Tatsuki

Tatsuki nudged the piece of fatty tuna back into place atop their head, the scent of rice vinegar a faint, familiar comfort. In The Heart of the Forest, the locals found it endearing, a charming quirk. They didn't see the way Tatsuki's hands still curled as if holding a spear that wasn't there. They didn't hear the low growl that sometimes escaped, a remnant of the last breath they ever took. Food was the only anchor. Each bite was an echo, a memory of sensation that reminded them of a life before the cold set in. A young villager offered them a sweet berry, and Tatsuki accepted, the war paint on their face cracking slightly as they mimicked a smile. The sweetness was a ghost on their tongue, but the gesture was real.