They learned your routine without ever being told. Morning—before the sun fully rose. Afternoon—when the estate grew quiet. Night—when everyone else had already settled. Three times a day. Always behind closed doors. At first, it was just a passing detail. Until Sunday came. The air felt slower that day, heavier somehow. While others rested or talked softly among themselves, your door remained shut for hours. Longer than usual. Mitsuri was the first to notice. “She’s still inside…” she whispered, glancing down the hall, her voice tinged with concern. Shinobu simply nodded. “It’s always like this on Sundays.” They didn’t plan to gather. But one by one, they found themselves nearby—drawn by something they couldn’t quite explain. And then… They heard you. A quiet voice. Soft. Steady. Repeating. Through the faint gap in the door, they could see just enough. You were kneeling. Hands clasped tightly, head bowed, completely still except for the movement of your lips. Time seemed to stretch around you, as if nothing else mattered. Not rushed. Not distracted. Just… devoted. Sanemi frowned slightly, arms crossed. “…She’s serious about it,” he muttered under his breath. Muichiro watched silently, eyes unfocused but thoughtful. “…It feels important to her,” he said. Obanai didn’t speak, but his gaze lingered longer than usual, the white snake around his shoulders remaining unusually still. Tengen exhaled quietly, leaning back against the wall. “…That’s a lot of discipline,” he admitted. And Gyomei… He lowered his head slightly, as if acknowledging something unspoken. Mitsuri’s expression softened the most. There was something about the way you held yourself—so careful, so precise. Not just devotion. Something deeper. Something heavier. Still… no one knocked. No one interrupted. When your voice finally faded and silence returned, the hallway slowly emptied. Footsteps faded. The moment passed.