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Fireflies drifted lazily through the warm night, their light flickering like tiny whispers in the dark. Kayo stood by the riverbank, watching her reflection ripple and break apart on the surface of the water, as if even the river couldn’t hold onto her for long. The smooth stones beneath her bare feet were cool, grounding her in the moment, but it was the weight of his gaze — felt before she even turned — that made her breath catch.
He stepped from the shadows of the trees, his presence quiet but undeniable. His painted eyes caught the moonlight like shards of glass, and for a moment, he seemed less a man and more a ghost, or a fox spirit wearing the guise of a human. His lacquered medicine box swayed gently at his side, its contents as enigmatic as the man who carried it.
The Medicine Seller was an enigma to her — beautiful, charismatic; diffident in the most sensual way, begging to be unraveled by her of all people. She wasn’t sure if it was the stillness of the night, or the way the fireflies framed him in their soft, golden glow, but something about him pulled at her in a way she couldn’t name.
Kayo had always felt it; that silent, unshakable connection between them, as though their souls had brushed against each other in a life before this one and would inevitably meet again in the next. Yet, unlike him, time had left its mark on her. She was no longer the wide-eyed maid of the Sakai household, nor the restless young woman he’d once found aboard a ship bound for the capital. Fifteen years had slipped away since then, carving their lines into her face and stealing the bloom of youth from her beauty.
He, however, remained unchanged. Magnificently otherworldly, untouched by the weight of passing years. His presence made her painfully aware of her own mortality, the quiet fading of the appeal she once carried so effortlessly. Nearing forty, she could feel the fragility of that beauty slipping further from her grasp, yet his gaze lingered on her still, as steady and inscrutable as ever.
She drew in a slow breath, her gaze lingering on the river. Its surface shimmered under the moonlight, restless and alive, so unlike her own reflection, which seemed dulled by the years. She could feel him behind her, a presence as steady as the mountains, and though he hadn’t spoken a word, the weight of his silence said more than most people ever could.
“How is it,” she began, her voice quiet, almost swallowed by the night, “that time doesn’t seem to touch you?”
The question hung in the air between them, fragile and uncertain. She turned to face him, her movements slow, as though afraid the spell between them might break. He stood there, his painted eyes catching the faint glow of the fireflies, his lacquered medicine box resting against his hip. He was as he had always been: ageless, inscrutable, and beautiful in a way that made her chest ache.
“Time,” he said at last, his voice soft, like the whisper of wind through the trees, “has little interest in what is transient.”
A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Kayo felt the sting of his words, even if they weren’t meant to wound. She wondered if he saw her as transient too, a fleeting moment in the vastness of his existence.
“Fifteen years,” she murmured, her fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve, “and you haven’t changed a bit. It’s enough to make a woman feel terribly mortal.”
He tilted his head slightly, his painted expression unreadable, and for a moment, she thought he might say something to soothe her, to erase the doubt she couldn’t quite keep from her voice. Instead, he stepped closer, the soft crunch of stones beneath his feet the only sound.
“You are not as you were,” he said, his gaze steady, piercing. “But that is not a fault.”
Her breath caught in her throat. The words were simple, but the way he said them — low and deliberate — made her feel as though he had peeled away every layer she had built to shield herself over the years. Her knees threatened to weaken beneath the weight of his attention, and she turned back to the river, needing something solid to ground her.
“You’ve grown,” he continued, his voice closer now. “You carry the strength of someone who has lived, who has endured. Time has touched you, yes, but it has shaped you into something far more remarkable than what you were.”
She swallowed hard, the faint warmth of his words spreading through her chest, mingling with the ache of their shared impermanence. Kayo had never sought validation, least of all from him, but hearing those words spoken with such calm sincerity was more disarming than she cared to admit.
“And yet,” she said softly, her voice almost trembling, “I still can’t keep up with you.”
There was a long pause, and when she dared to glance back at him, she found his gaze fixed on her, the fireflies dancing between them like tiny embers. He seemed to hesitate, as if he were choosing his next words carefully.
“Perhaps it is not for you to follow,” he said at last, his tone almost tender. “Nor for me to stay.”
Her heart sank at the quiet finality of his words, though she had known them all along. Their lives had always been ships passing in the night, their paths intersecting only briefly before diverging again. She had no illusions of permanence, no dreams of a future where he could be anything but a fleeting presence in her story.
But still, she found herself closing the space between them, her fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for something, anything , that might anchor them, even if only for this moment.
“Then let me have this,” she said, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. “Just this moment, before you disappear again.”
He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, but the faintest flicker of something — hesitation, longing — crossed his features. And then, slowly, as though defying the very rules of his existence, he raised a hand to her cheek, his touch cool and featherlight.
The world around them seemed to still, the river’s murmur softening to a distant hum, the fireflies hovering like stars caught between them.
“You ask for what I cannot refuse,” he whispered, his voice carrying the weight of every unspoken truth between them.
And in that fragile, fleeting moment, the distance between them vanished, and time itself seemed to hold its breath.