Morning settles softly over the village. Mist still clings to the fields when Natsuo steps outside, the earth cool beneath his sandals. His body aches faintly from the day before, but it isn't the soreness that lingers most—it's the memory.
The push of the plow through stubborn soil.
Daiji's shoulders straining with each step.
Banri laughing through sweat as if hardship were a game.
And then—Takeshi's face.
The way his eyes had narrowed, sharp with something between anger and contempt.
I'm not doing enough.
The thought returns again and again as Natsuo walks. Not as a whisper—but as a certainty.
He stops at the edge of the fields and looks back at the village. At the worn fences. The tired tools. The endless labor carved into every surface.
His gaze drifts between the fields and the work sheds.
An idea stirs.
By midday, Natsuo is pacing slowly between the forest line and the cleared earth beside the sheds, measuring the space with quiet steps. He crouches, presses his palm to the ground, murmurs calculations under his breath.
"This would hold..." he mutters. "And it wouldn't interfere with the tool shed..."
A few villagers pause as they pass.
"...What's he doing now?" one whispers.
"Pretending to look busy," another scoffs. "So he can say he's important."
Natsuo hears them. He always does.
But he keeps working.
He turns toward the half-built Ryokan site and begins scavenging unused boards, thick posts, stray rope. Each piece he stacks with careful intent.
That's when a familiar voice cuts through the rustle of leaves.
"Natsuo?"
He turns to see Banri emerging from the forest path, a small bug cage swinging from his hand. Inside, something metallic-green rattles against the mesh.
"Didn't think I'd see you here. You never showed up to play kemari the other day and now, on our day off I catch you... working?" Banri says, with a slightly concerned expression.
Natsuo hesitates, then exhales.
"Y-yesterday," he says softly, his gaze drifting toward the distant, jagged line of the farm. "Watching you and Daiji plow the f-fields... I realized just how b-brutal the work is. For everyone." He looks back at the splintered wood, his voice dropping. "If we h-had an ox, it would ease a great d-deal of the strain. I t-thought... if I built a proper pen f-first, something real, then I could m-make the case to the magistrate with proof of preparation, instead of e-empty words."
Banri's eyes widen, his earlier apprehension instantly redirected into this new, grand vision.
"An ox?" Banri's face lights up with a boyish, unrestrained heat. "Natsuo, that would be incredible! My old man would never let me have anything like a pet. I'd feed it every morning and give him hugs. He paces a bit then excitedly yells "Big Boy! Waddya think? The perfect name right?!"
Natsuo can't help but scratch the back of his head, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "He'd be a w-working animal, Banri, not a p-pet."
Banri coughs, catching himself and trying to adopt a more serious expression, though his amber eyes are still dancing. "Right. Right, of course. For the village. If it lessens even a fraction of the farmers' burden... then it's totally worth it." He pumps a calloused fist into the air, the movement full of certain, solid energy. "In that case, you can count me in. We'll build the best pen this province has ever seen."
Natsuo's smile lingers, but he glances pointedly at the bug cage and the faint, restless scratching coming from within. "Banri... you look like y-you were having fun. You don't need to s-stop on my account."
As if summoned by the words, voices burst from the trees.
"BANRIIIII—!"
"There's a huge beetle near the stream! Hurry up!"
Three young men stumble out from the brush, faces flushed and breathless with the hunt. Their energy is a wild, infectious heat—until they spot Natsuo. The momentum dies instantly. Their smiles don't just fade; they flatten into something cold and judgmental.
"...Oh. It's him." one mutters, the name "Natsuo" pointedly omitted.
Another groans, shifting his weight with a heavy, performative sigh. "Every time. He's like a dark cloud during hanami."
Banri rounds on them, his shoulders squaring. "Hey! That's enough."
"Nah, it's the truth," one shrugs, looking Natsuo up and down. "I bet you're about to ditch us to go 'work' again."
Banri doesn't argue. Instead, he looks back at Natsuo, and the choice is made in the silence. Without hesitation, he sets the bug cage on the ground with a deliberate thud.
"This is important," Banri says, his voice losing its playful edge and becoming something solid. "And I want to help."
The boys protest loudly, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of annoyance. "You're choosing him over bug catching ? Seriously? That's tragic, Banri."
