Plum Season

Chapter 1

   Tanjiro lay in bed, staring up at the inn's wooden ceiling. Slivers of yellow streetlight flickered across the walls. A gentle breeze flowed through an open window, drawing in the chirps of crickets below.

He couldn't sleep. Tonight, he was fixated on what might have been. He thought of his mother; how badly he needed her encouraging words and kind smile. All that she had done and sacrificed to keep their family afloat. He reminisced about the meals she once slaved over for him and his siblings; the recipes now lost to the ether. Before she passed, he'd been planning to learn from her, but it hadn't felt like a pressing matter back then. He was a kid, and his head had been elsewhere. And how stupid he felt for it. His stomach was the kind of empty he couldn't fill.

And then he thought more of his siblings, who would never grow up enough to find themselves, much less finish the last book they were reading. Their deaths still felt fresh. He retraced his steps from that day over and over, wondering how things may have turned out if he had done that or this. What if I gave in and brought Hanako with me? Would it have been harder to look after her on top of training for the corps? And looking for a cure for Nezuko? He felt awful for hypothetically considering his late sister a burden, even for a moment.

Then, the flashbacks crept in again, turning his skin cold. His family—bloody and mutilated—lifeless on the floor of his childhood home. He could hardly think of the house anymore without picturing the way it looked the last time he saw it. A silent shell of itself; soaked in blood and torn apart from the inside. What had they been thinking during their final moments? Just envisioning it was nearly too much for his heart to bear.

He remembers the pure hot terror that struck his veins. Dashing body to body to check for vital signs, sandals slipping in lukewarm blood. Yelling but not hearing his own voice. The adrenaline that forced him onward even when Nezuko felt so heavy.

And in his haste to save her life, he hadn't even had the time to give his family a proper burial. He was almost thankful—even the notion of carrying their bodies to graves deeply disturbed him. But then again, there would never be a befitting place to pay his respects. They were gone. There were no ashes. There were no stones engraved with each of their names. Just a crumbled-in house and scattered bones, picked clean by the forest creatures. He didn't think he could bring himself to return. It would never be the home he once knew.

And in an instant, he found himself looking at the woodgrain again, safe in bed. Heart pounding. Lying in sweat. Steady tears rolling from the corners of his eyes; their trails cooled by the air that washed over him. He sniffled so hard that he was forced to cough, and hoped he hadn't woken anyone.

It was quiet at first, to his relief. But then he heard the faint rustle of a blanket. "Kentaro?"

Inosuke. Tanjiro hastily wiped his face on his shirt sleeves before pressing the fabric against his closed eyes to wick away his tears. "Yes?" He whispered, wrists now wet.

"You're crying," Inosuke replied in a whisper so forceful it seemed accusatory. He sat up in bed to get a better look at him.

Between them, Zenitsu stirred in his sleep, rolling over and letting out a sigh.

   Tanjiro held his index finger to his lips to motion for Inosuke to lower his voice. When he saw the silhouette of the boar mask tilt to one side, he could sense the disgruntled expression that lay beneath.

   Deciding it best to go to him, Tanjiro got to his feet. He cautiously tiptoed across the room before sitting, crosslegged, on the end of Inosuke's futon.

"I heard you crying a while," Inosuke said, softer this time.

Tanjiro bowed his head. "Sorry to wake you. I had no idea I was so loud."