"Looking good."
The words escaped as little more than a satisfied breath while I crouched beside the narrow wooden trough that bordered the side of the house. Morning light spilled over the garden in pale bands, catching on beads of dew that still clung stubbornly to the leaves. The soil remained dark from the watering I had done the evening before, its damp scent rising each time I shifted my weight.
The beetroot had finally broken through.
Small green leaves pushed themselves above the earth, fragile enough that a careless hand could have flattened them, yet determined all the same. They stood in uneven rows, some taller than others, each one claiming its own patch of sunlight.
A faint smile tugged at my lips.
It was strange how satisfying something so ordinary could be.
After all the days spent waiting for signs that the seeds had survived, seeing green instead of bare soil felt like a quiet reward.
My eyes wandered along the trough.
"Ah..."
Near one corner, a thin weed had already begun stealing space from one of the sprouts.
"I missed one."
I reached down, pinching it close to the earth. The roots resisted for only a moment before sliding free with a soft pull, bringing a small clump of damp soil with them. I shook the dirt loose before tossing the weed aside.
Better now.
I brushed the loose earth back into place with the side of my hand and stood, stretching until my back answered with a small pop.
The garden wasn't large.
It didn't need to be.
Most of what grew here existed because we ate it, not because it was beautiful. Even so, there was a certain comfort in watching something change little by little every day. Plants asked for patience more than talent.
My attention drifted toward another container tucked beneath the edge of the roof where it received morning shade.
The experiment.
I crouched again.
"Ah..."
Something had emerged.
Only a tiny sprout, no larger than the joint of my thumb, had broken the surface.
The leaves looked familiar...
...and yet they didn't.
I leaned closer until my knees complained.
"Is it a radish...?"
I turned the container slightly, studying it from another angle as though a different perspective might suddenly reveal its identity.
The Artisan's explanation returned to me.
Not everything behaved the same after propagation.
Some took.
Some failed.
Some simply became... something else.
"I suppose we'll have to wait a little longer."
There wasn't much else to do.
Plants revealed themselves when they wished.
Trying to rush them only led to disappointment.
For a while I simply remained there, watching the tiny sprout sway almost imperceptibly beneath the morning breeze.
Without meaning to, my thoughts wandered.
The Fair.
The old Artisan.
The blade resting inside its plain wooden case.
His refusal.
The way he had spoken with absolute certainty, never raising his voice, never sounding offended or apologetic.
I don't work with things I didn't make myself.
At the time the answer had caught me completely off guard.
Now...
The more I thought about it, the more it sounded less like stubbornness and more like principle.
He could have earned money from repairing Father's kama.
Instead he had refused without hesitation.
It was an odd kind of honesty.
...
"Cluck."
The sharp sound pulled me back before my thoughts wandered any farther.
I turned.
The chicken had wandered across the yard again.
It pecked insistently at a small ceramic dish resting near the fence, scattering a few grains of rice each time its beak struck the edge.
"...Ah."
Someone had already fed it.
"Yu must've done that."
I looked toward the house.
"When...?"
The sliding door remained shut.
No footsteps.
No movement.
She must have come out while I had been buried in my own thoughts.
I scratched the back of my neck.
"I didn't even notice..."
The chicken continued pecking without concern for my realization.
I watched it for another moment before looking toward the road beyond the trees.
The end-of-year celebration wasn't far away now.
The thought appeared quietly, as thoughts often did when there was nothing demanding immediate attention.
I wondered what we'd do.
Whether we'd stay home.
Whether the village would be busier than usual.
Whether the Fair would change at all because of it.
Then another thought followed naturally behind it.
The weapon.
The money I had set aside.
How much remained.
Whether I should finally spend it.
The questions drifted through my mind without answers.
The garden settled back into silence.
By the time I noticed the light changing, evening had already arrived.
The shadows stretched across the yard, climbing slowly over the vegetable beds before reaching the porch. The warmth lingering in the wood beneath my feet faded with the sun, replaced by the cooler air that always rolled in after dusk.
Yu and I sat where we often did.
Two cups.
One teapot.
No urgency.
Steam curled lazily from the surface of the tea before disappearing into the quiet.
