"So… your name is Roshi, right?"
Ash's voice was hesitant, the syllables almost catching in his throat. It wasn't just a question — it was a reaching, a hand extended into the dark.
The old man's eyes clouded, as if the name had brushed against something fragile and long-buried. Pain flickered there, quick and unguarded, before he looked away. He didn't answer.
Ash's stomach twisted. He had never been good with people — not really. The easy grin he wore in front of others was a mask he'd learned to hold in place, a shield against the moments when the world turned sharp. Beneath it, the old words still lived, etched deep into him like scars:
Lonely.
Freak.
Worthless.
Pathetic.
Loser.
They rose now, unbidden, curling around his ribs and squeezing.
The silence between them thickened until it felt like a weight pressing down. The fire in the hearth dimmed, shadows stretching long and thin across the walls. The air seemed to grow colder, the room smaller, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen. His breath quickened, uneven, and he could feel the edges of panic creeping in.
Roshi blinked, and in that instant, he saw it — the boy's shoulders drawn tight, his gaze unfocused, his chest rising too fast. Panic. Not the kind born of sudden danger, but the quiet, suffocating kind that came from being alone too long with the wrong thoughts.
For a moment, the old man was startled. Wasn't Ash Ketchum supposed to be bold? Fearless? The boy who ran headlong into storms? Yet here he was, small and trembling, drowning in a loneliness that had nothing to do with the weather outside.
Roshi leaned forward, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone meant to anchor someone who's drifting.
"Ash."
The boy flinched, as if the sound had pulled him up from deep water.
"I-I'm sorry," Ash stammered, his voice cracking.
"It does not matter what name you call me," Roshi murmured, the words carrying a quiet resignation. "When I died, I left behind everything. My face, my body… even my name. What remains is only memory." His eyes closed briefly, as though the admission cost him something. "I should have gone in peace. Instead, I linger."
Ash's throat tightened. "So… you don't have a name?"
Roshi's gaze softened, the lines around his eyes easing. "Names belong to the living. But… you called me Roshi, didn't you?"
"Y-yeah," Ash whispered.
The man considered this for a long moment, then gave the smallest of nods. "Then, Roshi, I will be."
Ash's vision blurred. "But… if you're dead, then—then what about me? I can see you. I must be—"
"No." Roshi's tone cut through the rising panic, gentle but unyielding. "You are not dead. This place… it is your mind. Your soul. I am only a guest here."
Ash's breaths came ragged, but under Roshi's calm, they began to slow. The old man spoke to him steadily, explaining what little he knew, his voice like the slow rhythm of waves against a shore. He guided Ash back from the brink with the patience of someone who had seen despair before — and had learned how to sit with it without turning away.
When at last Ash sat still again, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, Roshi let out a weary sigh. "Better?"
"Yeah," Ash said softly, almost shyly.
For the first time, Roshi allowed a small smile to touch his face. "Good. Then let's begin again. My name is Roshi. And you?"
"Ash Ketchum."
"Well, Ash Ketchum," Roshi said, "perhaps we should learn about each other."
Outside, the rain softened, its steady drumming easing into a gentle patter. Light broke faintly through the clouds, spilling into the room in pale gold. In the far corner, where there had been only bare wall before, a door now stood — mahogany wood polished to a soft sheen, a Poké Ball carved into its surface. Above it, a clock face ticked silently, its hands set to seven.
Ash stared. "Was that always there?"
"Maybe," Roshi said, though his eyes lingered on it longer than his voice suggested.
Ash stepped closer, his fingers brushing the cool brass of the knob. He hesitated, glancing back. "Will… will this be the last time we see each other?"
"I don't know," Roshi admitted, and there was no false comfort in his voice — only truth.
Ash's voice shook. "Will you… be my friend?"
The old man's answer came without hesitation, simple and certain. "Yes."
Ash smiled through damp lashes, turned the knob, and whispered, "Thank you."
The light beyond the door swelled, warm and blinding, until it swallowed everything.