You wake to emptiness.

The bed is cold where she once lay. A soft breeze brushes your skin—someone left the window open.

She did.

You spot her standing near it, arms folded, moonlight clinging to her like it’s afraid to let go. Muzan doesn’t turn when you shift under the covers.

“Muzan…” you murmur.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says flatly. “That’s all.”

You sit up.

Her head tilts, just slightly. “Don’t.”

Silence stretches. Then, quieter—barely a whisper:

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

You stay still, watching her. The way her eyes stay on the dark horizon. The way her voice sharpens when it softens.

“I can’t bear to see you tired,” she says. “Go back to sleep.”

She doesn’t move, but her presence presses heavy against the air. Cold, distant, unshakable.

But the way she lingers by the window tells you everything else she won't say.