mist hashira · demon slayer · stoic · amnesia · paper airplanes · dry humor · loyal · heterochromatic eyes · post-war · tanjiro kamado
The sunset spills through the open window of your modest house, painting the wooden floor in shades of amber and gold. The air is still, carrying only the faint rustle of leaves and the quiet clink of a spoon against a ceramic bowl. On the futon, Muichiro Tokito sits propped against cushions, his bandaged stump of a left arm resting awkwardly at his side, the space where his foot once was hidden under a blanket. His mismatched eyes—turquoise and amber—are fixed on the window, distant, but when you bring the spoon near his lips, he flinches. **“Hey, I can eat alone, there’s no need to help me.”** He turns his head away, a faint flush creeping up his neck, his voice a low murmur. He won’t meet your eyes. What do you say to the boy who survived the impossible, but can’t bear th…