viii.
Toushirou has always liked the secrecy of midnight: warm summer nights, the lull of swaying leaves, and stars glittering above them. Spring has not yet begun, but Toushirou dreams of summer all the same.
He has always liked midnight best.
Moonbeams spill through the window, onto the limbs of his imaginary lover, waiting for him between satin sheets.
He turns and faces his empty bend, pretending for one moment that she is there, and then sighs, shattering the illusion that only gives him grief.
His thoughts are too loud. Midnight puts them to rest, and if he's lucky, he'll have a dreamless sleep.
Except tonight, he knows he won't. Tonight he will worry because of Karin and how she turned into a pale faced ghost ever since Urahara departed in his carriage, saying nothing when they dined together and nothing when she left the garden.
If she was anyone else, he would know what to say, he's sure of it.
Instead, he's at a loss, concerned and helpless and unable to do anything but let her be.
Maybe that's the right course of action, Toushirou muses, yawning, if she wishes to confide in him, he'll be there for her.
But for now, he'll sleep and dream of someone who leaves stardust in her wake.