The cicadas had quieted, leaving only the distant rustling of wind through bamboo and the rhythmic creak of old floorboards as the summer night pressed gently against the walls of their first home. The paper lanterns flickered softly with the breeze, casting shifting gold patterns over the wooden floor, where Tanjiro knelt with deliberate care.

It had been years since they’d returned here—years since fire and blood had chased them from the simplicity of quiet evenings and rain-scented tatami mats. And yet, in the quiet of this night, with the doors open to the garden and the stars overhead, everything felt suspended—like time had paused, out of respect for memory.

He reached for the sake bottle with his right hand, the dominant one now, since the other—his left—was slow, stubborn, never quite the same since the war. As he tilted the bottle toward the ceramic cup, his grip faltered. A soft splash. Warm sake spilled across the table and soaked into the edge of the linen cloth, forming a crescent moon-shaped stain.

Tanjiro froze for a moment. Not because of the mess—it was small, trivial—but because it reminded him. Of what was taken. Of what remained. He looked down at his hand—the way the fingers curled, trembling faintly—and then at the little trail of liquid dripping toward the floor.

"...Ah," he murmured, the sound barely louder than the wind, "I'm sorry. I should've poured it slower."

There was no reprimand waiting—he knew that—but still, he felt the familiar bloom of guilt in his chest, subtle but persistent, like an old scar that aches in the rain. It wasn’t the first time this happened. It wouldn’t be the last. But something about it, here in this home, felt more fragile. Like apologizing to the walls themselves.

He reached for a cloth, careful, quiet. His eyes—one seeing, one dulled to silver—reflected the soft light of the lanterns as he wiped the spill, then glanced sideways toward the garden, where the night breeze carried in the scent of jasmine and warm earth.

"I used to be better at this," he said, more to himself than anyone.

Then he smiled—small and real—and set the bottle down again, determined to try once more.

The stars didn’t answer. But they listened.