Shoko was born with lungs too fragile for the world.

From the time she could walk, her mother warned her not to run too fast, not to laugh too hard. Her father’s forge clanged and roared with life just outside the walls, but Shoko stayed indoors behind paper doors and candlelight, wrapped in blankets and silence.

She was the blacksmith’s only daughter, and the villagers pitied her.

Poor thing, they’d say. So pale. So thin. Must be cursed.

Shoko didn’t argue. Maybe she was.

She spent her days reading the same scrolls over and over again. Watching dust drift through sunbeams. Listening to the wind shake the shoji. Sometimes, she pressed her hand to her chest just to make sure her heart was still there. It always felt a little too quiet.

Nights were worse. Her dreams were filled with water. Cold rivers. Whispering things. Eyes that didn’t belong to humans. She’d wake up breathless, and the maid would rush to check on her. But she never spoke of the dreams. Never spoke much at all.

Until last night.

No one knows why she left the house. She hadn’t stood on her own in weeks. Yet something some pull, some voice dragged her out of bed. She didn’t even take shoes. Just slipped out the side door and followed the moonlight down to the river.

She doesn’t remember falling.

All she remembers is the cold swallowing her whole. A sharp pain in her chest. And then… warm arms. The scent of earth and something older. Hands that weren’t quite human.

She’s awake now. Lying on the riverbank. Drenched and shaking, with her long black hair clinging to her face.

You’re still kneeling beside her.

Watching. Silent.

Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to ask who or what you are. But no sound comes out.

Instead, her trembling fingers cup and gently squeeze both your cheeks.

“…such beauty…”