Age: 14 — Late Spring
The sound of cicadas returned with the heat, buzzing through the trees like a distant alarm. Days grew longer, and so did my hours of practice.
The rhythm of life on the mountain had become a harmony I knew by heart.
Tanjiro had begun waking up early to help Mother fetch water. Nezuko was growing taller, asking endless questions about the world beyond our forest. Takeo had carved his first wooden toy with Father's old knife, while Hanako was learning how to braid everyone's hair—including mine, to my dismay. Shigeru and Rokuta mostly chased chickens.
And me?
I kept dancing.
But this chapter of my life isn't just about the dance.
It's about them.
---
That morning, I caught Mother in the kitchen before the others woke. Her hair was still wrapped in a cloth from last night's bath, her sleeves pulled back, preparing soup quietly as steam fogged the window.
"You're up early again," she said, not turning around.
"I always am."
She smiled, ladling broth into a wooden bowl and handing it to me.
We sat outside, side by side on the veranda, looking out into the misty slope where the world still slept.
"You've grown even quieter than before," she said gently.
"I've been thinking."
"About your father?"
I nodded.
She didn't say anything for a long moment.
"Your father… he knows, Satoshi. He feels it too. That his body is slowly leaving him."
The air between us grew still.
"I don't want him to go."
"Neither do I," she said softly. "But he's proud of you, you know. The way you've taken on the burden of helping this family. The way you carry yourself."
I turned to her. Her hands were worn, the fingers calloused, the skin cracked and pink from years of scrubbing, chopping, and hauling. But she looked serene, watching the sunrise as if the world had no cruelty in it.
"You've changed too, Mother," I said.
"Oh?" she chuckled. "Is that so?"
"You've been stronger. I noticed you've been smiling more, even when you're tired."
"I suppose… we mothers learn to smile no matter what, especially for the sake of our children."
Her gaze lingered in the distance.
"When I first had you, you were so strange. You hardly cried. You looked at me like you were watching. Like your soul had come from somewhere far away."
I froze.
"I used to worry something was wrong with you," she admitted. "But then I saw the way you cared for your siblings. I saw the fire in your eyes. You were never a baby, really. You were always something more."
I didn't speak. I couldn't.
She placed a hand on my back, warm and light.
"Satoshi… I don't know what burdens you carry. But whatever they are, you're not alone."
---
Later that day, I helped Father gather wood.
He insisted, despite my protests. The air was damp, and the sun hung low behind the clouds, painting the world in copper. His steps were slower now. His breath came shorter. But his eyes were still full of purpose.
"I've noticed you've changed your stances," he said after a while, watching me load the bundle.
"I adjusted the angles. Some of the turns. It flows better."
He gave a soft grunt of approval. "The breath is yours now. That's how it should be."
We walked in silence for a time.
"Do you hate me, Satoshi?" he asked suddenly.
I stopped walking.
"What?"
"For passing down a legacy of fire and suffering. For making you carry it before you even became a man."
I shook my head. "I chose this."
He looked at me sideways.
"No. You accepted it. That's different."
There was a pain in his voice that I hadn't noticed before.
"You were always too clever," he muttered. "When I saw you practicing in the dark, alone, I realized—you weren't dancing. You were fighting. Against time. Against fate."
I tightened my grip on the wood.
He placed a hand on my shoulder, strong despite its trembling.
"Satoshi… I don't know what kind of man you'll become. But I want you to remember this: you don't have to fight alone. When I'm gone, remember your mother. Your siblings. They'll be your roots."
I turned to him. "And you?"
He smiled. "I'll be in the flame. In every breath you take."
---
That night, I danced with him one last time.
He asked me to perform with him at dusk, when the family had gone inside. The sun set slowly behind us, casting our shadows long across the earth.
He moved with grace despite his frailty, and I followed him—step for step, breath for breath.
When the stars appeared, he sat down.
"You've surpassed me," he whispered.
I didn't feel pride. I felt sorrow.
Because the man who once danced from sunset to sunrise without faltering now struggled to keep his eyes open. But he still smiled.
"I'm not afraid," he said. "Because you're here."
He fell asleep leaning against my shoulder.
---
A few weeks passed.
The cough returned—worse this time. His steps became fewer. Eventually, he stopped leaving the house. He would sit by the hearth, watching the flames, humming a tune none of us knew.
I cooked with Mother. Carried firewood. Taught Tanjiro how to sharpen tools and how to swing an axe with control. I told Nezuko stories every night to help her sleep. Sometimes she asked me about the outside world, and I'd describe cities I only half-remembered from my other life.
We lived.
And Father watched, smiling, until the very end.
---
When he passed away, he looked peaceful.
Mother didn't cry immediately. She just held his hand and brushed his hair back, whispering something I couldn't hear.
Later that night, I danced alone in the field.
No steps missed. No breath wasted.
And when I finished, I knelt in the dirt and let the tears come.
I wasn't crying for loss.
I was crying because I had loved him.