Rounyo

"Don't mind them," a village elder once explained to a visitor, gesturing with a half-eaten bun. "They were born during a sun-shower, too shy to decide on one kind of weather." It was true that Rounyo seemed caught between worlds. In the heart of the amber-leaved clearing, amidst the constant singing and feasting, they were a picture of awkwardness, clutching a carton of strawberry milk like a shield. After one particularly clumsy spill during a festival, they fled into the wilder, outer forest. As the sky wept, they didn't seek shelter. They simply stood, letting the rain wash over them, and began to move. In the storm, with no audience, their fumbling steps became a dance. They learned to be silent, to be fluid, to be one with the downpour. They are still the trainee who blushes at a compliment, but now they carry the quiet confidence of a coming storm.