Neither of us felt the need to fill every silence.
That had become one of the things I appreciated most.
Sometimes conversation happened.
Sometimes it didn't.
Both felt equally comfortable.
I wrapped both hands around my cup, letting the warmth settle into my fingers.
The events of the Fair had remained in the back of my mind ever since I'd returned.
Normally...
I would have kept them there.
There was a small compartment inside me where uncomfortable thoughts tended to disappear. I rarely opened it unless someone asked.
Tonight, however...
The words wanted to leave before they had been invited.
I exhaled softly.
Then cleared my throat.
"I met with an Artisan at the Fair."
Yu's cup paused just short of her lips.
She didn't interrupt.
"I wanted him to make me a weapon."
Only after the sentence had settled between us did I continue.
"He refused to work with Father's kama."
A small laugh escaped me despite myself.
Looking back on it, the conversation felt almost absurd.
Yu lowered her cup carefully onto the table.
"Was there a reason?"
"There was."
I looked down into my tea.
The surface trembled slightly as I shifted my grip.
"He said he doesn't work with things he didn't make himself."
Silence settled for a heartbeat.
"Hm."
She lifted the cup again before taking a slow sip.
"Quite the dedication."
There wasn't surprise in her voice.
If anything...
Understanding.
I nodded.
"I think he'd rather make everything himself."
"From beginning to end."
"Yes."
She poured more tea into my cup before answering.
"That is quite the work ethic."
The teapot emptied with a gentle trickle.
"I imagine his commissions reflect that."
She rose with the kettle.
"I'll be back."
I watched her disappear into the kitchen.
The quiet returned almost immediately, interrupted only by the faint sounds of water and ceramic from somewhere beyond the doorway.
When she returned, I remembered something else.
"He also sells secondhand pieces."
She paused while setting the pot down.
"Secondhand?"
"Their owners sell them back to him."
"Oh."
She considered that.
"Those must be cheaper."
"They are."
I glanced toward her.
"I've been putting some money aside."
She looked at me for only a moment before pouring tea into her own cup.
She didn't ask how much.
She didn't ask where it had come from.
She simply accepted that I had.
For some reason...
I appreciated that.
The tea had begun to cool by the time I continued.
The first few words came easily enough. After that, the conversation found its own pace, stopping whenever it wished rather than rushing to reach a conclusion.
I told her about the Artisan.
About the first meeting beneath the lanterns of the second ring. About the old man's refusal to touch Father's kama, and how matter-of-factly he had delivered it, as though declining work was no stranger to him.
Looking back on it now, I found myself smiling.
"I think I expected more of an argument."
Yu looked over the rim of her cup.
"And?"
"He simply said no."
The smile lingered.
"That was the end of it."
A quiet breath escaped her nose that might have been amusement.
"He sounds certain of himself."
"He does."
I rested my elbows lightly against my knees, turning the cup between my palms.
"I suppose that's why I believed him."
I went on to describe the secondhand pieces displayed on his table.
Most had stories I would never know. Tools that had once belonged to strangers before somehow finding their way back into the Artisan's hands. He spoke of them without sentimentality. They were simply pieces that had returned.
Then I described the blade.
The one that had remained in my thoughts ever since.
"I could actually afford that one."
Yu listened without interrupting.
The room remained still apart from the soft crackle of the small lamp and the occasional whisper of wind outside brushing against the wooden walls.
Only after I had finished did she speak.
"I'm glad you're thinking about protecting yourself."
I looked at her.
For a moment neither of us said anything.
The words settled more deeply than I expected.
She hadn't questioned why.
She hadn't asked whether I truly needed one.
She hadn't told me it was dangerous.
She had simply acknowledged the decision.
After another sip of tea she tilted her head slightly.
"How much would it cost?"
A brief pause.
"What does it do?"
Another.
"Are you certain of the Artisan's reputation?"
I couldn't help laughing.
Not loudly.
Just enough for the tension in my shoulders to loosen.
"You certainly organized those questions."
A faint smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.
"I've had practice."
"The blade is... expensive."
I let out a slow breath and turned toward the window.
Outside, clouds drifted lazily across the crimson moon, dulling its light before allowing it to shine again. The shifting glow painted moving shadows across the yard.
