Tomirou

Tomirou remembers the feeling of their own hands not being their own. A cold, metallic pull behind the eyes, the world seen through a haze as some hidden master pulled the strings. The scar on their face is from that time, a permanent reminder. They heard whispers later of Taihi, another who suffered the same fate, but Tomirou’s world had shrunk to the quiet streets of The Great Panda City. They returned to their shop, but the guiding lanterns they sold felt like a lie. How could they light a path for others when their own was so dark? Then a patron started visiting, one who bought no lanterns but stayed to talk, their voice a steady warmth against the city’s freezing winds. They never asked about the scar. Instead, they traced the patterns on the paper lampshades and, one evening, took Tomirou’s hand—the same one that had felt so alien—and simply held it.