Natsuo shifts, the dust on his sleeves suddenly feeling like a brand of shame. "Banri, truly—it's fine. You s-should go. I don't want to t-take—"
"Nope." Banri reaches down and hoists a heavy post upright with a grunt of effort, his muscles straining under his bronze skin. "Too late. I'm invested."
The boys groan again, a low, collective sound of disappointment. "See, what did I say," one mutters as they begin to retreat.
Natsuo shakes his head gently, the movement small but final. "No...Banri, if you r-really want to help, t-then you can only do so after you c-catch a stag beetle."
Banri's grin doesn't appear immediately. Instead, he blinks, his eyes searching Natsuo's face with a sudden, uncharacteristic quietness. He looks at the heavy tools, then back at the faint, stubborn tremor in Natsuo's hands. For a heartbeat, the "sunlight" in his expression dims as he realizes Natsuo isn't just giving an order—he's offering a kindness.
Banri opens his mouth to argue, his brow furrowing as he's about to insist on staying, but then he catches that "bittersweet smile" on Natsuo's lips. He sees the pride there, brittle and brave.
A slow, knowing smile finally begins to pull at the corners of Banri's mouth, but it's different this time—softer, more respectful. He reaches out and gives Natsuo's shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze, the heat of his palm seeping through Natsuo's kimono.
"Fine! Just see how hard I'm gonna work after I find the biggest one in the village. You're ON!"
He spins on his heels and bolts back into the trees. His friends whoop and chase after him, the forest quickly swallowing their laughter and the heavy, lingering tension of Banri's resolve.
Natsuo watches the space where his friend once stood, the warmth of that shoulder-squeeze still humming against his skin. Then, he turns back to his work.
By the time the sun drifts lower, he's hauled enough spare wood from the Ryokan site to form the bones of a small pen. His hands sting from splinters, dust clings to his sleeves but the posts rise one by one.
The sound of footsteps crunching behind him interrupts the steady rhythm of his hammer.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Natsuo stiffens and turns.
Daiji stands a few paces away, arms crossed, expression thunderous.
"All that hammering," Daiji continues, "it's disturbing everyone on their day off."
Natsuo bows quickly. "I—I'm s-sorry. I wasn't aware I was c-causing a disturbance."
Daiji scoffs. "What do you mean you didn't know? You're the definition of bothersome."
He strides forward, his presence broad and suffocating. Built like an unyielding wall— shoulders thick and heavy with blunt limbs that seem designed to take up more than his fair share of space. He plants a hand—large and square, on one of the posts and with a sharp shove, he makes it wobble.
"So," Daiji says coldly, "is this what was worth disturbing the peace?"
Natsuo swallows. "I... I wanted to b-build an animal pen. So that p-perhaps... the v-village could keep an ox."
For just a moment, silence hangs between them.
Then Daiji smiles.
Not kindly.
A slow, crooked grin curls across his face as a laugh slips out of his throat.
"An ox." He shakes his head. "Of course a pampered little punk like you can't tough it out in the fields."
He steps closer.
"Always trying to find the easy way out," Daiji snarls, "but still somehow make yourself look like the savior."
Natsuo recoils slightly. "That—that wasn't my i-intention. I—I only thought—"
"And after we get this precious ox," Daiji cuts in, "who's going to feed it? We barely have enough to eat as it is. But I guess that doesn't matter to you, does it?"
Natsuo's hands tremble. "P-Please... that's not w-what I meant. I just—"
Before he can finish, Daiji's hand shifts—a sudden, violent burst of kinetic energy. He doesn't just shove the post; he drives his shoulder into it with the weight of someone who enjoys the act of unmaking.
The wood screams.
With a sickening, wet crack, the primary beam splits. Natsuo watches, paralyzed, as the structural integrity he had spent all afternoon measuring vanishes in a heartbeat. The collapse happens in slow motion: the planks he had painstakingly aligned groan under the sudden gravity, dragging one another down in a cascading roar of splintered pine and choking dust.
The sound of the wreckage hitting the earth is dull and final—a heavy thud that seems to vibrate right through the soles of Natsuo's feet.
Natsuo cries out, a small, strangled sound that is instantly swallowed by the silence that follows. He stumbles back, his hands flying up to cover his mouth, his fingers trembling so violently they blur in his vision. Through the settling haze of dirt, the pen no longer looks like a project; it looks like a carcass. All that "earnest resolve" is now just a jagged pile of mismatched refuse at his feet.
