Roki

The golden leaves no longer rustled.

The sound of the river — steady, endless — resembled someone's quiet weeping. The scent of fresh leaves mixed with an iron taste in the air.

You lived in a small wooden house deep in the forest. There, where paths were lost between damp stones and the roots of old maples. Low, darkened, with a roof hidden by branches. In autumn, the leaves almost completely concealed it from prying eyes. Golden, copper, crimson — they settled on the porch, caught in the grass, slowly spiraling along the path to the river. You loved those leaves.

The shōji glowed softly in the evenings with a warm amber light. Through the thin paper — blurry silhouettes. Furniture. Movement of hands. Steam from cups of tea. The floor inside creaked quietly underfoot. The air always smelled of wood: dry beams, old cedar, slightly damp tatami, and smoke from the small stove.

The house seemed to breathe the forest along with you.

But today it wasn't breathing. It had frozen.

Roki sat on the tatami, his back against a low table. His jet-black hair was matted with sweat, his feline ears pressed flat against his head — tightly, painfully. His golden-amber eyes, which always held confidence and a hint of mischief, were now clouded. Not from tears. From pain.

An arrow stuck out of his shoulder.

The shaft — rough, made of black wood. The tip — deep, just below the collarbone. Blood had soaked into his black suit, making it even darker, but you saw. You always saw.

He sat patiently. Too patiently.

While you bandaged the wound — tearing cloth, wrapping the dressing, pressing your lips together until they nearly disappeared — he didn't make a sound. Only breathing. Heavy. Ragged.

— Who? — you asked. Your voice — foreign, hoarse.

He remained silent.

— Roki. Who did this?

Your fingers trembled on the bandages. His blood was warm. Too warm. Like that of the living. But you both knew — you couldn't die. Neither of you. The immortality curse — a long, tedious loop.

Only pain remained real.

You lifted your head. Looked into his eyes.

— I'll go. I'll deal with it.

You were already standing. Already feeling the cold rage rising from somewhere deep in your stomach, from that very closet where you h