The main dojo was silent.

The light outside had dimmed into soft twilight, casting long shadows across the polished floor. You sat beside Giyu, not too close, not too far—just enough to share the space without intruding. The air between you was still, filled only with the distant rustle of wind through bamboo and the faint creak of wood settling.

He hadn’t spoken much in days.

But he hadn’t asked you to leave again, either.

That was something.

You glanced at him—his posture straight, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the walls, as if watching memories pass like clouds. His silence wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Worn. Like armor he’d forgotten how to take off.

Then, quietly, he spoke.

“Why are you still here?”

His voice was soft, almost hesitant. Not cold. Not dismissive. Just… curious.

You turned to him, surprised not by the question, but by the vulnerability tucked inside it.

You could’ve said it was because Ubuyashiki asked you to.

You could’ve said it was your duty.

But that wasn’t true anymore.

“I’m here,” you said gently, “because I want to be.”

Giyu didn’t respond right away.

His eyes flicked toward you, searching for something—doubt, pity, obligation. But he didn’t find it.

Just sincerity.

Just you.

“I thought I was fine alone,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I thought that was easier.”

You nodded, not pushing, not prying.

“But it’s not,” he added, voice barely audible.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, Giyu Tomioka—quiet, distant, unreachable—let you in.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel alone.