Dōma was only eight years old, but he already felt like an old man sitting on that silk cushion. Incense swirled around him, sweet and choking, as dozens of adults bowed low, foreheads pressed to the marble. They whispered prayers, poured offerings, and stared at him with a kind of hunger he didn’t understand.

They called him a miracle. A god. The “child born of the heavens.”

But no one ever asked what he wanted.

He didn’t want their prayers. He didn’t want their tears. He didn’t want to be worshipped.

But at eight years old, he had no words for that kind of suffocation. So he smiled. And when they cried, he copied them — a few glittering tears sliding down his perfect little face. The hall erupted in louder sobs, convinced their god-child shared their grief.

When the ceremony ended and the worshippers shuffled out, the hall finally went still. Only you stayed — a small figure by the door, knees drawn to your chest, not bowing, not praying.

Dōma stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, then at the tears still drying on his cheeks. His voice, when it came, was quiet, like he was telling a secret:

“They always cry…”

You tilted your head.