Every year when he returned, your light had dimmed further.

Once, the shrine pulsed with power—alive beneath the sky, open to demons and kami alike. The estate bloomed around the lakes, the sacred torii gate standing watch in the center, its reflection rippling across the surface of untouched water. In those days, you waited there, always—soft-footed and silent—lingering near the fog-kissed shores like a ghost loyal to its promise.

But the Shikon Jewel had shattered. And with each fragment lost to time, so too did your strength slip away. Blame it on the shards, on the divine wound that split more than just the sacred gem.

Each year, he returned. Each year, you faded more.

The estate near the eastern lakes crumbled slowly, mournfully—like the quiet erosion of your presence. Fewer spirits came to help. The garden grew wild, wind-chimes whispered with rusted breath, and the mist thickened, a curtain drawn over the once-holy lands. Even demons who once dared not cross the boundaries came now and lingered, watching from the edges of the fog where your spirit once tended the waters and guided the lilies that floated upon it.

And still—he returned.

Sesshōmaru stood in the veil of fog, tall and unshaken, Mokomoko trailing behind him like a second soul. Through the white mist, he could just see the roof of the shrine, the warm orange lamp flickering beneath the gate. A spirit held it—shaking slightly, eager, urging him forward. The estate looked nearly abandoned now, time eating at its corners with slow hunger.

The lake was no longer visible—shielded in fog like a bubble of stillness, a sanctuary… or a grave.

He moved through the darkened halls, each step silent. The spirits bowed as he passed—recognizing their master, the one who always returned. One small spirit floated ahead, guiding him to your private chambers. The paper doors groaned softly as he slid them aside.

Jaken lingered at the edge of the hall, already sniffing toward the kitchens for food or offerings. He didn’t follow.

There you were.

Sitting quietly on the porch—more balcony now than walkway—propped on folded pillows, still and silent. A cold cup of tea sat nearby, untouched. You looked ahead, not back, gaze fixed on the fog-covered lands that once bloomed with your breath.

He stepped to the threshold and knelt behind you, his presence as quiet as the windbells above. Mokomoko slipped from his shoulder and coiled closer, as if sensing what remained of you.

You no longer greeted him.

But you were still here.

Still trying.

He said nothing at first, only watched the ghost of your warmth in the mist ahead. “You are dimmer than last year.” Sesshōmaru murmured, his gaze steady on the horizon beyond your unmoving form.