> "Why am I remembering this now? Just who is his vessel?"
The question slips out before you can stop it, half-whisper, half-confession.
But the answer doesn't come.
Only silence. And his eyes.
You meet them—those eyes—and time bends.
Not like before, when the past whispered at the edges of dreams.
No. This is sharp. Immediate.
Like a blade slipping between ribs, like a tide rushing in too fast.
Those eyes aren't familiar.
And yet—they are.
It's the color.
The way the light clings to them.
Not golden. Not brown. But the shade of fire through sea glass—
Exactly like his.
The boy from the shrine.
The one you promised never to forget.
And suddenly you're there again.
Running barefoot across the shore as the sky darkens.
Chasing a flickering foxlight through tall grass.
Laughing breathlessly as a hand grabs yours, pulling you to hide behind a crooked tree.
His hand.
> "If they find us, we're dead," he'd whispered, wide-eyed and grinning.
"So don't breathe too loud."
You didn't.
You held your breath, heart pounding, staring at him—
At the way his hair curled like smoke,
At the scar beneath his chin from falling out of that fig tree.
You remember asking:
> "What if we get separated? Like... forever?"
> "Then we'll find each other again," he said, simple as fact.
"No matter how many lifetimes it takes."
Your chest tightens now.
That memory—
You hadn't seen it in years. You'd buried it. Forgotten it.
But looking into the vessel's eyes now,
It all comes crashing back.
The scent of the sea.
The night you swore an oath in the moonlight.
The sound of his flute.
> "Just who is his vessel?" you ask again.
But this time, it's almost a prayer.
Then another memory hits—
The old man's voice, on a night drenched in fireflies and cedar-scented wind:
> "And let's say that the vessel is someone you once loved... Would you still strike?"
You didn't answer then.
You thought it was a test. A cruel, hypothetical test meant to rattle your focus.
But now, with your breath shallow and the moon hanging low—
You wonder if it was never a test at all.
Maybe it was a warning.
And then—
The moon shivers.
Not a trick of light.
Not a passing cloud.
You feel it—deep, bone-deep—
The same way the earth remembers thunder.
The same way your soul remembers a promise made long ago on a beach lit by stars.
And still—
You don't see your friend in front of you.
Only the vessel.
The enemy.
The one the fox was meant to destroy.
So why does your hand tremble?
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