"I don't know exactly what it does," I admitted.
"He said it has a spirit."
The words still sounded unusual when spoken aloud.
"And that spirit decides whether it'll accept its owner."
She considered that in silence.
"If you need money..."
Her eyes remained on the moon.
"I have a little I could add."
The offer came so naturally it almost caught me off guard.
I turned back toward her.
"I'll let you know if I need help."
She nodded once.
Nothing more.
No insistence.
No attempt to persuade me otherwise.
She simply accepted the answer and lifted her cup.
The quiet returned.
Outside, insects had begun their nightly chorus. Somewhere farther away, a dog barked once before falling silent again.
The tea slowly disappeared from our cups.
The conversation wandered elsewhere for a little while before fading completely.
Eventually we rose almost together.
The house creaked softly beneath our footsteps as we prepared for bed.
By the time I lay down, the moonlight had shifted across the floor, and before long sleep carried the day away.
───
The days passed with surprising ease.
Morning followed morning.
The beetroot continued growing.
The unknown sprout remained stubbornly unwilling to reveal what it intended to become.
Work filled the hours in between, and before I realized it, another gathering of the Fair had arrived.
The familiar coastal road stretched ahead of me once more.
The cart rolled steadily over packed earth, the wheels finding every rut they had found countless times before.
The sea announced itself long before it appeared.
Its distant roar drifted inland beneath the evening breeze, rising and fading with the rhythm of the waves hidden beyond the low hills.
I adjusted the reins loosely in my hands.
The horse continued at its patient pace.
Travelling alone had become familiar.
Not comfortable, perhaps.
But no longer strange.
There was a rhythm to solitary travel.
The creak of wood.
The steady clop of hooves.
The occasional cry of seabirds overhead.
With no conversation to occupy the mind, thoughts wandered where they pleased.
Mine returned to the wolf.
The strange creature I'd encountered before.
Then to the Artisan.
To Father's kama.
To the weapon waiting beneath that lantern-lit stall.
The thoughts came and went without demanding answers.
The cart continued onward regardless.
───
By the time I reached the Fair, the lanterns had already begun to glow.
Their warm light spilled across rows of stalls as merchants called to passing customers and smoke from countless cookfires drifted overhead, carrying the scent of grilled fish, roasted chestnuts, fresh bread, spices, and burning charcoal.
The familiar sounds wrapped around me almost immediately.
Voices.
Laughter.
Footsteps over packed earth.
Somewhere, a child squealed with excitement before disappearing into the crowd.
I guided the cart toward my usual place.
The routine unfolded almost automatically.
Unload.
Arrange the produce.
Check the scales.
Straighten the baskets.
By the time the first customers arrived, everything stood ready.
Business settled into its usual rhythm.
One customer became two.
Two became three.
Faces I had begun recognizing returned with easy greetings, asking after the vegetables before selecting what they needed.
The hours slipped by unnoticed.
Eventually I counted the earnings, placed most safely inside my locker, and rested my hand against the small pouch that remained.
The weight felt familiar.
Prepared.
I'd been saving for this.
I closed the locker and drew a slow breath.
It was time.
Asano glanced up from his own work when I approached.
"I have a favor to ask."
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he nodded immediately.
"I'll keep an eye on your stall."
The reassurance alone eased something inside my chest.
As I turned to leave, he added,
"Don't overthink it."
I looked back.
"Just calm down."
He smiled faintly.
"Go with a clear head."
There was something reassuring about hearing those words from someone who had already walked this path.
I thanked him before weaving back into the crowd.
The second ring felt quieter than the first.
Less crowded.
More deliberate.
When I reached the familiar table, the Artisan looked up almost immediately.
"Good evening."
His voice remained as even as ever.
"I see you've returned."
Recognition appeared on his face—not warmth exactly, but the calm familiarity of someone accustomed to seeing careful customers come back after thinking things through.
My eyes drifted toward the display.
The blade was still there.
Relief escaped before I could stop it.
Perhaps he noticed.
"Someone asked about it during the last gathering."
He adjusted a cloth on the table.
"They didn't return."
He stated it without emphasis.