Daiji doesn't look at the mess. He looks at Natsuo's eyes, watching for the exact moment the light in them goes out.
"Why don't you keep your grand ideas to yourself," he says, his voice flat and terrifyingly casual against the backdrop of the ruin.
Then he turns and walks away, leaving the silence to settle over Natsuo like ash.
Natsuo stands frozen in the settling dust, staring at the ruined frame that only moments ago had held so much quiet hope.
His hands curl slowly at his sides.
The forest rustles again sometime later, fast footsteps breaking through the brush.
"Natsuo—!"
Banri bursts into the village, breathless and triumphant, the bug cage held high above his head. Inside, a massive stag beetle clings to the mesh, its antlers catching the light.
"I GOT ONE! And not just any one—this thing's huge! You should've seen—"
His voice cuts off.
The cage lowers slowly.
His eyes drift from the ruined boards... to the fallen post... to the scattered tools half-buried in dust.
"...What happened?" Banri asks quietly.
Natsuo startles, clearly not having heard him approach. He turns, sees the wreckage through Banri's eyes—and his shoulders tense.
"I....I-I m-messed up," he says quickly. Too quickly. "The p-post wasn't sturdy enough. I m-must have misjudged the weight distribution. It j-just... fell."
Banri stares at him.
Then at the post.
Then back at Natsuo.
"You're kidding," he mutters. He sets the bug cage aside and immediately bends to grab the fallen beam. "I knew I should've stayed to help earlier. C'mon, we can still fix it—"
"Banri—no."
Natsuo steps forward and grips his sleeve gently, stopping him.
Banri blinks. "Huh?"
Natsuo forces a small, strained smile. "It's... it's fine. T-truly. I didn't think the i-idea through as well as I s-should have. That's all."
Banri hesitates. "But you were so sure earlier..."
Natsuo looks away. "...That d-doesn't mean I was r-right."
For a moment, Banri just watches him. Really watches him.
Then he straightens slowly, hands falling to his sides.
"...Okay," he says at last, though uncertainty lingers in his voice. "If that's what you want."
Silence settles between them.
The beetle rattles faintly inside the cage.
Banri forces a grin. "Guess I still passed your weird challenge, though, right?"
Natsuo's lips curve into something softer this time. "...You d-did."
Banri laughs—but it's lighter than usual.
He lingers for a moment, shifting his weight as if waiting for Natsuo to change his mind, but when Natsuo only begins to mindlessly gather the smaller, broken scraps of wood, Banri finally sighs. He looks at the splintered wood and then at Natsuo's weary profile. He doesn't push to rebuild the pin again, he simply reaches for the heaviest fallen beam.
"If we aren't fixing it," Banri says, his voice a low, steady rumble of companionship, "then I'll at least help you clean up. I'm not letting you haul all this back alone."
They work in a composed silence that Natsuo deeply needs. Banri does the heavy lifting while Natsuo gathers the smaller scraps and tools. Having Banri there keeps the negative thoughts at bay.
By the time the site is cleared and the tools are gathered, the sky has turned the color of a fresh bruise—deep indigo and mourning purple. As they reach the edge of the village square, Natsuo stops, the weight of the day finally catching up to his bones.
"Th-Thank you for all your h-help today Banri." Natsuo murmurs, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I wanted y-you to enjoy your day off...and t-though it may be selfish... I'm glad you d-didn't forget about me. Maybe you can s-salvage the rest of your night." He puts on a weak smile followed by a apologetic bow.
"Hey what's all that for?!" Banri exclaims as he bows beside Natsuo and ruffles his hair in the same breath. "You don't have to ask me for anything or thank me for nothin'. Rain or shine I'm your guy!" He places an arm across Natsuo's shoulder and points a thumb at his chest.
"If you want to make it up to me though, we could go catch some fireflies!"
Natsuo chuckles, "I'll try."
"Now that sounds like a promise!" He says jokingly. "Go home and get some rest, I'll check on you later tonight. Ok?" Banri turns toward his own home, his footsteps heavy and confident on the packed earth. Natsuo watches him go, feeling the warmth of that goodbye vanish almost instantly as he turns to face the village common alone.
