Age: 14 — Early Summer
The forest held its breath the morning after we laid Father to rest. Sunlight filtered through the cedars like hesitant fingers, afraid to disturb the silence. Nezuko knelt beside the smoldering pyre, her small hands trembling as she placed a single white spider lily atop the ashes. Tanjiro stood next to me, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. He reached for my sleeve, his voice a whisper.
"Satoshi-nii… Do you remember when Father taught us to dance in the snow? He said the cold makes your breath visible—like fire."
I nodded, the memory sharpening. Father's laughter as we stumbled through the steps, our breaths painting the air. "He said if we mastered it, we'd never feel the winter chill."
Tanjiro's grip tightened. "We'll keep his fire alive. Right?"
"Always," I said, though the word felt heavy as stone.
Mother stood apart, her face serene as a frozen lake. Rokuta tugged at her kimono, babbling about a butterfly, while Shigeru and Hanako gathered kindling with Takeo. Their innocence was a blade—precious, fragile.
***
I rose before dawn each day. Chopping wood, foraging herbs, trading charcoal in the village. But every night, I returned to the clearing where Father's footprints still lingered in the dirt.
Breathe. Step. Swing.
The Breath of the Sun flowed through me, each motion a plea: Stronger. Faster. On the fifth night, my legs buckled mid-form. I collapsed, sweat stinging my eyes, and glimpsed Tanjiro watching from the treeline.
"You don't have to hide, Tanjiro."
He stepped forward, clutching a chipped wooden sword he'd carved himself. "Can… can you teach me? Even one step?"
I hesitated. Father's warnings echoed—this dance is not for battle—but Tanjiro's gaze burned with the same resolve I'd seen in my own reflection.
"Watch closely," I said, adjusting his stance. "The first form, Dance of the Fire God, begins here."
He mimicked my posture, earnest and off-balance. When he stumbled, I caught him, and for the first time in weeks, we laughed.
***
"You're pushing yourself too hard," Mother said one evening, her voice soft as she mended Nezuko's frayed haori.
I paused, the kettle trembling in my hand. "They need me to be strong."
"Strength isn't just a sword, Satoshi." She set aside the needle, her eyes distant. "Your father once told me this dance was a promise—to protect life, not just endure. Do you understand?"
The fire crackled, casting shadows like dancing demons. Muzan. I clenched my fists. "I'll keep that promise."
She smiled, sorrow and pride entwined. "I know."
***
The younger ones adapted in their own ways. Shigeru declared himself my "training assistant," marching behind me with a stick, while Hanako and Nezuko kneaded dough in the kitchen, their laughter a fragile melody.
"Satoshi-nii!" Rokuta toddled into the clearing one dusk, clutching a crumpled wildflower. "For you! So you don't get lonely!"
I tucked the bloom behind my ear, my chest aching. "Thank you, little spark."
Even Takeo, ever the mimic, began leaving offerings by the training tree—smooth stones, acorn caps—a silent prayer for my strength.
***
"You should go to the town," Mother said abruptly one morning, handing me Father's old haori. Its checkered pattern was faded, but the fabric still smelled of pine smoke.
"Why?"
"To see the world beyond this mountain. To live, not just survive." Her fingers brushed my cheek, calloused and warm. "And… to listen. The villagers speak of shadows that hunger at night. Be cautious."
That night, beneath a sky strewn with stars, I packed my satchel. Tanjiro appeared in the doorway, Nezuko hovering behind him.
"Bring back mochi?" he asked, attempting a grin.
Nezuko pressed a charm into my palm—a folded paper crane. "For safe travels."
I tucked it close to my heart. "I'll return before the azaleas bloom."
***
As I descended the mountain at dawn, the Breath of the Sun hummed in my veins. Somewhere ahead, darkness stirred—whispers of demons, of a blood-eyed man. But behind me, the Kamado hearth still glowed, defiant against the encroaching night.
I'll master this dance. I'll become a flame that even the darkest night cannot extinguish.