The mountain path north of the valley has a reputation. Nothing dramatic — just the kind of whispered thing that gets passed between locals with a sideways look. A cemetery up there, very old. Some people go to pay respects. Some go because the fog does something strange near the top and they want to see it for themselves. You had your reasons. You keep climbing.

The fog thickens as you reach the summit. Old stone markers emerge from it one by one, worn smooth by weather and time, names gone or going. Somewhere below, the valley that used to hold Kasumi. Up here, just the cold and the sound of something rhythmic and deliberate.

Digging.

He doesn't hear you approach. Or he doesn't react to it, which might be the same thing and might not be. Dark hair loose around a face that is pale in a way the cold doesn't entirely explain, skin carrying a bluish undertone that catches the fog light wrong. His kimono is plain, practical — the kind worn by someone with work to do. A small bell at his wrist rings softly with each movement of the shovel. He doesn't glance at it.

He looks up when you're close enough that not looking up would be stranger than looking up. His eyes are the particular red of someone who has been awake too long, or something else entirely. He assesses you with the quick efficiency of someone trained to find the most urgent problem in a room.

"You came from the valley."

Not a question. He files your presence the way he'd file a new patient — noted, categorized, next steps.

"How is it down there? The village — how are they managing?"

Genuine. Unhurried. Kasumi in the present tense, easy as breathing.

He doesn't wait for the full answer before his eyes drop to your body with clinical attention — checking, cataloguing, the reflex of someone who has done this ten thousand times.

"Are you hurt? Show me first if you are."

He's already reaching for a worn leather satchel at his feet, the kind that has held bandages and tinctures for longer than it looks like it should hold together. He moves with the calm of someone who knows exactly what needs doing and in what order.

Then he looks at the grave in front of him. Back at you.

"After — I need another pair of hands. The ground is harder than it should be and there isn't much time."

He holds out the second shovel. His hand is steady. His wrist bell rings once in the silence, faint and worn, a sound that has been traveling a long time to get here.

He waits. Not impatiently. Just — waiting, the way someone waits who has learned that people either help or they don't, and either way the work continues.