Arai Jūzō was born in winter, when the snow on the fields stayed white for a long time and the air was sharp. The village was small, the houses close together, the roads narrow.
His father worked the fields; he was an honest man who hated laziness. He worked all day in the fields so his family would have a generous harvest and not fall into the poor classes.
His mother took care of the house to ensure that when his father came home everything would be perfect and clean. She always dreamed she would give birth to a demon slayer who would bring fame to their family.
And finally there was an older sister whom he don't like, yet in the depth of his heart he loved her. She always came home tipsy and slept with a different man every day. The father knew this well, and because of it great arguments persisted in the family.
Arai breathed weakly from his earliest days. Doctors did not come around for him; he had to take a bubbling elixir every week. It was a problem — of course not the miracle his mother had hoped for.
The parents often sat quietly, watching him and searching for a way to keep his breath.
When he was five years old, the disease spread through the village. Fevers, sweating, weakness — almost everyone suffered.
One evening a voice came from the house next door: "There are more sick." The father stood, packed a few things, and went to help.
The mother put a small bandage on Arai's chest for his playing, tying it tighter than made sense. The child felt heavy. Every breath was louder than before.
KHUH–KHH!
He coughed. Blood in his mouth was a new thing that surprised him. For the first time he understood that he was different.
His mother held little Arai on her lap.
"Quiet," she used to say. "Don't go out. I used to bring you warm tea."
He watched her hands. He did not know whether her touch calmed him or whether his cough was turning into something milder.
He could not name the fear she felt. He spoke little. When she suggested calling the doctor, he stood up and said, "No." He stood for a while. He breathed. He coughed. The mother closed her eyes.
After the epidemic, few remained. The father fell ill, then the sister. The houses that once proclaimed themselves full of children fell silent. He and his mother remained in the house.
They dug a grave by the river. The water carried leaves. The mother stood by the grave unbowed, hands in her pockets, face without tears. Her voice was flat, weak.
"We must survive," she said once, and that word seemed to him diminished compared to before.
He reached for a spare spoon, covered the fire, and cooked a small amount of rice. When his father died, their supplies ran out quickly.
The chisel and knife remained untouched. There was less laughter in the house. He remembered his father's voice at night when he taught him how to properly peel garlic.
He even missed the constant arguments between his father and his sister, since those would never happen again.
"Don't cry, it will be better," his father said, taking him by the shoulder. "You will do your part. You will help your mother."
Arai tried to smile. The smile broke into a cough. His father did not scold him. Before he died he showed him how to carry wood. He stood beside him and showed him how to lift burdens. In those moments he was stronger than he really was. The sound of his step was steady. The father went to the fields. He did not return.
Life narrowed to simple tasks. In the morning he woke with pain in his chest. He dressed slowly, bandaging his chest so the cough would not be so violent. The mother went to neighboring houses to help, in exchange for grain. Sometimes she brought back a little soup. Sometimes nothing.
Arai learned quietly. He watched how people could go out, carry wood, talk. He wanted to be part of the world, but his body would not allow it.
His weak lungs forced him to sit. From the window he watched children play by the stream. Their voices cut straight through his pain.
Once he ran out to join them. He felt a joy brief and sharp. Then an attack of coughing came. The children's eyes turned away from him. Back in the house he lay, breathing, counting how many steps he had taken.
Arai sat by the stream, the children running around him.
"Go home," one girl said. "You look sick."
Arai put his hand on his knee. The cough began. He shrank. He patted his chest. Two minutes. Then he stood up and left. The children kept playing.
Perpetual fatigue became the norm. Nights were long. While his mother slept, he sat by the window and watched the landscape. He learned to recognize the air by its color. When the air was heavy, he knew that next time breathing would be harder.
When a cloudy sky came, he knew the cough would be worse. He developed his own rhythm of observation. Sometimes he realized he could slightly influence when an attack would come; he learned to hold his breath a little and then release it. It was a small control. It gave him a sense of power over his own body.
The mother stored medicines in a cupboard.
"These are special mixtures that the old woman from the village gave," his mother said. "They will help you a little."