Not encouragement.
Not pressure.
Simply information.
I nodded.
"I'd like to buy it."
The words came more easily than I'd expected.
The mystery surrounding the blade remained.
Perhaps that was precisely why I couldn't forget it.
I reached into the pouch at my belt and counted out the coins I'd prepared long ago.
The Artisan counted them with practiced efficiency before setting them aside.
No ceremony.
No bargaining.
The transaction ended almost as soon as it began.
For some reason that amused me.
I laughed quietly under my breath.
"I've been reading too much literature."
In the stories, purchases like this always seemed to carry dramatic weight.
Hidden destinies.
Prophecies.
Long speeches.
Instead, the Artisan simply disappeared behind a curtain to retrieve the weapon I'd already paid for.
The ordinariness of it all was strangely comforting.
The Artisan returned carrying the blade in the same plain wooden case I remembered from my previous visit.
He set it gently upon the table before opening the lid.
"There is one more thing."
His tone remained unchanged, practical as ever.
"This weapon houses a spirit."
I nodded.
He had mentioned as much before.
"Whether it accepts you is another matter."
He reached beneath the counter and produced a clean cloth, a small knife, and a shallow bowl.
"If it refuses, nothing will happen."
He looked at me to be certain I was listening.
"If it does, you will establish a bond."
There was no attempt to make the moment mysterious. No ritualistic flourish. He explained each step with the calm efficiency of a craftsman giving instructions for maintaining a tool.
"You'll need a little blood."
He indicated my left hand.
"Make a small cut across the palm."
I swallowed and nodded again.
"And while you're holding the weapon, keep one thought firmly in your mind."
"One thought?"
He inclined his head.
"The spirit will act according to that thought."
He paused.
"So choose carefully."
That was all.
No lengthy explanation.
No dramatic warning.
Only simple instructions.
The same measured professionalism that had marked every conversation we'd shared.
I drew a slow breath, trying to steady the beating of my heart.
It seemed louder now that I was listening to it.
The small knife felt colder than I expected.
I turned my left hand upward.
The skin of my palm looked strangely vulnerable beneath the lantern light.
It's only a small cut.
I pressed the blade against my skin.
A brief sting.
Then warmth.
A thin line of red welled almost immediately, gathering before sliding slowly toward the base of my hand.
The Artisan said nothing.
He merely waited.
I wrapped my fingers around the weapon's grip.
The blood smeared faintly against it.
One thought.
I closed my eyes.
Not fighting.
Not killing.
Not victory.
Those ideas appeared for only an instant before drifting away.
Another image replaced them.
Yu.
Then Hisato.
The road leading home.
The familiar fields.
The small garden beside the house.
Returning safely.
That was all I wanted.
For a brief moment the memory of the wolf crossed my mind—the strange creature I'd encountered on the road.
The image lingered only long enough for me to acknowledge it before I let it pass.
Home.
I held onto that instead.
The grip slowly grew warm beneath my hand.
Not hot.
Simply...
Warm.
As though it had been resting beneath sunlight.
The sensation spread gradually into my fingers and across my palm despite the cool evening air.
I waited.
Expecting...
Something.
A flash of light.
A sound.
Anything.
Nothing came.
The Fair continued around us.
Someone laughed somewhere behind me.
Coins clinked against a wooden counter nearby.
A merchant called out prices to passing customers.
Life carried on.
Only the warmth remained.
Then, almost imperceptibly...
Something settled.
It wasn't something I could see.
Nor hear.
It felt closer to the way a tool finally sits comfortably in the hand after countless uses, except this happened all at once.
A quiet sense of rightness.
Subtle.
Almost disappointingly ordinary.
I opened my eyes.
The Artisan studied me for a moment before offering the cloth.
"The spirit accepted."
I looked from him to the weapon still resting in my hand.
"...Wow."
The breath escaped before I could stop it.
Only then did I realize how tightly I had been gripping the handle.
Relief washed quietly through me.
Part of me had genuinely expected rejection.
I'd even worried, however irrationally, that I might have to pay for another weapon entirely.
I accepted the cloth and pressed it gently against my palm.
The bleeding had already begun slowing.
"There."
