The hills gave way to a narrow road that wound through a quiet forest. Morning sunlight filtered through the branches, painting the path in broken patches of gold. Shino walked with steady steps, though his small satchel felt heavier than usual.
When he finally stopped to rest by a moss-covered stone, he opened the bundle he had found at dawn—a package left at the roadside shrine. Inside were three rice balls, still soft, and a folded cloth with a simple embroidered pattern of mountains.
His breath caught for a moment.
Aika.
He could almost see her face as she had been the last time they spoke—half smiling, half worried, trying not to show it. She had said nothing about his leaving, but her eyes had asked the question he could not answer: Will you come back?
Shino ate slowly, the rice filling the hollow ache in his stomach, but not the heavier ache in his chest. When he finished, he carefully folded the cloth and tied it to his satchel.
Then the memories began to surface.
He hadn't asked for them, but they came all the same—the faces of those who had looked at him differently, the moments when he had overheard whispers that he was strange, wrong, cursed. The memory of the night he first dreamed of the burning cities returned, and with it, the weight of knowing too much.
His head dropped into his hands.
"It would be easier," he muttered to himself, "if I could just forget."
But forgetting was a luxury he did not have.
The visions of the future he had seen were carved too deeply into his mind: armies marching under black banners, towers crumbling, the cries of a world that could not protect itself. They were not just dreams—they were warnings. And warnings were not meant to be ignored.
A breeze passed through the trees, rustling the leaves like soft voices.
"Burdened already?"
The voice was not spoken aloud—it came from somewhere inside him, or perhaps from somewhere far away. Shino sat up sharply, scanning the forest.
"Who's there?"
No answer came, only the echo of the wind and the distant call of a crow.
He shut his eyes. Perhaps it was his imagination. Or perhaps it was part of the strange power that had begun to awaken in him.
He remembered the hermit's words: This will remind you that even the hardest stone can hold a beating heart.
He pulled the talisman from his satchel and held it in both hands. The wood was warm, as if it carried the memory of the one who had given it to him. Slowly, the storm inside him began to settle.
He could not erase the memories, but he could choose what to do with them.
Standing, he looked down the road ahead. The forest opened into a valley, where the path dipped toward a small river. A faint mist clung to the water's surface, and beyond it, the land stretched farther than he could see.
"It's too soon to be tired," he whispered to himself, adjusting the satchel on his back. "The road has only just begun."
With a deep breath, he started walking again.
Each step felt lighter than the last, though the memories still followed him like shadows. They would always be there, he realized—reminders of what he had seen and what he must do.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, the battles he feared were waiting for him. The wisdom that haunted him was both a curse and a guide. And though he was still only a boy, he felt as if an invisible hand had already placed a sword in his heart and told him: Be ready.
The burden of memory was heavy, yes—but it was also proof that he was meant to carry it.