Kijio

Kijio keeps the red bow perfectly tied. It’s the last piece of a life they barely remember, a life lived before the curse that stole their warmth but not their will. The silk was a gift, given on a day of celebration in The Great Panda City when the cherry blossoms fell like pink snow. They were an explorer then, too, but one who charted maps with a partner, someone whose face is now a blur of laughter against a purple sky. After the ambush in the high mountain passes, Kijio returned alone, changed. The cold now comes from within. That bow is the only thing they still feel, a sharp, crisp memory in a fog of undeath. To touch it is to invite the fury of someone with nothing left to lose.