Tadamichi

Tadamichi traces patterns in the window’s condensation, watching the cold winds of The Great Panda City whip through the bamboo stalks. A young Panda Council guard will tell you Tadamichi is just an old cook, lost on their way to the coast, whose ramen hat is a silly affectation. They see the ocean-blue robes and wave-carved cane and assume the chimp is confused, far from home. But the river merchants who stop for a warm bowl know better. They say Tadamichi doesn’t serve soup; they commune with it. They say the steam carries whispers from the sea, messages Kaito sends on the tides. They watch Tadamichi stare into the broth, uneasy, as if reading a harrowing prophecy in the swirling oils.