Chapter 5: Hearth and Hollow Bones
Warmth
Not fire. Not sunlight. Something softer.
Shiro's eyes cracked open to a low wooden ceiling. The scent of herbs and cooked meat lingered in the air. A blanket—rough, hand-stitched, but oddly comforting—covered him to the chest.
He was… alive.
His ribs throbbed, his face stung, and his everything hurt, but he was definitely not bear chow.
Groaning, he sat up—and promptly hit his head on a hanging bundle of garlic.
"Ow—seriously?!"
From the corner of the room came a laugh, raspy and full of smoke.
"You're lucky I didn't let the wolves finish the job," Khan muttered, leaning against the doorway with a wooden mug in hand. "You sleep like a corpse."
"I was half a corpse," Shiro muttered, rubbing his head. "Also—ow."
"Bah, you're fine. Bruises build character."
Before Shiro could retort, the door burst open with enough force to knock a nearby jug off the shelf.
Crash!
"GRAAAAAANDPAAA! I heard you brought home a dead guy again!!"
A blur of wild red curls and flying limbs barreled into the room, skidding to a halt at Shiro's bedside.
He blinked.
The girl couldn't have been more than ten. Dirt-smudged cheeks, oversized boots, and eyes too wide for her face.
"…I'm not dead," Shiro said cautiously.
"WELL YOU LOOK LIKE IT."
"Rin," Khan growled. "Indoor voice. And he's not dead, he's just stupid. Got mauled by a bear."
"I didn't ask to be mauled," Shiro shot back, exasperated. "It sort of just happened."
"Ohhhhhh," Rin grinned. "Like when Grandpa fell off the roof trying to fight a wasp with a broom!"
"That was strategic," Khan barked.
Rin turned back to Shiro and squinted, poking his arm.
"You're scrawny. You sure you're not a ghost?"
"I'm sure," he said, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. "Ghosts don't get this sore."
"You might be haunted though," she added thoughtfully. "You've got the eyes for it."
"…Thanks?"
Just then, a soft knock tapped the doorway, and in stepped a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, sleeves rolled up and a basket of freshly folded laundry in her arms.
"Oh, he's awake!" she smiled. "Don't mind Rin, she thinks she's in charge of new people."
"I am in charge," Rin insisted.
"You're in charge of sweeping, sweetheart. Which you haven't done."
The girl groaned dramatically and flopped onto the floor like she'd been mortally wounded.
"I'm Saya," the woman said, ignoring Rin's theatrics. "I help keep the village clinic running… and patch up whatever my father—" she gestured at Khan, "—drags in from the forest."
Shiro blinked. "Wait. She's your daughter?"
Saya smiled warmly. "Adopted, like most things in this village."
Shiro felt something strange settle in his chest.
A pause. Not quite pain.
But not peace either.
"Thanks… for not letting me die."
"You're welcome," Saya said, tucking a pillow behind his back. "But don't thank me yet. You've got two cracked ribs, four claw cuts, and the appetite of a half-starved goat."
"…Goats have appetites?"
"In this village? They eat everything."
Khan let out a grunt. "You'll be walking by tomorrow. Two days from now, you'll be swinging that rusty sword again."
"Rusty sword?" Saya frowned. "Papa, you gave him a rusty weapon?"
"He found it. From a grave. Builds grit."
Saya sighed deeply and muttered, "I swear you invent new survival lessons just to mess with people."
Rin raised her hand. "Can I give him a better sword?! Pleeeeease?"
"No," Khan said.
"Yes," Saya said.
They both looked at each other and said in unison, "We'll see."
Shiro blinked at all of them—the banter, the noise, the warmth.
Something inside him… loosened.
He wasn't ready to admit it, but for the first time in a long time…
He didn't feel alone.
The next morning, Shiro limped out of Khan's house under strict orders from Saya to "stretch or die stiff." His side still throbbed, but the fresh air tasted better than medicine.
The village was small, nestled in a clearing surrounded by thick forest and mountains in the distance. Thatched roofs. Worn paths. Smoke drifting lazily from chimneys. Birds chirped, kids ran barefoot, and somewhere a goat screamed like it was being mugged.
Peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful.
Rin popped up beside him out of nowhere, munching on a hunk of bread nearly the size of her face.
"You walk like a really old crab."
"I feel like one," Shiro muttered.
"You want me to carry you?" she asked, already crouching like she was about to fireman-lift him.
"I'd rather die."
"You already tried that."
"…Fair."
She grinned and skipped ahead, waving for him to follow. "C'mon, I'll show you the training square! It's where Grandpa beats people with sticks."
Shiro raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that illegal?"
"Only if they're not grateful afterward."
When they reached the "square" — really just a wide dirt patch surrounded by logs and a few poorly-stuffed dummies — Khan was already waiting. Shirtless. Sweating. Swinging a tree trunk with one hand.
Shiro stopped walking.
"…Nope."
Khan saw him and grinned. "There's my punching bag!"
"I changed my mind."
"You don't get to have one."
Rin handed Shiro a stick.
It was bent. Slightly splintered. Might've once been a broom handle.
"Seriously?"
"Trial weapon," she said proudly. "Traditional village rules."
"Pretty sure this is just hazing."
Before he could complain more, Khan charged him.
Full speed.
"W-WAIT—!"
CRACK.
Shiro barely blocked in time, the impact sending him skidding backward. Dust flew. His stick snapped. His soul screamed.
Khan stood there, adjusting his shoulder.
"Your form's garbage."
"I'm wounded!"
"Wounded and weak ain't the same."
"I almost died!"
"And now you'll almost live. Progress."
Shiro wheezed, but something in him… sparked. Not power. Not skill. Just a stubborn little flicker that whispered:
Get up again.
He stumbled to his feet.
Grabbed another stick.
This one might've been a shovel handle.
Khan nodded once, approving.
"Now we're talking."
Over the next hour, Shiro got knocked down five times, disarmed three, and once—somehow—bit his own tongue mid-roll. He was bleeding from the lip, limping worse than when he started, and looked like he'd tried to fistfight a thunderstorm.
But by the end…
He landed a hit.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't pretty.
But the dull thud of stick-on-stomach was satisfying.
Khan stepped back, rubbing his belly with a grunt.
"Hmph. Not bad. You might survive the next bear."
Rin cheered like he just won the Olympics.
Shiro collapsed backward into the dirt, chest heaving.
He was grinning
That night, after washing up and nearly falling asleep in his stew bowl, Shiro sat under the stars outside Khan's home.
The village glowed with lanterns. Laughter echoed from a nearby firepit. Someone was playing a flute very badly.
Its all so different from how he used to be, think, and act
Its like
He forgot he'd died.
Forgot the shadow.
Forgot the God of Death.
he didn't want to let it go of this feeling.