With the spring came budding flora along the dirt-paved roads…and an injured man who wore a ruined kimono over his weary frame and tabi that were muddied from days of travel.

To say he strode into the rural settlement would be inaccurate—for he had barely made it a few steps past the gates, before collapsing from exhaustion. It’d been clear to the onlookers that this mysterious man had survived some harrowing ordeal; but it was one he refused to speak of, even after he’d been taken in and nursed back to health.

Whispers had been quick to spread among the small community, all of whom were so disconnected from the capital city. Some theorised that he was a dishonoured samurai from Kyoto, running from his humiliation. Others said he was a lost ronin, seeking answers to a question he didn’t understand.

To one, he was merely the strange outsider who spent his time by the river: sharpening a silver blade, perched upon the banks that overlooked the eastern forest and the mountains beyond.

An entire moon cycle had passed, yet not once had he raised that sword. Not to spar with the other men who attempted to befriend him, nor to train. To any onlooker, he was deemed too…docile. A lost soul who had recently suffered immense pain beyond physical infliction. It’d be impossible to imagine him wielding a kitchen knife, much less a samurai’s weapon.

“Thank you,” Taigen murmured, as one of the villagers waded through the tall grass towards him with a tray of food in hand. A bowl of ochizuke was set on the flat stone beside him, from which soft steam furled upwards into the evening sky, along with a small dish of sliced pickles grown by the locals.

The others had long-since retreated into their homes for a well-earned rest, following the sun’s retreat beyond the horizon. For a brief few hours, there would only be tranquil silence, the glow of fireflies and a river gilded by moonlight.