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    Summary

    “Ah. Ya ain’t quite kicked the bucket, huh? Good, ya won me a bet.” A broad man is hovering in his periphery. Majima gets a fractured view of his current dwelling—sunlight filtering in between rotting timbers and dappling across the moss on the walls, a thin pile of fabric scraps under his aching body soaked deep crimson, a bowl of broth on a wobbly table. And, the man. The sunlight catches on his hair, the length tied back in a high ponytail and dark bangs framing his craggy features, and a thick coil of chain is looped around the waist of his simple green kimono. There’s a gruffness to him in tone and posture, but his eyes are—soft isn’t the word for it, but that’s all Majima’s rattled brain can supply.

    “Haw?” is all he manages to say in return, and even that utterance makes his parched throat crackle.

    Saemaji Week 2025 Day 7 - Parenting

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