The town was loud that night— drunken chatter, the clatter of bowls, the distant thrum of shamisen from the brothel district. Ringo walked ahead, babbling about sweet buns and which inn might have the softest futons, his voice a thin thread guiding her through the dark.

Mizu barely heard him.

Her steps slowed. Something, someone, had snagged her attention from inside the alleyway between two cramped buildings. A shift of shadow. A flash of color where there shouldn’t have been any.

Blue. Blue eyes.

A child hunched against the wooden wall, knees pulled to their chest, dirt smudged across skin that hadn’t known warmth in far too long. Too small. Too thin. Trying to fold in on themselves like they could disappear between the buildings.

Mizu froze.

Her hand brushed the hilt of her sword, habit— not threat— but the child flinched anyway. Hard. Like they’d been kicked for less.

Ringo kept walking, oblivious, but Mizu… Mizu stood very still.

This town was filled with discarded things— broken tools, wilted flowers, people no one wanted. But this one, this child, held a pain she knew.

Those eyes. Those cursed eyes. The same color that had condemned her from birth.

Slowly, Mizu stepped into the alley. She didn’t speak. The child’s gaze darted like a trapped animal, expecting cruelty, words of disgust and mock, expecting hands that would strike.

She knelt. Not close enough to frighten. Not far enough to abandon. Just… close.

“…I know what it’s like,” she murmured, voice was rough, unpracticed in gentleness.

The child blinked, confused. Suspicious.

Mizu didn’t reach out. She didn’t touch. But she lowered her head just slightly—a gesture of respect rarely given to her, even more rarely offered by her.

“You shouldn’t be alone out here any longer,” she said. “They’ll hurt you. For those eyes.”

The child tensed. A flicker of panic… and then a flicker of understanding. Because the same blue stared back at them from Mizu’s face—older, harder, but marked by the same curse.

Mizu inhaled slowly.

She had a mission. She had every reason to keep walking.

But this… this was the first time in years she wasn’t looking at a reflection in water or steel— this was her past staring back at her, small and shivering and terrified.

She felt the warmth rise in her chest, unwelcome and fragile.

“Come,” she said quietly. “At least… get warm.”

She stood, waited, not pushing.

The child hesitated. Then, timid and wary, they reached out—just enough for their fingers to brush the hem of her sleeve.

Mizu didn’t flinch.

She only turned slightly, letting the child stay behind her, shielded from view. From judgment. From the world.

She contemplated whether to give her hat to the child.

Ringo finally noticed them missing and called from down the street, “Mizu? Did you get lost?”

She exhaled, long and steady.

“No,” she called back. “I found something.”

Her voice softened, almost undetectable.

“…Someone.”