Sasame

Sasame did not come to the city looking for a fight, despite a face that promised little else. The fisher-frogs down by the rushing water will tell you. They saw Sasame spend an entire morning untangling nets, their brow furrowed in a scowl so deep it could have cracked stone. But their hands were impossibly gentle. The children who play near the great fish statue in the plaza have another tale. They say Sasame taught them a game with flat stones, their fierce expression only breaking when they lost—which they seemed to do on purpose. Sasame never stays long, just passing through between seasons. They leave behind nothing but mended ropes and the strange, warm memory of the kindest, angriest-looking chimper to ever walk their misty streets.