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The child never cried.
He nestled it against his chest, its head cradled in the crook of his elbow, and carried it through the woods. Leaves crunched under his feet. A bird warbled. The wind brushed against his brow and shook the branches overhead, rustling the leaves.
The child’s heartbeat thumped slowly, matching his beat for beat.
The child never murmured. It never babbled. It never cried.
A heavy weight pressed against his voice.
He walked on.
“He doesn’t cry,” the priest had said as they presented the child they found. “That’s the second strange thing.”
The first strange thing was the growth.
The fire crackled. The orange flames warmed his face. The child, silent in his arms, did not so much as scrunch its nose at the heat.
He pinched a few grains of rice and fed it. He watched as it gummed at his fingers and chewed the soft grains. A normal child would need to be at least a year old before he had rice that wasn’t cooked into soft, watery porridge.
He pinched another mouthful of rice and fed the child before taking a bite for himself.
It never ate much, no more than half a bowl.
He ate the rest and stared up at the darkened sky. He could see a light flicker beyond the trees. Was it a star? A ship?
The child’s heartbeat slowed as it fell asleep in his arms.
One day, the child’s eyes opened, startling him. A scream nearly dislodged the heavy weight on his throat.
Its eyes were red.
The child stared out at the world, its eyes wide and unblinking. No smile or frown pulled at its lips. No flicker of light or fluttering of wings make its eyes dart about.
Its gaze was steady and unwavering.
It stared at him as he cupped running water into his palm and brought the water to its lips. It drank obediently, its lips smacking as it let out a breathy, voiceless, “Aaah.”
It stared as he drank some water as well. He splashed some water on his face and wiped it clean before cleaning the child’s face with the moistened corner of his cloak.
The child blinked up at him, bewildered by the sudden wiping down.
A tiny smile fluttered in his heart before falling away, unable to fight against the stress and fear that haunted him and clutched his heart with razor-tipped talons.
The child walked on unsteady legs around the fire. It squatted down and stared at a cicada shell it had spotted on the ground. Its head tilted to one side to get a better look, before straightening and wobbling back towards him.
It plopped down next to him and stared up at him with the same wide-eyed look it gave the cicada shell.
He gave it one of the riceballs and watched as it took a little bite out of the very top. It smiled as it ate.
Shouyou did, too—
He tore into his own riceball, biting it in half. He chewed, grinding the grains down. It tasted like salt and went down like lead.
“Your son is quite the little gentleman,” the middle-aged woman running the restaurant said.
He looked up from the coins in his hand, his eyes wide with surprise, before the meaning of the words registered. “Ah,” he managed, his voice rough and low from the long stretches of disuse. The child sat dutifully at one of the tables, its tiny hands resting on its lap and its wide, unblinking eyes staring at his back.
“Handsome, too,” the woman continued. “Your wife must be a beautiful woman.” She grinned, winking at him.
“Uh,” he stammered. He leaned a bit on his back foot. “I, ah—“
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman rushed in. “I didn’t mean to bring up something painful.” Her voice dropped down and became softer, more soothing. “It really has taken its toll on you, hasn’t it, child? I should have noticed it sooner. All the pain in your eyes.”
His hands balled up into fists. The coins bit into his palm.
“At least take comfort that part of her still lives on in your son,” she said.
His jaw clenched shut as he paid her.
The child spoke.
He spoke. He remembered. He smiled as he teased Gintoki.
He smiled as he apologized for handing over yet one more burden.
He smiled as the light faded from those wide, ever-staring eyes.
The ruins they had once called home lay in the distance, the blackened posts smudges against the green of the mountains.
Gintoki rested his hand on his chest, on Shouyou’s Altana heart. He felt the warmth of the heart radiating through its bindings. His teacher’s heartbeat was a low thrum that Gintoki can still faintly feel.