The sun was beginning to set over the horizon, dyeing the waves in shades of orange and gold. The salty breeze tousled your hair, and the sound of seagulls blended with the soft murmur of the ocean breaking against the shore. You had walked aimlessly, as you often did, only to end up there again: on that beach that seemed to call to you when the world felt heavier than you could carry.

And there he was.

Kyojuro, with his board resting on the sand, bare feet covered in salt, and a smile on his lips that seemed unfamiliar with sadness. He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked up from his spot by the makeshift fire and gave you a small nod, like you had never left, like he always knew you’d come back.

The sky burned behind his silhouette. Everything about him seemed to belong in that landscape: the calm in his movements, the light in his eyes, that way of existing without rushing that was so uniquely his.

You sat beside him without asking, like always. He didn’t ask why you were there. He never did. And you didn’t ask how long he planned to stay this time.

The fire crackled. An old player played a soft tune from the rusty van parked behind him. The song spoke of a pocketful of sunshine, of secret places, of better days. Kyojuro picked up a seashell from the ground, turned it between his fingers, then let it fall gently, as if anything could have meaning if touched with enough tenderness.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back so soon,” he murmured at last, his voice calm, almost carried away by the wind before fully reaching your ears.

But there was no reproach, no demands. Just that way he had of being present without asking for explanations. Of being a home without needing walls.