He is tired, covered in the dust of his own failure, and desperate to be invisible. But a village at twilight is never truly empty, and his departure is the final piece of a story they've been crafting all afternoon.
At the well, two women scrub vegetables side by side, voices kept low—but never truly private.
"So it collapsed," one murmurs.
"I heard it was barely standing to begin with," the other replies. "All crooked posts and mismatched planks. What did he think he was doing?"
"Trying to play farmer now, apparently."
A soft scoff. "As if he knows anything about real work."
Across the square, near the tool racks, a pair of older men rest against the fence, chewing on dried roots.
"Animal pen, was it?" one grunts. "Animals here are better eaten than for keepin'."
"He should stick to scribbling on scrolls and leave the dirt to those of us who understand it."
Laughter follows—low, brittle, not especially amused.
Near the sake shop, Takeshi leans casually against the wall with two others.
"Did you see it?" one asks. "The thing barely lasted an hour."
Takeshi smirks.
Someone snorts. "Funny how Natsuo always almost does something useful."
"But never quite," Takeshi adds.
Not far away, a younger girl watches Natsuo pass through the square. She doesn't say anything—just lowers her eyes and tugs her brother along more quickly.
By the time the sun dips low, the story settles into something final and sharp:
He tried.
He failed.
Just like always.
And no one remembers the posts were straight that morning.
However, by nightfall the village's story changes.
At first it had been about the pen.
But fear, once awakened, never stays focused.
At the sake shop, voices sink into uneasy whispers.
"They say it's not just the forest anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... people are seeing it here now."
A cup rattles against its saucer.
"A white figure."
"Standing on rooftops."
"In alleys."
"At windows."
Someone swears they saw it drift across the road without touching the ground.
Another claims it watched them from their own doorway and vanished when they screamed.
And as Natsuo opens the door to his home he is completely unaware.
The familiar wood, the soft creak of the floor, the faint scent of dry paper and old ink—everything is as it should be.
He sets his things down.
Exhales.
And then—
The air changes.
Not cold.
Not heavy.
Just different.
That quiet pressure settles between his shoulders, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
Slowly, he turns.
And sees it.
A pale silhouette, standing just beyond the papered side window.
Moonlight outlines it's shape in white. No face. No features. Just a presence where no one should be.
His breath stops in his throat.
His heart hammers so loudly he's certain the figure must hear it.
"...H-hello?" he whispers.
The figure does not move.
The paper screen stirs faintly in the night breeze.
Then—
Two light taps against the paper.
Knock. Knock.
The sound is gentle.
Almost playful.
His hand trembles as he reaches for the sliding panel.
The window stands open.
Moonlight spills across the floor.
And where the white figure had stood—
A pile of ripe plums rest carefully on the wooden sill, stems still attached, their skins glowing faintly in the pale light.
Natsuo stares at them, breath unsteady.
Softly,
A voice slips through the window.
Low.
Familiar.
The same voice that once whispered in the forest beside a struggling wolf.
"You hesitate. Do you fear me?" the voice asks.
Natsuo's knees nearly buckle.
"...Y-You," he breathes.
Without thinking, he darts for the door.
Outside, the night air is cool and restless. Lanterns flicker in distant windows as he scans the area around his home.
Nothing.
Heart racing, hope thinning with every step, he reaches the back of the house and stops.
The darkness hums with insects.
His shoulders slacken.
"...At l-least let me say t-thank you," he murmurs, more to the wind than anyone else.
A sigh slips from his lips as he gives up the search.
Then—
from above him—
"Is it normal," a voice says lightly, touched with a quiet laugh,
"for the person being thanked to have to say thank you as well?"
Natsuo startles hard, nearly tripping over his own feet as he whirls around.
There.
On the edge of his rooftop.
She sits with both legs dangling over the tiles, swinging her feet back and forth as if she belongs there. Moonlight outlines her form in soft silver—unafraid, perfectly at ease.
His heart slams against his ribs.
"S-Sorry," Natsuo blurts, bowing reflexively before he even thinks. "I am g-grateful nonetheless."
She tilts her head, amused.
Now you apologize? she repeats with faint disbelief.
"I would say that's even more uncustomary."
His ears burn.
"I—It's... a habit," he stammers.
Her laughter is soft. Less teasing than before.
"The plums," she adds, glancing toward the open window. "You looked like you needed something sweet."
