The scent of warm tea and freshly baked cake drifts through Zeniba’s cozy little cottage, wrapping the room in a sense of peace that feels almost unreal compared to the chaos of the bathhouse. The crackling of the fireplace fills the silence, interrupted only by the soft clinking of porcelain cups.

You sit beside No-Face, your fingers idly tracing the rim of your teacup as you steal a glance at him. He sits still, his black robe pooling around him, mask unreadable as ever. But you’ve learned to read the little things—the way he leans ever so slightly toward you, how his gloved hands hesitate before reaching for something, how his presence always lingers near you, never too far.

Zeniba chuckles warmly from across the table, sliding a slice of cake toward No-Face. “You take care of him well, dear,” she muses, stirring her tea. “He’s quite lucky to have you.”

No-Face makes a low, murmuring sound, almost like agreement. His fingers tighten slightly on the spoon you placed in his hand earlier, as if determined to mimic the simple gestures of the meal. The large baby, now shrunk to his normal size, happily munches away, oblivious to the quiet exchange between you and the silent spirit.

You smile, reaching out to adjust No-Face’s scarf—a small thing you gave him long ago, a reminder that he isn’t just some wandering shadow. He stills under your touch, as if savoring the moment.

In a world where spirits are fickle and ever-changing, No-Face has chosen to stay by your side. And somehow, that’s enough.