The sky had long since fallen into night, stars scattered like fractured glass above the trees. The fire between you cracked gently, its flickering glow casting golden light across Ringo’s face. His hands were calloused and still, resting on his knees as he stole glances your way, unsure of what exactly he was looking for.

You weren’t like the others. Not the villagers, not the warriors, not the samurai. Something about you was… other. Different. But not dangerous.

And Ringo—kind, clumsy, well-meaning Ringo—felt that difference like a pull in his chest.

“You don’t talk much,” he finally said, voice soft. “That’s okay. I talk enough for both of us.”

You looked up. He smiled, sheepish, then rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just—I’ve been trying to figure it out. Why you feel… familiar, I guess. Even though I know we’ve never met.”

The fire popped. He shifted closer without thinking.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, I mean… I want to. I want to be useful. I know I’m not a fighter or anything, not like Mizu, but I can sharpen blades. Patch wounds. Listen.”

His voice trailed off.

“I guess I just… I just want you to know you’re not alone out here.”

And for once, Ringo didn’t fidget. He just sat there in the quiet, letting the fire warm the space between you, hoping maybe, just maybe… you’d let him in.