The first thing I learned was that being a child again was hell.
Not emotionally—physically.
My legs were short. My stamina was trash. I tripped over air. And worst of all, no one took anything I said seriously because apparently being five years old meant I had zero credibility.
Which was inconvenient, because I knew about:
• Demons
• A man named Muzan Kibutsuji
• The fact that this entire family was on a future murder schedule
But sure, Nezuko, go play with sticks.
The second thing I learned?
I couldn't stop acting… wrong.
Not on purpose.
It just happened.
It started with the staring.
I'd sit by the hearth, watching the fire crackle, not playing, not humming—just thinking.
Planning.
Timing.
My little siblings would chatter around me, tug my sleeves, ask me to play house or tag, and I'd respond late. Too late.
"…Nezuko?" Takeo asked once, waving a hand in front of my face. "You look like Tanjiro when he's doing math."
That earned a laugh.
I didn't laugh.
I was busy calculating how many years we had before Muzan showed up.
Kie noticed.
Mothers always do.
She'd pause mid-chore, eyes soft but searching, like she was trying to read a page that kept changing ink.
"Nezuko," she said gently one morning, crouching in front of me. "Is something troubling you?"
I blinked.
Too slowly.
"No," I answered.
Which was true.
Everything wasn't troubling me.
Everything was terrifying me.
Then came the questions.
Bad idea. I knew better. But curiosity and panic are a lethal combo.
"Mother," I asked one evening while she folded clothes, "what would you do if a bad man came to the mountains?"
She paused.
"…a bad man?"
"One who hurts people."
Her smile faded—not fully, but enough.
"Well," she said carefully, "we would pray, and we would protect each other."
I nodded.
"What if he wasn't human?"
Silence.
The room felt colder.
Kie looked at me for a long moment.
"…why would you ask that?"
I shrugged, forcing my shoulders to relax. "Just wondering."
It wasn't convincing.
That night, I heard her whispering to Tanjiro in the next room.
"Nezuko has been asking strange things lately," she said. "About danger. About death."
Tanjiro laughed softly. "She's probably just imagining things. She's always been thoughtful."
Thoughtful.
Yeah.
That was one word for it.
…
I couldn't exactly say, Hey Tanjiro, start sword training early so you don't get wiped by Upper Moons later.
So instead, I did what Gen-Z does best.
I min-maxed subtly.
I carried heavier bundles of wood than I needed to.
I ran errands faster.
I balanced on rocks near the river "for fun."
I practiced holding my breath.
At night, when everyone slept, I stretched until my muscles burned.
My body adapted frighteningly fast.
Not demon-fast.
But not normal either.
Tanjiro noticed first.
"Nezuko," he said one afternoon, watching me climb down from a tree I definitely should not have been in, "since when could you do that?"
I tilted my head. "Since always?"
He frowned.
"You used to be scared of heights."
Oops.
He didn't push it—but he watched me more after that.
I still smiled.
I still helped cook. Still soothed the younger kids. Still laughed when I was supposed to.
But something was missing.
Carefree joy.
I laughed like someone who knew it wouldn't last.
Kie noticed that too.
One night, she held me longer than usual before bed, her hand brushing my hair.
"You don't have to be so strong," she murmured. "You're still my little girl."
My throat tightened.
I wanted to tell her everything.
That I wasn't strong enough.
That I was trying to outrun a tragedy already written.
That in another life, I watched her die on a screen and cried over it like she was real.
Because she was real.
"I know," I whispered.
But I didn't believe it.
They never confronted me.
Not directly.
But I saw it in the looks they exchanged.
In the way Tanjiro stood a little closer to me on errands.
In how Kie prayed longer at night.
They thought something was wrong with Nezuko Kamado.
And they weren't wrong.