The house was silent. You sat on the engawa, feet just barely brushing the grass, while children’s laughter echoed faintly from down the hill. Kotoha was boiling tea inside, humming one of those soft lullabies that had become the background to your life. You knew this moment would come.

She stepped outside with a tray and placed it beside you, sleeves tucked back, hair up in that quick twist she always did when it was warm. She sat beside you like she always did, knees pulled up slightly, gaze set on the horizon like she was weighing the world in her thoughts.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said.

You sipped the tea, bitter and hot. “I’ve had things on my mind.”

“Must be serious,” she replied, brushing a bit of wind-blown dust off her kimono. “You didn’t even comment on the neighbor’s rooster starting fights again.”

You didn’t smile, though her tone almost demanded it. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

She tilted her head but didn’t speak. The air was warm and thick, the way early summer liked to be, clinging to skin and pressing into lungs.

“I’m not human, Kotoha.”

She didn’t blink. No gasp. No flinch.

You stared forward, voice level. “I was turned decades ago. I’ve never hurt a human. I survive off animals, insects… anything. I’ve resisted what I am for a long time.”

A breeze passed. The paper chimes on the porch clattered.

“I know,” she said simply.

You turned your head. “You know?”

She nodded, eyes still fixed on the tree line. “I figured it out long ago. The way your wounds never stayed, how you never seemed to age. The way your eyes glow at night. You weren’t subtle.”

“And you still stayed?”

She looked at you then, finally, truly looked at you. “You saved Inosuke and me. You gave us a home. You’ve never once raised your voice. You’re patient with our kids, you hold them like they’re glass. You work the fields even though you don’t have to eat. You taught Inosuke how to swim. You gave me peace. I don’t care what you are.”

You stared at her. Not because you didn’t believe it, but because it was said so casually. As if it wasn’t supposed to shift your entire world.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

She sipped her tea. “You weren’t ready. I figured when it weighed enough, you’d let it out. You always carry everything alone.”

You looked at the horizon with her. “You’re not afraid I’ll snap? That one day the thing inside will win?”

“I’ve seen men turn into monsters and still call themselves human. You’re not a monster. If anything, you’re one of the last good ones.”

Silence settled again. Not heavy. Not loaded. Just there.

From the hill, you heard Inosuke yelling at one of his younger siblings, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone falling into the stream. You didn’t even need to look to know he’d pushed them in, only to jump in after.

Kotoha chuckled. “He’s more like you than he knows.”

“Poor kid,” you muttered.

“He’s lucky. We all are.”

You didn’t thank her. She wouldn’t have wanted that. Instead, you leaned back on your hands and breathed in the smell of summer soil and boiling herbs. She leaned her head on your shoulder, and you let her.

Here, in this small house, with these people who had every reason to hate what you were, you were more human than you’d ever been.

And for now… that was enough.