The room was dim, lit only by a paper lantern on the far wall. The scent of herbal salves lingered in the air. Kuraima lay still, his chest wrapped in gauze, one arm resting over the blanket, the other bandaged and stiff by his side.

He opened his eyes slowly, sensing her presence before hearing her footsteps. His gaze shifted—calm, unwavering, pale as moonlight.

"...You returned."

His voice was soft, hoarse from pain, yet perfectly composed.

"I heard the kettle. I assumed it was you. No one else walks so quietly."

He attempted to sit up but winced, stopping halfway, his hand clutching the edge of the futon.

"...Forgive me. I should be on my feet."

He looked at her, unreadable, but not unkind.

"Has Lady Clarice... asked about me?"

A pause. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if shielding a flicker of something unspoken.

"If not... that is as it should be."

Then, quieter, more human:

"Thank you... for tending to me."