The tatami mats creaked softly beneath them as Kuno and her father sat across from each other at the low wooden table, steam rising in lazy spirals from the lacquered bowls of miso soup and grilled fish. The scent of soy glaze and simmered vegetables filled the traditional-style dining room, mingling with the faint perfume of tatami straw and incense from the kamidana shrine tucked into the corner.
Outside, the evening cicadas had begun their rhythmic hum, a chorus of summer dusk. Inside, however, silence lingered between father and daughter—thick, but not uncomfortable. Just... unfamiliar.
Muten glanced up from his rice bowl, his eyes narrowing slightly. He'd always been a quiet man, not due to apathy, but discipline—calm forged from decades navigating the supernatural world. But tonight, something tugged at his attention.
Kuno was different.
Her posture was stiff. Shoulders tight. The playful gleam she usually carried like a badge was absent, replaced by a quiet storm behind her golden eyes. Her chopsticks moved mechanically, barely picking at her food. She hadn't touched the grilled mackerel. That alone was suspicious—grilled mackerel was her favorite.
He chewed slowly, buying himself time to observe. It had been a long time since the two of them shared a meal like this. where kuno was the quiet one .
Jin. That boy again.
Muten's face softened. He respected Jin deeply. A boy marked by tragedy and yet not consumed by it. Few could carry such a burden and still look the world in the eye without flinching. He remembered the funeral vividly—only he and Jin had stood at the graveside. He, because jin's mother had once cared for kuno when she was young .
It wasn't just the loss of family that haunted the boy— he was alone in this world. Muten, having once walked that same path , recognized that kind of scar.
He knew it intimately.
He still remembered the pain of losing everything his strength, the price he'd paid to leave behind the world of spirits and monsters. After that, he'd tried to make peace with the mundane, folding himself into the quiet life of a salary worker.
Until Kuno's mother—his ex-wife—arrived with a baby girl in her arms. A daughter who bore no clan power, no mystical fire. A disappointment to the old guard. But to him? She was perfect. Must have been hard on kuno mother , sepration .
He blinked, returning to the present. Kuno still hadn't spoken. Just pushed the pickled radish around her plate with her chopsticks.
Something was wrong.
He placed his chopsticks gently on the ceramic holder and cleared his throat.
"Kuno," he said quietly.
She flinched, just slightly, but enough for him to notice.
"Yes, father?"
"You've barely eaten your food. That's unlike you."
She hesitated, eyes fixed on her plate. "I'm not that hungry tonight."
"That so?" His voice was mild, but probing. "And here I thought mackerel was your favorite."
She let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and dropped her chopsticks. "It's nothing," she said, shaking her head. "Really."
He tilted his head. "You know, when someone says 'it's nothing' with that look on their face, it's usually something."
Her lips trembled.
He softened his tone, the edge of teasing entering his words. "If you tell me what's wrong, I might be able to help. But only if you finish your dinner."
Kuno's head shot up, eyes glistening. "Really?" she asked, hope flickering.
Muten nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A full belly brings clarity. Or so your grandmother used to say."
Kuno let out a small, wet laugh and wiped her eyes before they spilled over. Then she picked up her chopsticks and began to eat—not the slow, disinterested poking from before, but real bites, chewing quickly and swallowing with determination.
Muten watched her in silence, giving her space.
She finished her meal in record time, setting her bowl down with both hands. Her eyes looked a little clearer now, but the guilt still clung to her features like mist.
"I said something awful to Jin," she confessed, barely above a whisper. "Earlier today. I told him he didn't care about me. "
She drew in a breath that hitched in her chest. "I didn't mean it. I was just—I don't know. Angry. "
Muten was quiet for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded slowly.
"You regret it?"
"Yes"
"Then you're already halfway to fixing it," he said simply.
Kuno blinked. "What?"
He leaned back, folding his arms. "When you carry regret, it means your heart knows where it went wrong. The rest is courage."
Kuno looked down, biting her lip.
"I don't know if Jin-oni-san would forgive me," she murmured.
Muten's gaze sharpened, not unkind, but firm. "He's a good boy. And strong. But even strong boys bleed. Go to him. Apologize. You'd be surprised how far a sincere word can go."
Kuno nodded, slowly at first, then with more resolve.
"Okay," she whispered. "I will."
muten " But tomorrow morning "
A comfortable silence settled between them again, broken only by the clink of dishes as Muten gathered the empty bowls. For the first time in what felt like months, their home felt home.
He gave her one last glance before heading toward the kitchen.
Tonight, after many long years, a father and daughter had spend a quite night .