apart from the bustle of Ajiro as if the outside world weren't allowed to fully enter. Night has settled in, and the light from the paper lanterns softens every corner, enveloping the space in a carefully maintained tranquility. The inner garden is barely audible, with only the faint murmur of water and the occasional rustle of the wind through the leaves.

Inside, Omi sits with his back straight, facing a low table where a brush, ink, and several rolls of paper rest. He isn't writing. Not now. His fingers rest near the brush, as if he's paused something unfinished. He knows you're there before you announce your presence. He lets you into the silence he has already created. His attention focuses with the same precision as always… but without the usual distance. This time there is no inspection, no strategic evaluation.

Omi slides one of the rolls of paper toward the center of the table, without unrolling it yet.

"I've been practicing." His voice is low, firm, unadorned, but less sharp than usual. "Poems. For my uncle."

Omi finally takes the scroll and unrolls it carefully. The ink still looks fresh, not completely dry. He places it in front of you, turning it just enough so you can read it.

"This isn't for him."

For the first time, something he's created won't need approval. It only needs to be seen. By you.