At the edge of a peaceful village, surrounded by soft hills and swaying fields, lived a small boy named Arashi. His hair was short and pitch black; his body was thin, yet filled with a quiet strength that refused to break. He lived simply—without luxury, without complaint.
Arashi had never known the figure of a father. From the moment his memories began to form, it had always been just him and his mother.
Every time he asked, his mother would only smile and gently change the subject, as if the truth was too distant—or too painful—to bring into words.
That silence carved a quiet hole in Arashi's heart. But it also shaped him, forged him into a child who learned independence faster than most.
Still, his mother—a wise woman with a gentle smile—taught him lessons about life in the smallest, quietest ways.
Each evening, they would walk together to a hidden lake behind the hills. The water was still, cradled by tall reeds that danced in the breeze. There, Arashi would gather wild greens, learn the names of the stars, and listen to tales that stirred his imagination.
Arashi's eyes—dark and clear—often reflected peace, but deep inside, doubt always stirred:
"Who is my father? Why does Mother never speak of him?"
But he buried that question deep, replacing it with a quiet resolve: to protect the only person who truly mattered to him.
One evening, after a rain had just passed, they sat together by the lake. The scent of wet earth lingered, and small ripples played across the surface of the water.
As Arashi picked a handful of greens, his mother ran her fingers through his hair and whispered:
"Arashi, live like the plants that grow by this lake."
She plucked a leaf, her fingers gentle yet firm, and continued softly:
"Sometimes, we must wait patiently to grow. Storms come, the water rises, our roots sink deep beneath the surface. But if we hold on—if we don't give up—we live."
"Don't be afraid of the storms, my child. Every hardship hides a beauty you'll discover in time."
Arashi gazed at the lake reflecting the colors of the setting sun. He was still a child, but he understood: behind those soft words, his mother was hiding her courage.
And inside his own small frame, something was beginning to grow—a quiet strength, born from all the storms they had endured without shelter, from a mother's smile that never faded.
"We may be alone," she once told him, "but we will never grow weary."
And so, on the edge of that quiet lake—beneath the fading light, the wind, and the breath of hope—Arashi made a silent vow: one day, he would become the protector of the person he loved most.
One afternoon, a girl came skipping down the hill toward him. Her name was Mei Yin.
She was always cheerful, with long violet hair that shimmered under the sunlight. Her steps were graceful, her appearance neat. Though her clothes were simple, her presence glowed—as if she carried spring wherever she went.
Her eyes were filled with kindness, and just looking at her made Arashi feel at peace. She stood out among the village girls—not just for her beauty, but for something harder to name.
There was a mystery about her.
Sometimes, in the middle of her laughter, a flicker of emptiness would cross her face—a brief shadow, as if she had remembered something far away, or was hiding a wound too deep to share.
She never spoke of her family. She never got angry. She never seemed truly sad.
And that, to Arashi, was the most puzzling thing of all.
She wasn't just a cheerful girl.
She was a riddle, one that refused to be solved.
"Arashi, Mother, I brought some extra vegetables from my garden," Mei Yin said, holding up a woven basket.
She always brought more than she needed—even when her own garden might be lacking.
That small act of kindness brought strength, and confirmed one thing: beneath her quiet mystery, her heart was just as bright as her smile.
Arashi's mother welcomed her with warmth. "Thank you, dear. You always come at the perfect time."
Every time they sat by the lake, Arashi's mother would share gentle wisdom—lessons about life, about seeing the world with gratitude.
Mei Yin always listened closely. And though Arashi was quieter, he took in every word. It wasn't rare for the three of them to laugh together under the fading sun.
But time never stops.
The seasons shifted. The branches that had once bloomed turned bare, then bloomed again. And slowly, Arashi's mother grew weaker, while Arashi himself began to leave behind the shape of a child.
His once-thin arms grew strong from work. His steps grew firm. His thoughts matured faster than his age. Each bucket of water, each bundle of straw he carried, made him tougher—though deep inside, he was still a boy afraid of losing the one person he called home.
