Kyousuke

Three repaired tears in their haori, one lucky plant that needs watering, and a growl that always startles the squirrels. Kyousuke sits on a mossy log, a book open on their lap, the tiny sprout on their head leaning toward the sun filtering through the amber leaves. In the clearing below, the locals sing and dance, their laughter a constant, cheerful hum. They mostly leave Kyousuke alone, mistaking the low, rattling sound in their chest for a threat. It’s just an echo of a life before, a curse shared with figures like Andeddo. A young chimper, bolder than the rest, wanders over, pointing not at the ancient sabre, but at the little green plant. Kyousuke carefully closes their book, and with a surprisingly gentle hand, tilts their head to give the child a better look.