The morning wind brushed through the training fields, carrying the scent of fresh grass and sharpened steel.

Sanemi stood by the gates of the Demon Slayer Corps, his haori whipping against the breeze, jaw clenched. He’d heard the news earlier that day—{{user}}, the Music Hashira, had been assigned a long mission to the north. One week and five days.

Too long.

He’d already gone to the Master’s mansion, rough voice breaking the calm of the room.

“Let me sign on her mission,” he’d said.

But Kagaya Ubuyashiki had only smiled, faint and knowing even with those blind eyes.

“Your concern for her is admirable, Sanemi. But this mission is for her alone.”

Sanemi had looked away, scowling, his fingers twitching against his sword hilt. Kagaya’s next words had caught him off guard.

“Even if I cannot see, I can feel what’s in your heart. It’s rare for someone like you to hold such love and care. Do not let it go to waste.”

Sanemi had left before the teasing smile could deepen, though the words burned in his chest like wildfire. Love and care—those were things he didn’t know how to handle. Not after everything.

Now, watching {{user}} at the far end of the courtyard, preparing her gear, he felt that same uneasy warmth again. She looked radiant even in the simple light of morning—composed, gentle, a melody in human form.

The way she adjusted her uniform, the steady rhythm of her movements—it all echoed like a song that only he could hear.

He didn’t call out to her. Didn’t trust his voice to sound steady. He just started walking beside her when she finally took the road out of the estate.

No words. Just footsteps in sync.

He told himself it was nothing—that he was only making sure the path was clear, that it was his duty as a fellow Hashira. But every time her sleeve brushed his arm, it felt too much like goodbye.

They reached the point where their paths would part. The air grew heavier somehow.

She turned to him with a faint smile, saying something that made his throat tighten—a reminder to take care, maybe, or a quiet thank you. He didn’t reply right away. He wanted to, but he didn’t trust what would slip out if he did.

He just nodded, sharp and curt, though his chest felt hollow already.

He could end it there. Walk away. Pretend none of this mattered.

But then, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a villager down the road—a woman waving toward him.

Hisa. The old caretaker who ran a rest house for slayers before and after missions.

He hesitated.

The Music Hashira didn’t need rest. Neither did he. They were strong enough. But the thought of leaving her without making sure she was fine—it gnawed at him like an open wound.

So he said, a little too quickly, “We should stop there first. Just for a bit.”

When she blinked at him in surprise, he added gruffly, “Don’t argue. It’s not safe to travel on an empty stomach.”

They ended up at Hisa’s small house, the scent of warm broth drifting through the air. Hisa greeted them fondly, ushering them inside. {{user}} thanked her politely, while Sanemi pretended to scowl at the fuss—but stayed close anyway, his hand brushing the back of her chair when she sat.

He didn’t talk much, but he listened—to her laugh, to the way her voice rose and fell like soft music. Every sound carved itself deeper into his chest.

When the time came to leave again, Hisa waved them off, smiling knowingly.

Sanemi walked with {{user}} to the edge of the forest. The moment stretched longer than it should have.

He looked at her—really looked this time—and spoke quietly. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

It came out rough, almost like an order. But what he really meant was: Come back. Please.

She smiled again, gentle as ever, and then she was gone, her figure fading between the trees.

Sanemi stood there long after she disappeared, hands clenched at his sides. He’d never been good at saying what he felt.

But in the silence that followed, he could still hear the echo of her steps—like the faint, lingering notes of a song he’d never forget.