One quiet night, the wind slipped through the cracks of their wooden house.
That night, the dim room was lit only by a flickering oil lamp. The only sounds were the crickets outside, and the labored breathing of a mother.
Arashi sat beside the fragile bed, holding her hand. The fingers that once held him warm were now cold like morning dew.
Her gaze trembled, refusing to face the truth that crept closer with every breath.
Still, she smiled, trying to comfort him—even as her light dimmed.
She drew a shallow breath and whispered, her voice barely there:
"Arashi... be strong. The world will not be kind to you. And... please—watch over her. She will need you... more than you know."
Her words broke between gasps. Her smile faded, like a flame running out of oil. One final breath—and then, silence.
Arashi bit back his sobs, but the tears came anyway, falling onto her still hand.
A heavy silence filled the room.
The sliding door creaked. Mei Yin stepped in quietly. Seeing Arashi's frozen face, she knelt behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
That warmth broke something in him.
There, in her silent embrace, Arashi finally cried. His sobs were quiet but deep, shaking his small frame—as if the whole world had sunk with the last light of that flickering lamp, leaving two children wrapped in grief and a mother's final promise.
The days after her passing crawled by slowly. Arashi changed.
He rose earlier. Worked harder. He helped wherever he could in the village—carrying water, lifting harvests, repairing broken homes. He stopped crying. He stopped complaining.
And in his eyes, something new began to shine: resolve.
One day, as he was helping build a fence for an old merchant, Mei Yin brought him lunch. The merchant chuckled, nudging Arashi.
"That your wife? She's a beauty. Funny, though—I never see your in-laws."
Arashi gave a stiff smile, shook his head, and kept working. But those words lingered.
A few days later, at the market, a group of older women whispered to each other:
"That girl grows lovelier by the day. Like a noble."
"True," another said. "But she's always with that ragged boy. She could do far better if she wanted..."
Arashi overheard by accident. He looked down, pretending not to care. But his ears burned. Not because their words were cruel—but because maybe, just maybe, they were right.
After that, Arashi saw her differently.
She wasn't just the cheerful girl who had always been beside him. He saw her now through the eyes of someone who knew the world would never easily accept them together.
The next afternoon, heavy clouds filled the sky. Arashi and Mei Yin sat by the lake.
But today, something was different.
There was no laughter. No light chatter. Only the sound of water lapping softly against the rocks.
Arashi glanced at her now and then, but didn't dare look for long.
She was quiet, her gaze distant—lost somewhere in the lake, or perhaps somewhere deep within herself.
And then, softly, she spoke.
"Arashi?"
He didn't answer at once. He plucked a blade of grass and tossed it into the water.
Then, after a breath, he said, voice calm but heavy:
"I know this sounds strange... but from now on, could you not go anywhere alone?"
She tilted her head gently. "What do you mean?"
He swallowed. His eyes stayed on the rippling lake.
"It's not about them. Not because you're beautiful, or because people talk."
His voice grew tight.
"I'm just scared. One day, you might disappear. And I won't know where to find you. I only have one person left in this world."
Slowly, he turned to face her. His eyes held no tears, but they were deep—full of a fear he could no longer hide.
"It's you, Mei Yin. And if you ever leave... I don't think I could keep going like this."
She was quiet. She looked at him—at the fear behind his strength.
Then she smiled softly.
Leaning gently against his shoulder, she whispered:
"Alright... as long as you keep sitting here with me," she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. "I'll be your faithful listener, Mister Protector."
And after a pause, she added:
"You know, Arashi... I'm not here because you told me to stay. I'm here because I know I need someone who won't leave."
She looked out across the lake.
"And long ago, I chose that person. It's you."
Arashi looked at her, filled with feelings he couldn't name.
In a quiet house where seasons kept turning and neighbors kept whispering...
Only one thing never changed:
Mei Yin was always there.
Since his mother left, she had become the one constant in Arashi's life.
The reason he could keep moving forward.