Natsuo presses a hand to his chest, overwhelmed all over again.
"...Thank you," he says properly this time.
No bow.
No panic.
Just truth.
She smiles—and in one smooth motion, jumps down from the roof, landing beside him without a sound.
"You don't have to thank me or apologize," she says, her voice dropping into a more serious resonance. "That burden lies with me. You helped Utari when I could not and I treated you harshly, disregarding your spirit...for that, I am sorry."
She bows—not the stiff, practiced bow of a commoner, but a fluid, deep inclination that sends her hair cascading toward the earth like a silver waterfall.
Her words stir something deep in him.
Natsuo's mind drifts—back to the wounded wolf, the glint of the spear in the dirt, her unexpected apology. Then, unbidden, the memory of her voice in his dream rises to the surface.
Heat creeps up his neck.
"T-The plums are more than sufficient," he says quickly, embarrassed.
She plucks one of the plums from the sill and takes a bite.
"They're pretty good, but I don't think they're tasty enough to absolve my actions entirely. Either way, you should try it." She holds the freshly bitten fruit toward his lips, the broken skin of the plum glistening with juice in the moonlight.
Natsuo freezes. The scent of the fruit—sharp, sweet, and cold—fills his senses, and for a heartbeat, he can only stare at where her teeth marked the flesh. He doesn't take it from her hand; he can't. Instead, he reaches for a different plum on the sill with trembling fingers, biting into it just to break the spell of her gaze.
His eyes widen.
"Y-You're right," he blurts. "I d-don't think I've ever t-tasted such a delicious p-plum before."
She smirks at him sideways. "You're just saying that because I did."
His face ignites. "N-no! I really m-mean it!"
She tilts her head, her eyes gleaming with a predatory playfulness. "Prove it."
Natsuo's breath hitches. His mind scrambles for a poetic defense, a logical argument—anything—but his thoughts are a tangled mess of silver hair and plum juice. Words fail him completely.
She continues eating slowly, clearly enjoying his fluster.
A moment passes.
When she finishes the fruit she crouches down, digging a small hollow and presses the seed into the soil with her fingers before covering it gently.
"Since you liked it so much," she says softly, brushing the dirt from her hands, "you'll have your very own tree."
She looks up at him, moonlight catching in her eyes.
"Hopefully it will bare fruit just as sweet."
Natsuo stares down at the tiny patch of earth—
and something inside his chest quietly takes root.
"NATSUO!!!"
The shout crashes through the quiet like a thrown stone.
An instant later, Banri bursts through the front door of Natsuo's house, nearly tripping over the threshold.
"NATSUO YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT EVERYONE IS SAYING—!"
Silence.
Banri spins in a tight circle inside the room, blinking. "Huh...?"
From outside, faint and rushed, comes Natsuo's voice. "O-Outside..."
Banri bolts back out.
He finds Natsuo standing in the yard, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed on the ground looking at a small mound of disturbed soil.
Banri squints. "There you are! Why are you whispering like—"
Natsuo turns slightly, instinctively, as if to address someone just behind him.
"I-I'm sorry about m-my friend. H-he tends to b-barge into things without t-thinking—"
There is no one there.
Natsuo freezes.
The space where she stood is empty. The air feels colder for it.
His mouth closes slowly.
"...Ah."
Banri tilts his head. "Ah, what?"
Natsuo swallows and looks down instead—at the buried seed.
"It's... n-nothing," he says softly. "I just... t-thought someone was here."
Banri watches him for a second longer, then suddenly grins wide. "That's exactly what people keep saying!"
Natsuo stiffens. "S-Saying...?"
"A spirit! A white figure!" Banri grabs his shoulders again, thrilled. "You remember the ghost stories from earlier? The ones you brushed off as forgotten lanterns?"
He squints suspiciously at the plums. "When did you get snacks?"
Natsuo's face heats instantly. "U-uh earlier?—"
Banri laughs. "Great! We can eat them while we're out ghost hunting! The fireflies will have to wait!"
Natsuo hesitates, eyes drifting back to the quiet soil.
To the place where she had been.
"...O-Okay," he says at last, the word feeling like a betrayal of the secret he's now keeping.
Banri pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Tonight's the night we catch the truth!"
