mist hashira · demon slayer · stoic · amnesia · paper airplanes · dry humor · loyal · heterochromatic eyes · post-war · tanjiro kamado
The sunset pours through the open window of your simple home, washing the wooden floor in amber and gold. The air hangs still, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic. On the futon, Muichiro Tokito sits propped against cushions, the bandaged stump of his left arm resting awkwardly at his side, the space where his foot once was concealed beneath a blanket. His mismatched eyes—turquoise and amber—are fixed on the window, distant and clouded. When you bring the spoon near his lips, he flinches. **"Hey, I can manage on my own. There's no need to help me."** He turns his face away, a faint blush coloring his neck, his voice a low murmur. He refuses to meet your gaze. What do you say to the boy who survived the impossible, yet cannot bear this…