The first light of dawn broke gently over the village, washing the world in pale gold. The air was cool, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Shino Taketsu stood at the narrow road that led out of the only home he had ever known. His small hands rested at his sides, fingers curling slightly as though they, too, felt the weight of what he was about to do.
The village lay silent behind him, its crooked houses and narrow lanes still shrouded in mist. Only the faint crackle of a fire and the distant cluck of a waking hen betrayed any sign of life. Shino turned and looked back one last time. The sight stirred something deep inside him—memories of running barefoot through the rice fields, of laughter with children who would never understand why he had to leave, of evenings sitting quietly while the elders spoke of things they no longer believed in.
He swallowed hard. There was no one to see him off. No ceremony, no blessing, no tears shed on the road. It was better this way, he told himself. If they knew where he was going, if they knew what he had seen, they might try to stop him.
The visions from the night before still burned behind his eyes—the fire swallowing the horizon, the march of shadowed kings, the clash of unseen forces. They had not been dreams. He knew this with a certainty that made his chest ache. They were warnings. And warnings meant responsibility.
A soft sound interrupted his thoughts—the tap, tap, tap of wood against stone. Shino's head turned sharply, and from the mist emerged a tall, stooped figure. An old man, dressed in threadbare robes, walked slowly with the help of a bamboo staff. His long silver hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and his straw hat cast a shadow over most of his face.
He stopped a few paces away, leaning on his staff, his pale eyes fixed on Shino.
"You are leaving," the man said. His voice was quiet but carried a weight, as though every word was chosen carefully.
Shino hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yes."
The man's gaze was sharp, almost unsettling. "And do you know why?"
Shino met his eyes without flinching. "Because I must."
The answer made the hermit's thin mouth curl into the ghost of a smile. "Good. Most would say they leave because they wish to see the world. Because they are curious, or restless, or foolish. You… are none of those."
Shino did not reply, though his grip tightened on the strap of the small satchel slung over his shoulder.
The hermit's eyes softened, but there was still something piercing in them, as though they could strip away every layer of Shino's thoughts. "Those eyes," he murmured, stepping closer. "You have seen things. More than a child should. Tell me—when did you first realize you were different?"
Shino hesitated. "I don't know," he said softly. "Maybe… always."
"Ah." The hermit nodded as if this answer pleased him. "Then perhaps you are ready."
From within his sleeve, the man produced a small object—a talisman carved from dark wood, its surface etched with runes that seemed to shimmer faintly even in the morning light.
"This is for you," the hermit said, placing it in Shino's outstretched hand. The charm was warm, almost alive.
"What is it?"
"A reminder."
Shino turned it over in his palm, feeling the grooves of the carvings. "Of what?"
"That even the hardest stone can hold a beating heart," the hermit replied. "There will come a day when the world will try to turn you to stone—when anger, grief, and loss will tempt you to forget who you are. This will remind you."
Shino closed his fingers around the talisman. "Why me?"
"Because I, too, once stood where you stand," the hermit said, his tone distant, as though speaking to a memory only he could see. "And someone gave me a reminder. It is only right that I pass it on."
He turned to go, but Shino stepped forward. "Wait—who are you?"
The hermit stopped, though he did not look back. "Just an old man who has seen what lies beyond this road. Nothing more."
And with that, he walked into the mist, his staff tapping softly until even that sound faded.
Shino stood there for a long time, clutching the talisman, staring into the place where the old man had vanished. The road stretched ahead of him like a ribbon into the unknown. For the first time, the unknown did not frighten him.
He took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. The morning light broke fully over the horizon, casting his shadow long before him. He took his first step.
Then another.
And another.
With each step, the village behind him seemed to grow quieter, smaller, until it was little more than a memory. His heart was steady, his eyes calm but filled with something ancient, something that made him seem older than his years.
The child with ancient eyes had left the world he knew behind.
And with that single step, destiny began to move.