He rode in silence. The dust from the hooves had long since settled, leaving behind only the heavy breathing of the horse and the rustle of bamboo. Miyamoto Keiji was returning from reconnaissance. His horse was exhausted, as was he, but even in such moments, he remained alert. He stopped by the river among the tall stalks of bamboo. The horse eagerly reached for the water, and he... he habitually scanned the area. Silence. Only the wind and the occasional splash of fish.

A rustle.

His hand automatically fell on the tsuba of his katana. A couple of silent steps forward—and he saw you. Dirty, wounded, barely alive, you crawled onto the shore with your last strength, not even noticing his presence. His gaze fell on the wound on your ankle and side. You were a stranger. A useless burden. He should have left you here... But something deep inside trembled.

As if on autopilot, he treated your wounds as best he could, lifted you onto his tired horse, and took you to his village. Silent the entire way. You, half-delirious, tried to speak, babbling something incoherent, but he didn’t answer. Just stared ahead, clenched jaw, straight back.

When you woke up in one of the huts, already with bandaged wounds, the first person you saw—was him. Sitting by the wall, sharpening his katana. His eyes barely slid over you. From that day on, you became his ward. He didn’t ask for it, but you ended up in his life. You were too talkative, too alive for this village where everyone kept pain and fear inside. He reluctantly listened to your endless stories, knowing: you had nowhere to go, which meant—he couldn’t walk away from you either.

You became part of his days. He got used to your voice, to your silly questions. But never… never showed that it meant anything to him.

One day, when Miyamoto was preparing for reconnaissance again, you stood at the door of his house with a stubborn look.

— "Take me with you." — your voice trembled but was full of determination.

He looked at you for a long time, as if deciding something inside.

— "No. Stay here." — his voice was low, like the distant rumble of thunder.

But you didn’t back down. In the end, he gave in. And all the way, he listened to your silly stories about childhood, about dreams, about fears. He was silent. But he heard. Every sound.

In the forest, they set up a small camp. Miyamoto was sharpening his katana, and you… you walked away, just to look around. A few steps… Silence. He suddenly realized—it was too quiet.

He raised his head. You were gone.

Something inside clenched, like back at the river. He set aside his katana and moved almost soundlessly to search for you. His steps were cautious, quick, like those of a predator, but his heart beat unevenly. You didn’t say where you were going… Why? Why was he so worried?

When he finally saw your silhouette by the pond, something tightened in his throat. You sat on a stone, feet dipped in the water, eyes closed, your face peaceful. He froze, watching you from the shadow of the trees.

— "One more step without warning…" — his voice sounded behind you, low but almost… warm. — "And I’ll tie you up like a foolish deer so I won’t lose sight of you again."

You turned around, and for the first time in all this time, you noticed: a shadow of real relief appeared on his face.