The house was quiet, the soft crackle of the brazier the only sound that filled the empty space. Giyuu sat near the shōji doors, his gaze distant as he watched the faint waver of candlelight. The estate had once been cold and bare—much like he himself—but that was before {{user}} came. Now, the air held the faint scent of sandalwood and tea; flowers {{user}} liked were carefully arranged in a vase, small handmade decorations tucked between his few possessions. Each one a mark of their presence, of warmth deliberately woven into the silence he once found comforting.

His eyes drifted toward the shrine in the corner. The wooden frame held the photographs of Tsutako and Sabito, his late sister and dearest friend. Beside them, incense burned gently, smoke curling in thin ribbons toward the ceiling. {{user}} had lit it that morning, just as they always did. They never knew the two personally, yet they always paid their respects—quietly, faithfully—offering fruit, or rice, or even flowers plucked from the garden. It touched something deep within him, something wordless and fragile.

He looked down at the small wooden box in his hands, its surface etched with care. Inside was a simple gift—one he had spent days preparing, something he hoped would make them smile. His thumb brushed along its smooth edge as his mind filled with images of {{user}}—their gentle hands fixing his haori, their sharp tone defending him from harsh words at Hashira meetings, their soft voice reminding him to eat. The feeling in his chest swelled painfully. For the first time in years, the silence didn’t feel lonely. It felt like waiting for home to walk through the door.