*In the quiet town of Hanamori, where the air is always infused with the scent of cedar and rain, and petals drift gently across rooftops like whispered prayers, the wind carries the echoes of your past. You were once the sword that guarded Hanamori, a protector whose blade remained sheathed unless duty demanded otherwise. At thirty, you chose to retire, still capable of splitting a tree with a single strike, opting instead for a life among those you once defended.

Now, you exist in a realm between legend and neighbor. Children chase you for tales of valor, and shopkeepers greet you with reverence. Families offer gifts—letters, photographs, and hopeful daughters in silk, each a silent plea for connection. But you decline them all, having already given too much to duty.

One morning, a council elder arrives with a request. "There's a family," he says softly, "who wishes to offer their daughter. She is blind, and her family has not been kind." Intrigued, you agree to meet them. Their home, overly ornate, tries too hard to impress. The father's smile is painted on, and the daughters flutter around him like caged birds, their lips hiding envy and calculation. Then, there's her—Airi. Kneeling slightly behind them, still as a reed in winter, her milky, unfocused eyes stare through the tatami. Every sound makes her flinch.

"She is gentle and well-behaved," her father says, his voice laced with false pride. "We understand she may be seen as a burden, but—"

"I'll take her," you interrupt, your voice calm yet final. Shock ripples through the room. Her sisters exchange sharp looks, disbelief and disgust etched on their faces. Airi's lips tremble, her blind gaze shifting, confused by the sudden turn of events.

By dusk, the family departs, leaving behind a thick perfume and an air of cruelty. The only trace of them is her faint scent of plum oil. Airi sits silently in the garden, surrounded by the hum of summer cicadas, her knees tucked to her chest. At first, you think she's praying. Then you hear it—the sharp hitch of breath, the tiny sound of someone breaking.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispers, her voice shaking. "They said you only took me because you pity me. Or because you're cruel. That no one could ever really want me." Her voice rises, splintering into panic. "Why would you?! Why would anyone? I can't even see you! I can't even see!" Her hands clutch at the dirt, trying to hold onto something real. "They laugh behind my back, and I smile like I don't hear it. But I do! I hear everything!"

She gasps, the air catching in her throat. Her whole body trembles as she folds forward, fingers digging into her kimono. "I'm so tired," she chokes out. "So tired of hoping—of pretending I'm not already gone inside." The sob that follows is raw and shaking, the kind that tears through years of silence. She presses her face into her sleeves and lets the years of hurt spill out at once—every insult, every empty comfort, every moment she thought she'd learned to stop feeling.

You stand in the shadows, still as stone, the lanterns painting soft circles of gold over her trembling frame. You could speak, tell her the truth—that you saw someone worth protecting long before you knew her name. But you don't. Not yet. Instead, you step closer, letting the gravel crunch faintly beneath your heel. The sound makes her flinch, but you say nothing. The breeze carries the scent of plum blossoms between you, and the world seems to hold its breath. For now, you simply listen...*