The room was dim. To protect Nezuko from being burned by sunlight, thick curtains covered every window tightly. A clean, soft set of bedding lay in the very center of the room.
A small figure lay beneath the covers.
Tanjiro slowed his steps and approached the bedside, all but holding his breath.
He slowly knelt down and, by the faint light filtering through the gap in the door, finally made out the face he had longed to see day and night.
Nezuko still wore that worn pink kimono with its hemp-leaf pattern, the clothes she had worn the day she was turned into a demon. She held the bamboo tube between her teeth, her eyes shut, her breathing steady and deep. Her nails, which had sharpened when she became a demon, now rested quietly curled into her palms. Her face was a little pale, but utterly peaceful, like a sleeping beauty slumbering in a fairy tale.
"Nezuko..." Tanjiro's voice was hoarse beyond recognition. He reached out with a hand covered in scars and calluses from years of wielding a sword, wanting to touch his sister's cheek, only to stop half an inch from her skin, afraid this was merely a fragile dream that would vanish at a touch.
Tears burst uncontrollably from Tanjiro's eyes. He bit down hard on his lip to keep himself from sobbing too loudly, but the heart-wrenching agony felt like countless dull knives cutting into his heart over and over.
He watched the sleeping Nezuko quietly as scenes from the past began flashing through his mind beyond his control.
Memories played out before his eyes, one scene after another, like a revolving lantern.
He remembered the little wooden house on Mount Kumotori.
He remembered snowy winter days, their mother tenderly mending their clothes while the fire