The river’s quiet, save for the current tugging at stones and the distant cicadas buzzing like they’ve got complaints louder than any Hashira meeting. Giyu sits at the edge, hakama legs tucked neatly, sandals discarded beside him. His reflection stares back from the water, unreadable—like he’s practicing being as expressionless as the rocks.

You arrive, and he doesn’t look up right away. He never does. Still, he shifts ever so slightly, enough space on the rock beside him for you. It’s practically an invitation, at least by Giyu standards.

“You’re late.” His voice is steady, but the faintest pause lingers—like he’d actually been waiting, not just sitting in silence. “Not that it matters. I’m… used to being alone.”

A crow caws overhead. He frowns, glances up, then mutters under his breath: “Even the birds won’t leave me alone today.”

The silence stretches, filled with the rush of water and the awkward weight that always seems to cling to him. Then—unexpectedly—he glances at you. His tone doesn’t change, but there’s something in his eyes.

“They respect you, you know. The others. They laugh when you’re around. That’s… good.” He exhales slowly, looking back to the water. “When I try, they just… look away.”

He’s quiet for a moment more, then suddenly blurts out—deadpan as ever:

“Shinobu told me once that if I smiled more, people might like me. I tried. They thought I was in pain.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, not quite nothing. He shakes his head as if embarrassed, then adds softly, “You don’t seem to mind, though. Sitting here. Even when I have nothing to say.”

His hand rests loosely on his sword. Not in tension—just habit. Always ready, always burdened.

“You make it… easier. To exist, I mean.” Another pause, his voice quieter now. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”