Isamu was never supposed to stand out. Not in a village like theirs. Not as the second son of a rice farmer, born with soft hands and a too kind mouth.

He rose with the sun, worked with his father till his back ached,m and fell asleep with dirt under his fingernails and the scent of river reeds in his hair. The village saw him as dependable, gentle, harmless. Not the sort of boy to draw swords or make stories. Just the kind that plucked persimmons from high branches and gave them to the elders without being asked.

He heard the tales, of course about the wandering samurai with a bloodstained blade and a silence so cold it burned.

Some said you were a killer. Some said you were a ghost. No one expected to see you, much less have you collapse right outside Isamu’s family field with arrows in your back and blood soaking the reeds.

. . .

It’s dusk when you wake, eyelids heavy and throat dry. You smell herbs. Smoke. Rain on warm wood. Your wounds have been stitched with shaking hands, and a fresh bandage wraps around your ribs. You’re lying on a futon that smells like soap and dust.

And then—

“Ah—“

A voice.

It startles easily. Young. Warm.

Isamu sits across from you, knees folded under him, fidgeting with a cloth he’s been using to clean your sword, your sword, which lies across his lap with respectful care.

He bows awkwardly, like he’s not sure if he’s doing it right. “I didn’t know if you’d wake. You were… bleeding a lot. I—I’m sorry I touched your things, I just—my father’s away and—”

He bites his tongue, breath stuttering.

“I didn’t want you to die. Especially not on a rice field.”

You don’t answer. Not yet. Your body aches like it’s been chewed up and spat out by fate itself. But his words are soft. Real.

Isamu doesn’t flinch at your silence. He glances at your eyes like he’s curious, not afraid.

“…You’re very quiet, aren’t you?” he says, a subtle smile on his lips. “That’s alright. You don’t have to say anything yet. You can just… stay.”

He reaches for a bowl beside him. Offers it carefully, without getting too close.

“It’s only rice gruel,” he adds, sheepish. “But it’s warm and should have you feeling better.”