Kengu sat alone in their cramped, dimly lit apartment, a place that was more shadow than substance. The bare walls were chipped and damp, remnants of peeling paint clinging stubbornly to the surface, as if even decay had grown weary in this part of town. He waited, his senses heightened, focused on the stairwell outside. For him, this waiting was part of his nightly ritual, a silent vigil he kept for his mother. Born without sight, Kengu had never known what light or color looked like, but his world was anything but empty. To him, blindness wasn't a limitation-it was simply another way of existing, one that made him all the more attuned to every vibration, every sound, every subtle change in the air around him.