As morning came, I felt drained—not from work, but from the heat of my own restless thoughts. Sleep had been a shallow thing, constantly interrupted by flashes of memory and daydreams I could barely control.
I gathered myself slowly, took up the broom, and headed to sweep the main house. The wooden boards creaked softly under my steps, dust swirling in little spirals with each sweep. My arms moved in rhythm, the faint scent of old wood and incense lingering in the air. By the time I finished, the sun was higher, warm light spilling across the veranda.
And then—almost as if he knew—the master appeared. His movements were steady, deliberate, the kind of calm that made my heart skip. Without preamble, he said, "Come. We will train."
This time, instead of starting immediately, he led me to a broad old tree whose branches spread like a protective canopy. Its roots coiled in the grass like sleeping serpents, and the shade was cool against my skin.
"Sit," he instructed, his voice firm but not unkind. "Begin meditation. After, we will exercise."
I obeyed, lowering myself onto the grass. The earth was soft with moss in patches, but as I closed my eyes, I realized I had no idea what to actually do. I sat, still and quiet, but my mind was a wild stream—thoughts tumbling over each other, rising and falling like waves.
After a while, his voice came again, low and steady. "Stop thinking. Let the thoughts fly away. Simply observe them, and do not react. Slowly, there will be inner peace."
The sound of his voice made me blush before I could stop myself. I didn't understand why—it was just instruction. And yet something about the tone, the calm authority, curled inside me in a way I couldn't quite name. Am I… in love?
I tried to follow his method, breathing deep, letting thoughts pass like drifting clouds. But the more I tried, the more they tangled. My mind stayed full, stubbornly so, until finally, he ended the meditation and led me into training.
The session was harder than yesterday. He pushed me further—stances held longer, movements repeated until my arms trembled and sweat trickled down my neck. The air felt heavy, my lungs working harder with each breath.
When we finally stopped, my legs felt like softened wax, my hands faintly shaking. I managed a respectful bow before retreating to my cottage.
Inside, I dropped onto my bed with a groan. "Oh, my muscles," I muttered. They ached as though fire had seeped into them, but beneath the pain was a quiet pride. I could feel it—just a little—but I was stronger than yesterday.
I reached for the small wooden bowl on my table, filling it with a handful of ripe fruits I had gathered earlier. Their sweetness was refreshing against my tongue, a small reward for the morning's struggle.
But I knew if I wanted to keep up with his training, I couldn't afford to lose more weight. My body needed strength, not weakness.
So after finishing the fruit, I strapped my small hunting knife to my belt and prepared to head into the forest again. The air outside was warm but fresh, carrying the scent of leaves and earth. Somewhere in the distance, a bird's song rose and fell, and I let the sound carry me forward.
Today, I would bring something back—not just for my stomach, but for my resolve.
...
After I had eaten a few of the sweet fruits, I decided I needed more than just berries to keep my strength up. My muscles still ached from the morning's training, but I wasn't about to waste the rest of the day. If I lost any more weight, I'd look like a dry reed and have no strength left for practice.
I rummaged through my small supplies and found a length of rope. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I began to work with it, fumbling at first, trying to remember how the knot was supposed to go. My fingers were clumsy from exhaustion, and more than once I pulled it too tight or too loose.
After a few tries, the loop finally held the way I wanted. I smiled to myself, feeling a small surge of pride, and slung the rope over my shoulder as I headed toward a spot where I'd seen rabbit tracks the other day.
The forest was warm, but shadows were already growing longer. I tied the trap carefully, adjusting the tension, placing it just so between the roots. Then came the waiting.
At first, I sat on a nearby rock, ears pricked for the faintest sound. I hummed quietly, watching a beetle crawl over a leaf. After a while, the excitement began to fade. The air grew cooler, the sky tinged with gold. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. My back started to ache. I yawned.
By the time the first stars began to blink through the branches, I was ready to untie the whole thing and go home. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I'd already wasted hours here. With a sigh, I stood to check the trap one last time—
—and froze.
The rope was twitching.
My breath caught, and I hurried over, heart racing. There, in the loop, was a rabbit. My first catch.
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. I crouched, hands trembling a little as I steadied the rope. "You're mine now," I whispered, grinning like a child with a festival prize. The boredom, the hunger, the aching legs—it all vanished in that moment. I had done it. I had actually done it.
I tied the rabbit's legs together with a strip of twine and carried it back toward the village, my steps light despite the ache in my arms. The weight in my hands felt almost unreal—my first real catch. The thought of warm, tender meat after so many days made my stomach growl in anticipation.
When I reached my little cottage, I laid everything out on the low table. The air was already cooling with the coming night, but I felt a small fire of excitement in my chest. I set a pot of water to heat, cleaned my knife, and began to work on the rabbit, brushing away tufts of fur, careful not to tear the skin.
That's when I felt his presence before I saw him—like a quiet ripple in the air. I turned, and there he was in the doorway, his shadow long in the dim light.
"I have spices to give you," he said simply, holding out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. "Think of it as an exchange for your fruit."
I wiped my hands on my apron, unable to hide the little smile tugging at my lips. "Thank you, Master." The warmth in my chest spread a little further—spices would turn this simple meal into something far richer than I'd hoped.
Before I could stop myself, the words slipped out, soft and uncertain. "Master… would you like to eat with me?"
His gaze shifted briefly to the rabbit on the table. "You need it more than I do," he said, his tone calm, almost matter-of-fact.
Still, there was something in his eyes—something that lingered for just a heartbeat before he stepped back toward the fading light outside.
I watched him go, the door creaking softly as it closed. My heart was oddly warm and heavy all at once. I turned back to the little bundle of spices, unwrapping them slowly, letting the scent rise around me. Tonight's meal would be better than I ever imagined.