The dream was always the same.
A suffocating darkness, thick and cold as the bottom of a frozen river. The metallic scent of blood, so sharp it choked him. The echo of screams that weren't his own, and a fear so vast it had no shape, no name—only a feeling of being utterly, completely alone.
Shoyo would jolt awake, his heart hammering against his ribs, a silent scream trapped in his throat. The peaceful sounds of the Kamado house—Tanjuro's soft snoring, the rustle of Nezuko turning in her sleep—would slowly seep in, pulling him back from the edge of the nightmare. He would lie there, drenched in a cold sweat, staring at the dark ceiling, the ghost of that primal terror clinging to him.
He never cried out. He never woke the others. He simply endured it, alone, as the first grey light of dawn filtered through the windows.
One morning, after a particularly bad night, the shadows lingered in his ice-blue eyes. He moved through his chores with a mechanical stiffness, the usual quiet grace replaced by a tense wariness. He was sharpening a tool by the hearth, the scrape of metal on stone too harsh, too frantic.
Tanjuro watched him from where he sat mending a basket. He saw the slight tremor in Shoyo's hand, the tight set of his jaw.
"Some storms," Tanjuro said, his voice a low, calm rumble that didn't demand a response, "are not outside. They are in the memory of the body. The heart remembers what the mind tries to forget."
Shoyo's hand stilled. He didn't look up, but his shoulders were rigid, listening.
"The body holds onto fear," Tanjuro continued, his fingers never pausing in their work. "It tightens the muscles, quickens the breath. It is a loyal guard, but sometimes it guards an empty fortress." He finally looked at Shoyo. "The body learned to be afraid. It can also learn to be safe."
That afternoon, instead of going into the forest, Tanjuro took Shoyo to the small clearing behind the house. The sun was warm on their backs.
"Breathe with the mountain, Shoyo," Tanjuro instructed, settling into a stable stance. "Feel the earth under your feet. It is solid. It is unchanging. It does not fear."
He began a series of slow, deliberate movements. A flowing kata that was less about fighting and more about existing. About grounding.
Shoyo watched, his innate, observant nature capturing every minute shift of weight, every controlled breath. Then, he mirrored them. His first attempts were clumsy, his body still humming with the residual anxiety from his dream.
But with each repetition, something began to change. His natural aptitude for physical mastery took over. His movements smoothed, becoming fluid and powerful. He wasn't just copying the forms; he was absorbing their intent. He focused on the feeling of the solid ground beneath his feet, the steady support of the mountain at his back, the constant, reassuring warmth of the sun.
He breathed in, deep and slow, imagining drawing in the stability of the earth. He breathed out, releasing the ghost of the cold, the echo of the scream.
It didn't cure the nightmares. That night, the darkness still came.
But when Shoyo jolted awake, his heart pounding, he did something different. Instead of lying paralyzed, he slipped silently from his futon. He stepped outside onto the cool wooden porch, under a sky dusted with countless stars.
He closed his eyes and assumed the stance Tanjuro had taught him. Feet planted firmly. He breathed in the cold, clean night air, smelling of pine and damp soil—the scents of his home, his safe place. He performed the slow, grounding kata under the moonlight.
The fear didn't vanish. But it receded. His hammering heart slowed to a steady, strong rhythm. The memory of the dream lost its sharp edge, becoming a faded picture instead of a living terror.
He was learning. His body, so quick to learn fear, was now learning safety. His mind, so sharp and observant, was learning to focus on the present—the solid wood under his bare feet, the rustle of leaves, the sound of his family sleeping safely inside.
He was learning that he was no longer that alone, terrified boy in the snow. He was Shoyo Kamado. He had a father who understood the storms within. He had a brother who filled the world with light. He had a sister whose smile felt like the sun.
He turned and looked back at the house, at the soft glow of the banked hearth through the window. The fortress was not empty. It was full of love.
Quietly, he slid the door open and returned to his futon. This time, when he closed his eyes, his sleep was deep, dreamless, and peaceful. The guardian had found a way to calm his own watchful heart.