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Haruko-san slid the door open

Inside the house was a central courtyard. A beautiful, slender woman sat beside a small koi pond under an ume tree. Silver threaded her dark hair, but her face was serene, untouched by age. Her eyes, however, stared at nothing at all.

She did not look up.

Haruko-san watched her the way Fae had once dreamed of being watched—openly, helplessly. Love there, yes, but also longing, grief, and a pain far more profound.

"My wife, Issa. We met as children," he said softly. "Two foxes who grew up playing and hunting side by side. We knew early there was never going to be anyone else."

He looked down at Feraal, still held with careful care, and brushed a thumb gently over the smooth fur.

"We married at sixteen," he continued. "We have never been apart since." A sighing breath. "Children do not come easily to us foxes. We waited decades."

His voice trembled. "And then...we had the most beautiful child."

He smiled faintly, a ghost of something once whole. "We spoiled him. He was the apple of every eye. Handsome. Charming. Clever."

He shook his head, grief tightening his mouth for a second. "But one day, he came home with a little mixed-blood, a Konketsuji, from the forest. People were not very kind to those who were different. I am ashamed to say I was a very rigid man. No one knew what she was, only that she was neither fox nor wolf. She followed Kenji everywhere, as if he were her guiding star. He named her Ruri because she wouldn't speak." A sad huff of breath. "He saw her as a little sister, but he was her everything. Others were less kind; they called her unclean."

Haruko-san's jaw clenched. "But not Kenji..." he said quietly. "He was always the protector of the weak."

His gaze drifted, someplace far away.

"When he turned sixteen, a new family came to the village. They had a beautiful daughter, and Kenji fell in love with all the reckless fire of young hearts. And we watched as Ruri's heart broke silently."

Silence stretched between them.

"He had already decided woodcraft was not his path," Haruko-san went on. "And I..." His voice faltered. "I was old-fashioned. We locked horns often. I did not agree. I had plans—plans to send him away for training, to get all these silly ideas out of his head. And I thought he was far too young to marry."

The woman by the pond did not stir. The koi moved beneath the water, bright flashes of red and gold, endlessly circling.

Haruko-san looked down at Feraal once more, as if pulling himself back to the present. "And then, after a big fight," he said, almost to himself, "Kenji left. And we never saw him again."

The heartbreak in the stoic man's voice made tears well in Fae's eyes.

"And my wife..." He glanced toward the silent woman, love and devastation etched into every line of him. "She has been waiting ever since."

At that moment, his wife stirred.

She rose slowly, as if waking from a long and distant dream, her movements so light it seemed she barely touched the floor. Only then did her gaze truly settle on Haruko-san. She crossed the room toward him, drifting rather than walking.

Her eyes slid briefly to Fae.

There was no curiosity there, no surprise at the unfamiliar face. Only listlessness, as though a thick barrier separated her from the rest of the world.

Haruko-san watched her with the same aching attentiveness, then spoke softly, his voice gentle. "This is Fae. She is apprenticing with me."

His wife inclined her head in a polite gesture. And then—almost helplessly, as if the words had been waiting to burst out of him—Haruko-san added, "Look…look what she had in her bag."

The moment his wife saw the little wooden toy, something changed.

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened, suddenly bright with recognition. With trembling hands, she reached out and took it, cradling it as though it might vanish if she held it too loosely.

A muffled sob broke from her.

Tears streamed freely down porcelain as she pressed the toy to her chest.

"Kenji-kun," she whispered. "Kenji-kun… Kenji-kun…"