The rhythm of the roof changed.
For months, the only sound had been the heavy, muffled thud of snow sliding off the thatch.
It was a dead sound. A sound of burial.
But today, there was a new noise.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I sat on the porch, my back against the rough wood of the sliding door.
The air didn't bite anymore. It was damp.
It smelled of wet earth and rotting pine needles—the smell of the mountain waking up from a long, frozen sleep.
The white wall that had boxed us in was shrinking.
You could see the dark, skeletal shapes of the bushes underneath.
The ice was turning into slush.
"It's happening," Tanjiro said.
He was standing in the yard, his boots sinking into the grey, melting mess.
He wasn't carrying an axe today.
He was just standing there, looking at the treeline where the green of the needles was finally showing through the white.
"The passes will be clear in a week," I said.
I didn't look at him.
I was focused on the stone in my hand.
I had found a flat, grey river rock in the meltwater near the stream.
It wasn't a proper whetstone, but it was better than nothing.
I ran the stone along the edge of Kū-on.
Screee. Screee. Screee.
The sound was grating. It set my teeth on edge.
But with every stroke, the dull, grey oxidation was peeled away.
It revealed the silver-white bite of the steel underneath.
The notches were still there—deep, ugly gaps in the geometry of the blade—but the sections in between were getting hungry again.
"You're really going," Tanjiro said.
It wasn't a question this time.
"I told you I would."
Tanjiro walked over.
He was holding a small bundle wrapped in a clean, indigo cloth.
He set it on the porch next to me.
"My mother made you something. For the road."
"Rice cakes," he added. "And some dried meat. She said a man who breathes as much as you do needs the fuel."
I looked at the bundle.
Then I looked at the house.
I could hear the kids inside.
They were playing some game with wooden pebbles, their laughter muffled by the heavy walls.
Nezuko was humming a tune I had heard her mother sing a dozen times.
It was a perfect bubble of life.
And I was about to burst it by leaving.
"You've learned the rhythm, Tanjiro," I said, turning back to my sword.
"Don't let it go. Even when I'm gone. Even when there's no wood to split."
"I won't."
I stopped sharpening for a moment.
I looked at the boy. He had grown in these few months.
The softness of childhood was still there, but there was a layer of iron underneath it now.
"The mountain is safe right now," I said. "But the world is changing."
"I've seen things in the south... things that make the ravine I fell into look like a playground."
"If anyone ever comes here—anyone with a sword or a scent that makes your hair stand up—you don't be a hero."
Tanjiro frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You hide your family. You take them into the deep caves. You don't fight unless the blade is at your throat. Do you understand me?"
I looked him dead in the eyes.
I wanted the weight of my words to sink into his bones.
I knew what was coming.
I knew that peace like this was an anomaly in a world governed by hungry things.
"I understand," Tanjiro said.
But I could tell he didn't truly believe me.
To him, the world was still a place where hard work and kindness were the primary currencies.
I went back to the blade.
Screee. Screee.
"What will you do?" he asked. "After you leave the mountain?"
"I have a debt to settle," I said.
"And a man to find. He thinks I died in that ravine. I need to correct that misunderstanding."
"Will you come back?"
I paused.
The stone hovered over the steel.
"No."
I didn't want to lie to him.
A man like me doesn't come back to places like this.
If I came back, I'd bring the rot with me.
I was a lightning rod for violence.
Staying here any longer was already a gamble with their lives.
Tanjiro nodded slowly.
He sat down on the edge of the porch, his legs dangling over the melting snow.
"I'll keep practicing," he said. "The breathing. The stance. Everything."
"Good."
We sat in silence for a long time.
The only sound was the constant dripping of the roof.
The mountain was weeping for the end of the winter.
Later that evening, I sat with Kie and the children for the last time.
The meal was quiet.
Even the younger ones seemed to sense the shift in the air.
Hanako kept looking at my sword, then at me, as if she were trying to memorize my face.
"Thank you," I said to Kie.
"You don't owe us anything, Ryo," she replied.
"The mountain brought you here for a reason. And now it's letting you go for a reason."
She reached out and squeezed my hand.
Her palm was warm and calloused.
"Just remember to breathe when the air gets thin."
I stood up before dawn the next day.
The stars were still out, sharp and cold in the clear sky.
The snow was firm enough to walk on, crusted over with a layer of night-ice.
I checked my gear.
The indigo bundle was tied to my waist.
Kū-on was secure in its scabbard.
I didn't wake them. I didn't want the friction of a goodbye.
I stepped off the porch and started down the trail.
The path was narrow, carved between walls of melting white.
When I reached the first bend, I stopped.
I looked back at the hut.
A thin trail of smoke was already rising from the chimney.
Tanjiro was awake. He was starting the fire.
Inhale.
I felt the cold air expand in my chest.
Hold.
I felt the strength in my legs.
Exhale.
I turned away and headed into the dark.
The thaw had begun.
And somewhere down the mountain, the world was waiting to see what had survived the winter.