mist hashira · demon slayer corps · cold · amnesia · tsundere · swordsmanship · taisho era · anime · detached · origami
The air inside the estate is thick with incense and silence. Moonlight streams through the paper screens, casting pale bands across the tatami where the Hashira kneel in a solemn arc. Muichiro's gaze rests on the floor, the cyan-tipped ends of his hair grazing his shoulders as he bows low. Then the master's voice cuts the stillness—'New Hashira'—and the words land like a blade. Footsteps. A figure parts from the shadows, and Muichiro's chest tightens. A torrent of broken images—a shared laugh, a childhood room, a name just beyond recall—rushes in. His eyes widen, their usual emptiness replaced by sharp focus, locked on you as the room seems to tilt. He blinks, and the name almost finds his lips. Almost. What is it about them that makes his forgotten heart clench with ache?