A group of kids rushed past them, laughing. One of them tripped, spilling a handful of paper scraps from a bag.
Kona knelt, gathering them. She paused, fingers brushing over a crooked attempt at a butterfly.
"You know how to fold them?" the girl asked, blinking up at her.
"A little."
"Can you show me?"
Kona glanced at Tatsu. He gave a small nod, stepped back to give them space.
She sat down on the edge of the stall platform, took one of the scraps, and folded — sharp, clean creases. Her hands moved without thought.
The girl copied her, tongue between her teeth in concentration.
When she finished, she held up her own. It was crooked, lopsided.
"It's bad," the girl mumbled.
Kona looked at it for a second. Then she said,
"It's better than my first."
The girl lit up.
---
- Evening -
Later, when the sun had dipped low and the lanterns began to glow gold, Tatsu and Kona sat near the edge of the field.
The crowd had gathered further in for music and fireworks, but they stayed back — like always.
Kona leaned against him, arms folded loosely around her knees.
"Wasn't as bad as I expected," she admitted.
"You almost smiled," Tatsu said.
"I didn't."
"You did. A little."
She bumped her shoulder into his, faint but deliberate. "Don't exaggerate."
They sat in silence for a while, just listening to the music, the laughter, the quiet crackle of someone starting a fire near the center.
– Night – Returning Home
The path back was quiet, lined with fireflies and the faint scent of burnt sugar.
Kona walked beside him, the hem of her yukata brushing against her ankles. The village sounds had faded behind them — just a few stray fireworks popping in the distance now and then.
"You were good with that kid," Tatsu said, glancing sideways at her.
Kona gave a soft exhale, not quite a sigh. "She was curious."
"You should start teaching," he continued with a small smile. "Paper butterflies. Frogs. Maybe even the secret flying ones."
Kona looked at him flatly. "They're not secret."
"They are if you never teach anyone," he teased. "Could be your new mission: Head of Paper Arts."
"I'll pass."
"Too late. You smiled at her. That's a contract now."
She bumped her shoulder against him again, gentler this time. "Stop talking."
He chuckled, then paused as they reached the small wooden steps of their home.
"You walked a lot today," he said, glancing at her feet. "Sit."
Kona gave him a look — unreadable, as always — but didn't protest. She stood still.
Tatsu leaned down, one arm behind her knees, one behind her back, and carefully lifted her up in a smooth, practiced motion.
"Still light as paper," he muttered.
"Put me down," she murmured, but made no effort to move.
"You said stop talking," he reminded her.
Inside, he nudged open the door with his foot and stepped in, setting her down gently on the edge of their bed.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a lantern.
"I'll change," she said quietly, rising to her feet.
Tatsu nodded and turned away, hearing the faint rustle of cloth as she moved into the side room.
When she returned, she wore a plain cotton robe, loose and pale grey, her hair untied and falling freely behind her. She stopped in the doorway, eyes landing on the small wooden box now open in his hands.
A medicine kit.
She sighed — the smallest sound — and walked forward, silent steps on wooden floors. Then she sat down in front of him, facing away.
"I'll be gentle," he said.
She didn't reply.
Slowly, her fingers moved to her front. She unfastened the robe, letting it slide off her shoulders, then reached behind and unhooked the strap of her blue bra. It slipped forward and fell silently into her lap, leaving her bare-backed in the quiet room.
Tatsu leaned forward.
His fingers moved with care, applying the salve across the long, thin scars that marked the right side of her back. Faint white lines — old wounds, but still prone to ache.
She flinched slightly when the cool gel touched skin. A quiet breath left her lips.
Then—
"…Mm…"
She made a soft, involuntary sound, then immediately tensed. Her shoulders stiffened.
Tatsu paused.
"Sorry," he said quietly. "Did that hurt?"
She didn't answer. Just shook her head once.
A moment passed in silence.
Then she whispered, "…I didn't mean to…"
"It's alright," he said. He let a beat pass, his voice warm, teasing but soft. "You're allowed to feel things, you know."
"Not that."
He chuckled under his breath, continuing to apply the ointment. His fingers traced carefully along the sides of the scar tissue, firm but never rough.
When he was done, he set the jar aside and looked at her back.
Still so quiet. Still so strong.
"Don't wear anything tonight," he said, his voice low but tender. "Just lie down. Let it breathe."
She didn't argue. Just pulled the robe loosely around her front and climbed into bed.
Tatsu turned off the lantern, lay beside her — not touching, just near — watching the shadows move on the ceiling as the fireflies blinked softly outside.
And in that stillness, with her back open to the air, she finally whispered,
"…Thank you," she whispered.
Tatsu smiled in the dark, his hand resting behind his head as he looked at the ceiling.
A quiet moment passed.
Then he turned slightly toward her, voice low, amused.
"You know…" he began, "I am your husband."
Kona didn't respond. Just lay still, her back bare to the cool air, eyes closed.
He waited a beat, then added, "You know what a husband is, right?"
Still nothing.