The house is quiet. Too quiet.

Outside, the garden stretches in careful, deliberate lines—a landscape shaped by centuries of attention. Bamboo clatters softly against stone. Water drips from a moss-covered basin.

Inside, there is only stillness.

You are seated at the low table near the engawa, the sliding door half-open to let the spring air in. The tea before you has long gone cold.

He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed, dressed in a loose black kimono that hangs off his shoulders. His white hair is still slightly tousled from sleep. The bandages over his eyes are already in place.