Morning came quietly. The mist from the river had thinned, and sunlight filtered through the tall trees like threads of gold. Shino woke with the stillness of someone who had not just slept, but shed an old skin.
He packed his few belongings with slow, deliberate movements. The talisman rested against his chest, warm as though it had slept too and now shared his resolve.
For a long moment he stood at the edge of the grove, looking back toward the direction of the village he had left behind. He could not see it anymore—only the faint line of the river and the forest beyond.
But he could feel it.
He thought of Aika, of her quiet smile when she pressed the cloth into his hands. He thought of the elders who had once looked at him with suspicion, then with fear. He thought of the boy he had been—restless, angry, searching for answers he could not name.
He bowed once, deeply, toward the unseen village.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything you gave me. And everything you could not."
Then he turned away and stepped onto the road.
The path wound through the trees and soon opened into rolling hills. The wind was stronger here, sweeping across the grasslands and carrying with it the smell of rain from far-off places.
For the first time, Shino felt how wide the world really was.
Each step felt strange—lighter, but also heavier with meaning. He was no longer simply running. He was choosing to walk forward.
By midday, he passed through a small hamlet. The people glanced at him curiously—he was a stranger here, yet no one stopped him. He traded a few coins for rice and tea, then continued on his way.
He noticed things he had never paid attention to before—the way the clouds cast slow-moving shadows over the hills, the way the birds called to one another in the trees, the way each bend in the road revealed a new shape of the land.
Everywhere he went, he carried with him the weight of the oath he had sworn by the river.
Near evening, he came to a crossroads. One road led toward the mountains, the other toward the open plains. He stood there for a long time, considering.
The mountains were said to be dangerous, filled with bandits and wandering spirits. The plains were easier but less traveled, leading to towns where he could lose himself if he wished.
He chose the mountain road.
Not because it was safer, but because it was harder.
As the first stars began to appear in the sky, he found a flat stone and sat for a while, eating the rice he had bought. The night air was cool, but there was a strange comfort in it.
He was truly alone now, far from the voices of the village, far from the preacher's crowd, far from everything he had ever known.
And yet, he did not feel lonely.
He lay down beneath the stars, using his pack as a pillow. Above him, the constellations glittered like distant fires. He remembered the hermit's words—the Eternal Flame cannot be found, only lit within.
Somewhere deep inside, something was beginning to burn.
And tomorrow, he would walk farther than he ever had before.