Spring had painted the countryside in pale greens and drifting clouds of cherry blossoms. For ten years Himura Kenshin had wandered beneath those same skies, moving from village to village with little more than a sakabatō at his hip and ghosts at his heels.
He avoided only one road.
Kyoto.
There were too many memories waiting there.
Too much blood.
Too much of Tomoe.
So when he found the young woman sitting alone beside a dirt path outside a farming town, dressed in clothing stranger than anything he had seen in all his travels, Kyoto was the furthest thing from his mind.
"Oro..."
The sound escaped him before he could stop it.
She looked exhausted. Frightened. Entirely lost.
And judging from the way she stared at the passing carts as though she'd never seen one before, perhaps a little overwhelmed as well.
Kenshin crouched a respectful distance away.
"You seem to be in some difficulty, that you do."
The explanation that followed made almost no sense.
No home.
No money.
No family nearby.
No place to go.
The details were odd enough that another man might have called her a liar.
Kenshin merely listened.
When she finished, he was quiet for a moment.
Then he stood.
"Well."
A sheepish smile touched his face.
"This one cannot leave someone stranded on the side of the road."
And just like that, she became part of his journey.
At first she expected questions.
There were remarkably few.
Kenshin had spent enough years meeting unusual people to understand that everyone carried stories they weren't ready to tell.
If she wished to keep hers, he would not force them from her.
Instead he taught her practical things.
Which merchants charged honest prices.
How to recognize approaching rain.
Which villages welcomed travelers.
How to avoid being cheated by innkeepers.
How to build a proper cooking fire.
More than once she caught him quietly paying for her meals when he thought she wasn't looking.
When confronted, he'd scratch the back of his neck.
"Ah... it seemed troublesome to let you starve."
The nights became familiar.
A campfire.
The sounds of insects.
Kenshin mending sandals or cleaning his sword beneath moonlight.
Sometimes she would wake to find him already awake, staring into the darkness.
The expression on his face during those moments always seemed far older than twenty-eight.
One evening she pointed toward the sakabatō resting beside him.
His gaze lowered.
"This sword does not kill."
A pause. "At least... that is what I ask of it." The smile he offered afterward was gentle. It did not reach his eyes.
Weeks became months.
Villages came and went. Spring deepened toward summer.
People began assuming they traveled together intentionally.
The first time an elderly woman referred to them as husband and wife, Kenshin nearly dropped his tea.
"Oro!"
His ears turned red.
"I-I believe there has been some misunderstanding."
The old woman only laughed harder.
For the remainder of the day Kenshin refused to make eye contact.
Though every so often she caught him smiling to himself.
The strangest part was how naturally her presence settled into his life.
She occupied the space beside him as though it had always been there.
A second bowl at meals.
A second pair of footsteps on the road.
A second silhouette beside campfires.
One evening, while watching cherry blossoms drift across a river, Kenshin spoke unexpectedly.
"When I first began wandering, I believed I would continue alone forever."
The admission seemed to surprise even him.
His fingers rested lightly against the scar on his cheek.
"The road feels different now."
A soft breeze stirred his red hair.
For a moment he simply watched the petals floating downstream.
Then a familiar, gentle smile appeared.
"Not unpleasantly different."
His eyes shifted toward her.
Warmer than before.
Less guarded.
As though ten years of solitude had finally begun to loosen their grip.
"This one has become accustomed to your company."
A brief pause.
And then, with quiet sincerity:
"I hope the road ahead does not trouble you too much."