The day after Shino's departure, the village awoke to a strange stillness. For years, the boy had been a quiet presence—watching, listening, rarely speaking unless spoken to—but now that he was gone, his absence felt loud.
It began with whispers.
"Did you hear? The boy left before sunrise."
"They say he didn't even tell the elders. Just walked out of the village."
"Perhaps he saw something bad—his eyes always had that… look."
Voices carried over fences, between rice paddies, through the narrow lanes where old women swept the dust from their steps. Children, sensing the tension, ran more quietly than usual. The blacksmith shook his head as he hammered at the forge. The headman's wife frowned as she hung laundry.
By midday, the whispers had turned into speculations.
"They say he was cursed. No ordinary child looks at people like that."
"Cursed? Or chosen?" an older man muttered, squinting at the hills where Shino had gone. "Perhaps he's gone to seek the old spirits."
Not everyone spoke unkindly, but even kindness had sharp edges in a place that feared what it did not understand.
Aika heard them all.
She was carrying a basket of vegetables when she passed by two gossiping women.
"His eyes always made me uneasy," one woman said. "It's good he's gone. Maybe now the village will be normal again."
Aika's steps faltered. She bit her lip but said nothing, moving on quickly before they could see the anger rising in her face. She knew Shino better than anyone else. He was not cursed. He was simply… different.
That night, she found herself slipping quietly through the shadows to the edge of the village. The moon hung low, casting silver light over the fields. She had done this once before, when she was little and Shino had been sitting alone by the river, staring at the stars. He hadn't said much then—just let her sit beside him until the night grew cold.
She hoped he could feel her thoughts now, wherever he was.
At the old shrine by the road, she knelt and placed the small bundle she had carried: a wrapped package of rice balls, a flask of tea, and a piece of cloth she had embroidered with a simple pattern of mountains.
"He probably won't find it," she whispered to herself, "but maybe he will."
A rustle in the bushes startled her. She turned sharply and saw a pair of glowing eyes—only a stray dog, sniffing curiously at her offering.
"Don't touch," she scolded softly, shooing it away.
As the dog trotted off, she stood, brushing the dust from her hands. Her heart pounded. If anyone saw her out here, they would ask questions. They might even call her foolish.
But she couldn't let him go without doing something.
When she returned to the village, she saw lights still burning in the headman's house. She heard the elders' voices from inside, low but sharp.
"…should have kept a closer watch…"
"…what if he brings trouble back to us…"
"…his leaving could be an omen…"
Aika clenched her fists. She wanted to shout that Shino was not a threat, that he was braver than any of them. But she swallowed her words and kept walking.
That night she lay awake, staring at the beams of her ceiling. The rumors would spread. The fear would grow. But in her heart, she knew what mattered: somewhere out there, Shino was walking a road only he could walk. And she had helped him, even if only in a small way.
The next morning, when the villagers found the bundle missing from the shrine, the whispers began again.
"Someone left food for him," they said.
"Who?"
"No one knows."
Aika said nothing, her face calm as she worked in the fields. Inside, though, she felt a quiet satisfaction. It didn't matter if they gossiped.
Because somewhere beyond the hills, Shino would open the cloth, see the rice balls, and know that someone in the village still believed in him.