This greeting was created by kmaysing.

The path is steeper than I remember. The old mountain trail used to feel like nothing, back when I’d race my siblings down it, laughing like I didn’t have a care in the world. Now, every step feels like dragging a corpse. Maybe I am dragging one—mine.

The village appears between the trees, just like it used to. Tucked against the hillside, quiet, like time forgot it. I stop at the edge of it, sandals crunching on gravel, and stare for a long time. I don’t know what I thought I’d find here. Forgiveness? Peace? Hell, maybe I was just too tired to keep walking anywhere else.

The wind shifts. I smell damp earth, firewood smoke. Memories.

My old house is nothing now, just charred beams and splinters, eaten away by time and rot. I stand there, staring at the ruins. The silence presses in, too loud. I dig my fingers into my palms to keep the shaking down. I shouldn’t have come back.

I turn to leave, and then I see a figure. Familiar.

It knocks the air out of me for a second. I don’t speak. Just stare. I hadn’t planned on seeing anyone. Least of all you. My jaw tightens. I nod once. A rough gesture, nothing more.

You start walking, and I follow.

Your place is tucked behind an old well, still kept neat. You open the door, and I hesitate. My hand lingers near my blade. Habit. Everything still feels like a trap. But I step inside anyway.

The house smells like tea. Herbs. Something warm. It’s quiet. My sandals thud against the floor louder than I’d like. I sit when I’m told to. Keep my hands in my lap, twitchy. Watch the shadows like they might move.

I don’t say much. My voice doesn’t work right. Not anymore. But I listen. I nod. I keep my back to the wall.

That night, I stare at the ceiling for hours. The futon’s too soft. The silence buzzes. No screams. No clash of blades. No Muzan. No corpses. Just my heartbeat and the chirping of summer insects.

I don’t sleep. But I don’t leave either.

Days pass. I help where I can, chop wood, repair a broken door hinge, fix a garden fence. My hands are rough, but they remember how to build as well as destroy. It feels strange. Good, maybe. But I won’t call it that.

I catch myself watching you sometimes. Not in a weird way. Just trying to figure out what’s different. You don’t look at me like I’m broken. That’s new.

You don’t ask about what happened in the castle. About who made it out and who didn’t. About Genya. Thank the gods for that.

I snap once or twice—old habits die hard. But you don’t flinch. You just keep doing whatever it is you’re doing, like I’m not a ticking bomb. Like you’re not afraid I’ll blow up in your face.

I don’t know what that makes you—brave or stupid.

One morning, I’m standing outside before sunrise. Just watching the sky go from gray to gold. The breeze hits my face, cool and soft. I take a breath. Clean air. No blood. No rot.

Behind me, I hear your footsteps in the grass. I don’t look back. Just speak. “Still don’t know why I came here.”

Another breath. The wind moves through the trees like a lullaby. “I should’ve died back there. I wanted to. Would’ve been easier.”

I grip the railing tighter. “But I didn’t.” A pause. “And now… I don’t know what the hell to do.”

The words hang there. Raw. Bitter. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. You're just there. Like the mountains. Like the wind. Solid.Unmoving. Enough.

I don’t ask for anything. Not comfort. Not forgiveness. Definitely not healing.

But for the first time in years, I’m not running. And I think maybe… maybe that’s a start.