Arai looked at the small glass jars. Hard medicines, dried herbs. He knew the smell. He took one and put it under his tongue. The taste was bitter. She reminded him that if he rationed it, it would last longer. He decided to save one for an acute attack. He hid it in the pantry, next to his father's old axe.
Years passed slowly. New faces appeared in the village, people who had come from other places. One day a group of traveling merchants arrived. Their carts were heavy. They sold cloth, but everyone also inspected the people. The mother bought something, he received a piece of bread. He felt better with food. He told himself that food would sustain him. He relied on nothing else.
There Arai saw demon slayers for the first time. They were tall people who inspired respect, swords at their belts. The merchants had probably hired these demon slayers as protection; when traveling through the countryside there was a chance to encounter trouble. Besides, they served as deterrence against bandits.
Arai was fascinated by them — by how a person could fight something as superhuman as a demon. His parents had always taught him to keep his distance from such things.
When his mother wanted him to become a demon slayer, she very quickly abandoned the idea because of his health.
Most people did not believe in them, but Arai's family did, mainly because his father's brother had once disappeared without a trace and the father blamed demons for it.
There came a day when news reached the village of a demon in the grove behind the bridge. These were the kinds of stories the elders told at supper, while the young laughed.
Word spread that something was dragging nocturnal animals and leaving tracks. The mother warned that no one should go to the bridge at night. Arai listened. He stayed in the house. At night, however, he heard footsteps. The sound approached the window. He felt as if something was staring straight at him. When it drew closer, his cough started again.
A night whisper at the window — the sound came near. The mother went to the door and checked the lock. "Close the window," she whispered. "Don't look out."
He sat closer to the walls. His breathing sped up. He touched the bandage on his chest. The footsteps stopped. Then silence. The night calmed, but not his chest.
Gradually he learned to search for patterns. He woke in the morning and checked his lungs. He measured how many deep breaths he could take without coughing. He noted it in his mind.
Each day he added one. Since he was alone most of the time, he had to learn to adapt. These small changes were not heroic. They were mechanical. He decided to use them to manage a simpler life.
Arai taught the younger neighbor girl to do stitching.
"Hold the needle firmly," he said. "Don't be afraid of your fingers."
The girl smiled and showed him her new dress. It was a small gesture. His hands shook when he helped. Then an attack came. She stepped back. He pressed his mouth shut and nodded.
"It will be all right," he said. He did not know if it would be true.
The first understanding born of pain was not anger. It was not even a desire for revenge. It was an attention to detail that moved from necessity into strategy.
When he suffered a violent cough, he concentrated on the place of pain, curled up, and waited for relief. When the pain was too great, he closed his eyes and breathed slowly. Not because it was beautiful or profound, but because it worked.
His body learned to conserve energy. His mind learned to distinguish between silence and pain and to decide when to act.
One day a girl arrived in the village who had lost her father. Her hands were dirty, her eyes empty. The mother gave her warm food. He offered her a piece of bread and sat across from her.
They spoke little. She said she was afraid of the night. Arai told her that night did not always mean danger. He was not sure whether he believed what he said. After the conversation an attack came.
The girl placed her hand on his hand for the first time. It was a simple touch. They said nothing more. He knew that that touch was worth more than all the medicines. Finally there was someone besides his family who did not immediately turn away from him and run.
Morning silence in the house. The mother woke earlier than he did. She prepared the medicine, brewed tea. She placed it before his nose.
She looked at him. "We must be strong," she said. Her voice was steady.
Arai nodded. He did not know what it meant to be strong. He only knew that he had to stay with his mother, that he had to bear the responsibility that came to him naturally and which she did not voice.
Arai's small body sat by the window; he held an empty spoon and listened as the wind ceased to be present.
"Father, I will not fail you — I will take care of mother. And you, sister, I hope father is no longer so angry with you, although I do not actually know why he was always angry with you," he told himself as he looked at the night sky.
The mother cleaned; Arai watched her movements. The home was quiet. Candles were lit outside. He placed his hand on the bandage and breathed slowly. He realized he had learned to listen to his body. That knowledge was clear and cold. There was no exaltation in it. It was a simple thing: if he breathed, he lived. If he continued, he survived...