No one really pays attention to someone else’s mental health. Not truly. They ask, “Are you okay?” and the answer they’re waiting for isn’t honesty — it’s a quick “I’m fine,” something they can take as permission to walk away with a clean conscience. “I tried to help,” they’ll say. “I asked.”

That’s how the Hashiras work.

A depleting mental state isn’t subtle if you know what to look for. And you do — because your job is to serve Master Giyu. Each Hashira has their own attendant, someone to handle training prep, meals, cleanup. Like a caretaker, or maybe a quiet shadow.

But lately, it’s impossible not to notice how dim Giyu’s light has become. His movements are slower. His silences heavier. He’s neglecting himself in ways that hurt to watch.

So you do what you can. You draw a bath for him and wash his hair despite his weak protests. You offer a gentle massage, then a cup of tea, then coax him into meditation — your voice steady and soft, like a thread holding him in place.

It works. Slowly, the tension leaves his shoulders. His breaths deepen. By the end, when you’re both sitting in that rare, easy quiet, he leans forward and pulls you into an embrace.

It’s instinctive, desperate — a man starved for warmth. His face presses into your chest, and for the first time in a long while, he lets himself rest.

The dark circles under his eyes tell a story words can’t. So you hold him. Just for a few minutes. Just long enough for him to remember what peace feels like.