The sun rose bright over Minato village, gilding the waves in gold. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying out as though to announce the new day. Kenji stretched outside the shack, his joints popping like old wood. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and yawned.
Beside him, Sora was already up, bouncing on his heels with his clay pot tucked under his arm.
"Papa Kenji, are we going fishing again today?" the boy chirped, eyes sparkling.
Kenji chuckled. "Of course. The sea won't wait for lazy men." He glanced at his battered fishing line, worn and fraying. It had served him for now, but he knew better than anyone: if he wanted a better haul, he'd need better equipment. Nets, maybe even a small boat one day. For now, though, step by step.
Sora beamed. "Then let's race to the shore!"
"Race?" Kenji raised a brow. "You'll trip over your own feet."
But the boy was already off, sprinting barefoot down the sandy path. Kenji sighed, then smiled. "That boy's energy could power the whole village."
They passed through Minato's main lane, where villagers were beginning their day. Women carried baskets of seaweed, men repaired nets strung between poles, and children scampered through the sand.
As Kenji walked by, he caught the familiar whispers.
"There goes the empty bucket again."
"Surprised he's lasted this long."
"At least the brat's fed now…"
"Maybe he'll leave when he realizes the sea doesn't like him."
Kenji's jaw tightened. He said nothing. He had been called worse things in his past life—worse things by his own family.
But Sora heard too. The boy spun around, fists clenched. "Don't listen to them, Papa Kenji! We'll catch more than anyone today, you'll see!"
A few villagers laughed at the child's defiance. One old man snorted, shaking his head. But a kind-eyed woman, Yui the seamstress, called out: "Don't let the crows get you down, Kenji. Every fisherman starts with an empty bucket."
Kenji inclined his head in thanks. "Your words are kinder than most, Yui."
She winked. "Just bring me a fat crab sometime. I'll make soup for the boy."
Sora's eyes lit up. "We will!"
Kenji smiled faintly. Perhaps not everyone here wishes us ill.
By mid-morning, Kenji had his line cast into the tide, the sun warm on his back. He sat patiently, while Sora darted between tide pools with his clay pot.
Minutes turned to an hour, then two. The bucket at Kenji's side remained nearly empty—just one small mackerel flopped weakly inside.
He sighed. Patience, Kenji. Patience is the fisherman's coin.
Then came Sora's voice, bright as a gull's cry. "Papa! Look!"
The boy rushed up, dragging his clay pot with both hands. Inside—three fat crabs, their shells glinting.
Kenji blinked. "Again? Already?"
"Uh-huh! They just… walked in. Like they wanted to."
Kenji crouched, studying them. "The sea really does favor you, boy."
Sora grinned. "Maybe it's because I like it back. We're friends!"
Kenji laughed, ruffling his hair. "Then let's keep your friends coming."
By noon, their combined haul was modest but respectable:
2 mackerel (Kenji's line)
8 crabs (Sora's miraculous pot, checked three times)
At the fishmonger's stall, the gruff vendor eyed their goods.
"Mackerel, eh? Two coppers each." He prodded the crabs with a stick. "Eight for the lot."
Kenji considered. Two coppers is fair for the fish. But the crabs… He shook his head. "Nine."
The man squinted. "Nine? You trying to squeeze me, fisherman?"
Kenji kept his voice steady. "They're lively today. Strong shells, full of meat. You'll make double when the inn cooks them."
A pause. The market crowd leaned in. Negotiation was entertainment here.
Finally, the fishmonger grunted. "Fine. Nine. But don't get cocky, Empty Bucket."
He slid the coins across the counter.
Sora gasped. "Papa, you're amazing!"
Kenji pocketed the coins with a small smile. Numbers and trade—some things never leave the blood, no matter how far from the family you fall.
That evening, after buying another loaf of bread, a strip of dried fish, and—Sora's delighted surprise—a single apple, the two sat by the fire in their shack.
Sora held the apple like a jewel. "Can we share it?"
Kenji nodded. "Half each."
He cut it with his dull knife, but when he handed the bigger half to Sora, the boy pushed it back.
"You work harder. You need more."
Kenji froze, staring at the boy's earnest face. Slowly, he pushed it back again. "No, Sora. A father eats after his son. Always."
Sora's eyes watered, but he bit into the apple with a grin. "It's sweet!"
Kenji tasted his half. Sweet indeed—sweeter than any fruit he'd eaten in his old life of gilded halls and bitter words.
Later, as Sora drifted to sleep, the boy murmured, "Papa Kenji… will we always be poor?"
Kenji stared at the flickering fire. "Poor?" He glanced at the boy's peaceful face. "We have the sea. We have food. We have each other. That is not poor, Sora."
The boy snuggled closer. "Then… I don't mind."
Kenji's chest ached, but he smiled into the dark. Not poor. Not anymore.