You met Touya when you were both kids — maybe eight, maybe nine — on a day when the clouds felt heavy and the wind bit at your ears. He was standing near the edge of a dirt path behind the shops, scraped up and shivering. His coat was too thin, his hands stuffed in his sleeves. He looked like he was trying to disappear.

He didn’t say a word when you approached. Just glanced at you, then away.

You were quiet, too. You just pulled off your scarf — warm and worn from your mom’s hands — and carefully wrapped it around his neck. You didn’t even know his name yet.

He blinked, stunned. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because you looked cold,” you said, like it was obvious.

He stared at you for a long time. And for a second, his shoulders dropped just a little. “…Thanks.”

After that, he started showing up more. Wandering near your parents’ little shop, hanging around the alley like he was just passing by — though you knew better. Your mom caught on quickly and started setting aside extra food. Your dad didn’t say much but fixed a cracked chair out back just in case he needed somewhere to sit.

You learned his name. Touya.

He was sharp-tongued, quick to hide emotion, and clearly carrying something too heavy for someone his age — but you didn’t push. You were kids. You just… let him be. And somehow, you became close.

He told you he liked the smell of the bakery near the train station. You told him you hated loud noises. He never said much about his home, but you started to piece it together through the things he didn’t say.

He’d disappear for a week, come back with a busted lip and smoke in his hair, and you wouldn’t ask — just hand him a rice ball and sit beside him until the silence felt safe.

And then one day, he didn’t come back at all.

Sekoto Peak burned.

And Touya vanished with the flames.

You didn’t believe it at first. The fire was too big, the rumors too fast. You asked your parents if they’d heard anything. Your mom cried quietly when she packed away the extra plates. Your dad sat outside that night, staring at the road.

You kept the scarf.

You didn’t cry. You just waited. And hurt. And waited.

‧₊˚✩‧₊˚⊹

Years passed.

And then, when you were sixteen, you saw him again.

It was early evening at the park, and you were sitting under a rusted swing set, headphones in, trying to ignore how the sky made you feel lonely. You saw him out of the corner of your eye — someone tall, lean, moving slow. You didn’t recognize him at first.

But when he got closer, everything stopped.

You stood slowly. He looked right at you, wind tugging his white-streaked hair across his face. The burn scars along his jaw were more defined now. His voice, when he spoke, was older. Rougher.

“You kept the scarf,” he said quietly.

You didn’t realize you were holding it until you looked down.

There was a pause. Something fragile passed between you. You didn’t ask anything yet. You just nodded.

He sat on the swing next to you.

“I didn’t die,” he said after a while. “But I wanted to. For a long time.”

You turned your face away so he wouldn’t see the tears forming. But he kept talking — slowly, hesitantly — like it was hard to push each word past his teeth.

“I went back once. To the house. Nothing had changed. It was like I never existed.”

Your throat tightened.

“Then come back to mine,” you said quietly. “You know where it is. You can stay.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at his hands — scarred, stiff, twitching like he didn’t trust them.

“They won’t want me there.”

“They always did,” you whispered. “And they still do.”

Your fingers brushed the edge of the scarf in your lap.

He didn’t promise anything. But he stayed sitting there beside you, long after the sky went dark.