I will always follow

Afraid of the quiet

She wanted to cry. She had wanted to cry for so long that she barely remembered what it felt like not to. But now that the dam had broken, her tears spilled without restraint, soaking the map beneath her hands. The parchment warped and puckered where the moisture bled into it. Ink blurred in inky tendrils, erasing borders, roads, the edges of everything they had planned. She blinked through the sting, trying to steady her breath like her father had taught her—deep in, hold, then out—but the air tasted like dust and iron and smoke. Her chest rose and fell with a mechanical rhythm, mind still and eerily lucid, as if her body knew it had to function until it was allowed to break.

And it would break. She knew the downfall was coming. It always came. The crash after the clarity, the silence after the storm.

But for now... it was alright.

Tomioka-san was alive.

After so much death, after so many names left unspoken and bodies left behind, she could allow herself to rejoice in that. Just for a moment. Just for him.

Her siblings were steady around her—Kuina's voice rang out firm and clear as she questioned Kiriya for plans going forward, her fingers tracing wet paper like nothing was wrong. Kiriya stood taller than he ever had before, posture tight, hands clasped like a leader. It was all for show, of course, a scaffold for the rest of them to cling to. But it was working. They hadn't fallen apart yet, and that was more than Kanata could say for herself.

She admired them. Fiercely. Bitterly. Because underneath the pride in her chest bloomed something darker—something with claws and teeth. Guilt.

Guilt that she couldn't match them. Guilt that she needed them to be so strong when she couldn't be. Gratitude that they bore that weight—and hatred of herself for letting them.

Her gaze flicked to Suki and Aiko, crouched beside them. Their hands moved with quiet purpose: wiping sweat from a feverish brow, lifting a cup to chapped lips. They were so composed. So gentle. So... unforgivingly kind, in a world that had been nothing but cruel to them.

And they had been the ones to send Giyuu into the line of fire. Oyakata-sama, her father, and the rest of her family. They had helped make the call that put him there. And yet Suki and Aiko were still here—still working, still believing, still standing by the very people who might've doomed someone they loved.

How?

How could they stand beside her like nothing was wrong?

The heat in the room pressed down like a second skin—damp, suffocating, alive with the breath of too many people holding in too many screams. Somewhere behind her, Kuina was dry-heaving again, trying to mask it with the rustle of maps. Kiriya's voice was steady, but Kanata knew the signs. His fingers trembled when he thought no one was looking.

She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry and tight like it had been stitched shut from the inside. Her eyes burned. Her shoulders ached from holding herself upright.

And then—cool fingers touched her wrist.

She flinched.

"A-Aiko—" Her voice cracked, smaller than she intended. She didn't even realize she was crying again until the pads of Aiko's fingers gently brushed her cheek, wiping away a tear that had fallen unnoticed.

"I'm just here," Aiko said softly. "You're alright."

Kanata dug her fingers into her thighs to keep from trembling, her nails pressing crescent moons into her skin. She couldn't hate them. She didn't want to. But how could she not?

How could they stay calm, when she was unraveling?

But she nodded quickly anyway, the motion made her dizzy. Her breath stuttered. The gentleness, the calm in Aiko's voice—it wasn't just comfort. It was familiar.