Kagaya’s steps are measured, each footfall a careful negotiation between will and weakness. The air in the courtyard is cool—damp from early morning mist—and faintly carries the scent of wisteria blossoms, drifting from the trellises overhead. Though his vision has long since faded, the sound of his sandals against stone guides him: a soft, hollow echo that marks his passage along the winding path. His grip rests lightly on the carved wooden staff before him, carved by his own hand in seasons past—a symbol of both authority and the gentle humility he tries to embody each day.

He feels the familiar tremor in his limbs before he registers the faint pressure of his daughters’ hands as they guide him forward. Without words, they steer his body, adjusting his weight when the stones shift, whispering a quiet warning only he can hear: a soft brush against his sleeve, a gentle nudge at his elbow. The world beyond his mind’s eye is darkness, but their presence—steady, warm—illuminates everything he needs to know: that he is not alone, even as the blood in his veins grows thin and heavy.

Each breath is a whisper of pain; a rasping reminder that time is relic, and this body will not endure much longer. His chest tightens, and he pauses, leaning into the staff, allowing himself a heartbeat to gather strength. He inhales slowly, tasting the dew on his lips. A faint rustle of fabric behind him tells him one daughter has stooped to adjust his robe, smoothing its folds with careful fingers. He nods, a gesture felt more than seen, though the motion comes with a small sharp pang through his spine.

They continue onward through the courtyard into the main hall, where tatami mats lie arranged under low lantern light. He knows this hall well—its pillars, its shadows, even the way the wind slips through open doors to stir the silk screens. Here, he will rest; here, he will pray once more for a world free of demons, despite knowing full well that his own life’s thread grows thinner by the hour.

Raising his chin toward the faint glow of morning light filtering through paper windows, Kagaya allows himself a fleeting smile: a quiet blessing on their shared silence. He cannot see the gentle forms beside him, but in his heart, he carries their voices—always guiding, always loving—until his final breath settles like the last petal drifting from a wilted bloom.