Natsuo forces a small smile, but as they turn toward dirt path, his thoughts stay tethered to the seed beneath the earth—and to the woman who vanished before he could even think of a proper goodbye.
The transition is abrupt. One moment they are in the safety of Natsuo's garden; the next, they are swallowed by a village choked by a supernatural fear.
They comb the village paths.
Circle the rooftops.
Peer into alleys lit only by paper lanterns and nervous rumors.
Banri calls out boldly into the shadows, his voice a challenge to the unknown. Natsuo winces every time. Each shout feels like a stone thrown into a mirror, shattering the memory of the soft, light-touched laughter he had just shared in the dark.
Nothing appears.
By the time the moon has climbed high and their legs begin to ache, Banri slumps dramatically against a fence post.
"...So unfair," he groans. "Everyone else gets a spooky spirit and I get sore feet."
Natsuo manages a faint smile. "M-Maybe the spirit only shows itself when p-people aren't... screaming for it."
Banri snorts. "That's rude of them."
His stomach growls loudly.
They both freeze.
Banri looks down at his own stomach like it's betrayed him. "...Oh."
Natsuo's stomach answers with its own quiet protest.
They exchange a look.
A moment later, they're walking—much more purposefully now—toward the familiar shape of Genjiro's home.
The warm glow from inside spills out when Banri knocks.
It takes barely a second before the door slides open.
Genjiro peers up at them, eyebrows lifting. "Well now... you two look like stray cats."
Banri straightens instantly. "Genjiro! We went ghost hunting!"
Genjiro blinks. "...Ghost hunting?"
"Yep! White figure, rooftops, mysterious voices, the whole deal!" Banri puffs up.
Then deflates. "Didn't see a thing."
Genjiro hums knowingly. "Spirits appear when they wish. Not when they're chased."
Banri sighs like the weight of the world has fallen on his shoulders. "Yeah, Natsuo said something like that too..."
Genjiro's gaze shifts to Natsuo. "And you, child? Did you find what you were looking for?"
Natsuo hesitates just a breath too long.
"I... I don't t-think so," he answers softly.
But his eyes drift—unconsciously—toward the road behind them.
Genjiro smiles gently. "Come inside. You're both thin as reeds after wandering the dark like that."
Banri perks up instantly. "Does that mean food?"
"It does."
Banri cheers and practically dives through the doorway.
Natsuo follows more slowly.
As the door slides shut behind him, he presses a hand briefly to his chest.
Inside, the warmth settles around them almost immediately—steam rising from a simple pot, the soft clink of bowls, the familiar comfort of a place that expects nothing but their presence.
Banri drops onto the floor with a satisfied groan. "I swear, ghost hunting burns more energy than farming."
Genjiro chuckles as he ladles food into three bowls. "You burn energy no matter what you do, Banri."
Natsuo sits more carefully, hands folded in his lap. His eyes drift not to the food, but to the edge of the window. To the dark beyond.
Genjiro notices.
Of course he does.
He sets the final bowl down and lowers himself across from them. "You're quiet tonight, Natsuo."
Banri, already mid-bite, pauses. "Huh? Oh—yeah. You didn't even argue about the ghost thing much."
Natsuo startles slightly. "I-I was just... t-tired, I think."
Genjiro studies him over the rim of his bowl. Not pressing. Simply waiting.
Silence stretches—gentle, unthreatening.
Finally, Genjiro speaks again, voice soft as the steam curling between them. "Sometimes when a person goes looking for one thing... they tend to find something else instead."
Natsuo's fingers tighten faintly against the fabric of his sleeve.
Banri, oblivious as ever, grins. "Yeah! Like how we went looking for a ghost but found dinner!"
Genjiro huffs a quiet laugh.
But his eyes never leave Natsuo.
Natsuo lowers his gaze to his bowl. "...Genjiro-sama," he says quietly, "do you think... it's strange to feel grateful for something you don't fully understand?"
Genjiro's expression softens.
"No," he answers gently. "I think that's when gratitude is the most honest."
Natsuo absorbs that in silence.
For just a moment, the image of warm hands, buried seeds, and a teasing voice flickers through his mind.
Natsuo manages a small smile. It is a quiet, private thing, hidden behind the rim of his tea cup as he takes a slow sip. The warmth of the liquid spreads through his chest, chasing away the last of the midnight chill.