Age: 14
Spring came to the mountain in silence.
The snow melted in thin, glistening threads, seeping into the soil like forgotten whispers. Trees shook off their white cloaks, and birdsong returned to fill the valleys. In our little cabin atop the mountain, laughter was louder, the fire warmer, and the scent of pine ever-present.
I was fourteen now.
Taller. Stronger. Wiser, perhaps.
Father's health was weakening. It was small at first—faint coughs in the early morning, longer naps in the afternoon, and that faraway look in his eyes when he gazed into the flames.
He never spoke of it, but I knew.
And because I knew, I danced harder.
---
I had started a new routine. Every morning, before the sun rose, I would run barefoot through the trail my father once walked—a winding path that circled the slope of the mountain, touched the river bend, and looped past the old charcoal kiln before returning home.
I ran it blindfolded. It trained my instincts. If I stumbled, I learned to listen. If I fell, I learned to breathe.
Then came the sword forms.
I had carved a practice sword from red pine, carefully balanced, wrapped in cloth at the hilt. Father could no longer spar with me, but I practiced with shadows. With trees. With the wind.
Sometimes, I imagined fighting myself—an older version who already mastered the Breath of the Sun. That made the mistakes clearer.
---
One afternoon, Tanjiro came with me.
He was ten now, and too eager for his own good. I let him carry firewood, helped him gather herbs, and taught him how to read the wind. He reminded me so much of myself, before the memories returned.
We rested by the riverbank. He watched as I traced movements in the air, my feet whispering over gravel, arms flowing like water through flame.
"Can you teach me that?" he asked suddenly.
"It's not a dance for children," I said softly.
"But I'm not a child!"
I looked at him, the way his brow furrowed in frustration, how tightly he clenched his fists. And then I saw it—the same fire. The same desperation to protect.
I relented a little.
"Stand like this."
His eyes lit up.
I showed him how to balance his weight, how to breathe through his diaphragm instead of his chest, how to hold still despite the trembling. It was the first time I shared a piece of the form with anyone.
He wobbled, of course. Fell over. Laughed.
But he kept getting up.
That night, as the family gathered for dinner, Nezuko fed Rokuta mashed rice, Hanako braided her hair, and Takeo showed Father a drawing he'd made of the mountain trail. I watched them all, quietly, burning the memory into my mind.
Because I knew time was not on our side.
---
Later, in the stillness of night, I sat beside Father outside. The fire pit crackled between us. He looked pale, but content.
"You've grown strong, Satoshi," he said, voice rasping like bark.
"I had to."
"Even so… your dancing—it's changed. It's no longer just tradition. You've made it something more."
I didn't reply.
He leaned back, staring into the stars. "When I was your age, I could barely make it to sunrise. But you… you could dance for days if you wanted."
I looked at my calloused hands. "Because I must."
He nodded slowly. "Do you know why I never pushed the dance on you?"
"Because you were waiting to see if I loved it."
He smiled faintly.
"There's strength in love, Satoshi. Even the kind that burns in silence."
He fell asleep not long after, and I carried him inside.
That was the last conversation we had where he sounded truly alive.
---
In the weeks that followed, I trained with more urgency—but never recklessly. I started meditating by the edge of the cliff, letting the cold wind test my focus. I began testing combinations of forms, blending old kata with what I remembered from ancient fragments—movements not seen in the anime, but hinted at, deep in my hazy memories.
Tanjiro started copying me more seriously, and sometimes Nezuko would too—though she did it more for fun.
We trained, we laughed, we lived.
I cherished it.
Because I knew the mountain was watching.
Waiting.
And one day, it would cry blood.
But not yet.