Itsuki loved the garden behind his home. It was a small patch of earth, but to him, it was vast and full of mystery. The flowers swayed in the morning breeze, and the soil smelled sweet and damp after the night's rain. Tiny insects scurried across leaves, their delicate legs moving in precise patterns that fascinated him endlessly. Every day, he spent hours wandering among the plants, examining petals and pebbles as though each held a secret waiting to be discovered.
One afternoon, sunlight dappled the ground through the branches of the old plum tree. Itsuki spotted a bright butterfly fluttering near the fence. Its wings shimmered with orange and blue, delicate yet purposeful. Without thinking, he crept closer, crouching low, his small hand reaching out. The butterfly flitted just beyond his fingertips, teasing him, leading him step by step toward the fence.
In his eagerness, Itsuki misjudged the ground beneath him. His tiny foot slipped on a loose stone, and he tumbled forward, landing hard on the dirt. Pain seared through his knee, and tears sprang to his eyes. He wanted to cry out, but the garden was quiet, and he felt a sudden, lonely panic. The butterfly disappeared in a blur of color, leaving him with nothing but the ache of his scraped knee.
Before fear could take hold, he felt warm hands on his shoulders. "Itsuki, are you hurt?" His mother's voice was gentle but firm. He looked up to see Ayane crouching beside him, her eyes full of concern. She brushed the dirt from his tears and lifted him carefully into her lap. "The world isn't cruel, Itsuki," she said softly, her thumb stroking his cheek. "But it isn't always kind either. Learn its rhythms, and you will move with it. You will learn how to fall—and how to rise again."
Itsuki sniffled and nodded, though the words were larger than his understanding. He pressed his face into her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her presence settle into him like a soft blanket. Even as pain lingered, he felt a strange mixture of comfort and curiosity. The world was wide and sometimes sharp, but it also held moments of safety that made the edges easier to face.
After his mother helped him wash the scrape and applied a small poultice, Itsuki returned to the garden, cautious but undeterred. He watched the butterfly from a distance, fascinated by its freedom. Slowly, he lifted his hand again, this time hovering in the air, learning to match patience with action. He realized that not everything could be grasped immediately, that some things required careful observation and timing.
It was a lesson he would carry forward, though he didn't yet know its importance. As he observed the butterfly's movements, he also noticed the subtle changes in the garden: the way shadows shifted as the sun moved, the soft rustle of the leaves even when the wind barely stirred, the gentle hum of life all around him. Every detail seemed to whisper secrets about balance and caution, about the need to pay attention before acting.
Later, as the afternoon waned and the golden light softened, Itsuki helped his father carry the water from the stream. Each step was careful, measured, as he balanced the bucket, mindful of the lessons learned in the garden. When he returned, his father smiled, ruffling his hair. "Well done, little one," he said. "You're learning quickly."
Itsuki beamed, pride warming the ache in his knee. That night, as he lay curled near the fire with his mother's gentle hum drifting through the room, he thought about the day's events. Falling had hurt, yes, but the garden had also taught him something more profound: that mistakes and missteps were not ends, but beginnings. Pain was temporary; learning could last a lifetime.
Even at such a young age, Itsuki began to see that the world was a mixture of beauty and danger, of light and shadow. He could not control everything around him, but he could choose how he approached it—quietly, carefully, with patience. And in that small, sun-dappled garden, among flowers and butterflies and the soft murmur of life, he began to cultivate a sense of awareness that would guide him far beyond the edges of home.