The Artisan nodded once.
"Keep it clean."
"I will."
I bowed my head.
"Thank you."
He returned the gesture with little more than a polite inclination before turning his attention toward another customer who had begun examining a display of chisels.
The transaction, like everything else about him, simply ended when it was finished.
I secured the blade carefully before leaving the stall.
───
Rather than returning immediately to my own, I found myself turning toward Asano's.
He looked up as I approached.
"Finished?"
I nodded.
"I bought it."
He wiped his hands on a cloth before extending one toward me.
"May I?"
I passed him the sheathed weapon.
He examined it without rushing, rotating it slightly beneath the lantern light before drawing it just enough to inspect the blade.
"Ah."
"A tanto."
There was quiet interest in his voice.
"Very interesting."
He slid it back into its sheath with practiced care before returning it.
"Good for you."
"Thank you."
The conversation ended there.
Neither of us felt the need to add more.
I tucked the blade securely at my side before stopping briefly at another stall to purchase more beetroot seeds.
The small paper packet disappeared into my satchel beside the weapon.
Then I returned to my own stall.
Business continued as though nothing had changed.
Customers came.
Customers left.
Coins accumulated gradually inside the cash box.
Yet every now and then my attention drifted toward the weapon resting nearby.
I waited for...
Something.
A difference.
Some unmistakable feeling that owning a spirit-bound weapon should surely bring.
Instead...
Nothing.
My hands felt the same.
My thoughts felt the same.
Even the world around me seemed unchanged.
Oddly enough, that unsettled me more than any dramatic transformation would have.
I had prepared myself for change.
I hadn't prepared myself for its absence.
The realization lingered quietly at the back of my mind while I continued weighing vegetables and speaking with customers.
Eventually the night gave way to dawn.
One lantern after another disappeared as merchants extinguished their lights.
The eastern horizon slowly brightened.
The first edge of sunlight tore through the violet sky, staining it orange.
By the time the final lantern went dark, I had already packed my cart.
The road home awaited.
───
The return journey passed in comfortable silence.
The horse settled into its familiar pace without encouragement.
Morning air carried the scent of damp earth and the distant sea.
The wheels rolled steadily over the coastal road.
Now and then I rested a hand against the case containing the blade.
It remained exactly as before.
Solid.
Quiet.
Patient.
Whatever had happened during the binding, it offered no explanation afterward.
Perhaps that was simply how these things were.
The house finally came into view as the sun climbed above the rooftops.
Golden light rested across the familiar walls.
Relief settled over me almost immediately.
Home.
I climbed down from the cart and carried my things inside.
Yu met me before long.
Without a word I removed the blade from its case and held it out.
"I bought it."
She accepted it carefully.
Not cautiously.
Carefully.
Her hands supported its weight as she examined the sheath before drawing the blade only slightly.
The steel caught the morning light.
After a quiet moment she slid it back into place.
I explained what the Artisan had told me.
The spirit.
The blood binding.
The acceptance.
"I'll only use it as a deterrent."
I met her eyes.
"And to protect myself."
She looked at me for another moment before wrapping the blade once more.
She hadn't argued.
Hadn't questioned the purchase.
For reasons I couldn't quite explain, simply seeing her ask to hold it brought me comfort.
She handed it back.
"Would you like breakfast now?"
A small pause.
"Or after you wake up?"
The exhaustion I'd been ignoring finally caught up with me.
"After my nap."
"All right."
I smiled faintly and made my way to the futon.
The familiar bedding welcomed tired muscles almost immediately.
I barely remembered removing my outer robe before lying back.
The room felt pleasantly cool.
Across from me, the newly purchased blade rested where I had placed it.
Quiet.
Unmoving.
The sliding door whispered shut behind Yuu.
The sound echoed softly through the room before silence settled once more.
For a while I simply watched the weapon.
It gave away nothing.
No warmth.
No voice.
No sign that anything had changed.
Only the steady stillness of polished steel resting inside its sheath.
Somewhere beyond the walls, morning continued.
A bird called from the garden.
The wind stirred the leaves outside.
The house creaked with the ordinary sounds of another day beginning.
My eyelids grew heavier.
The blade remained where it was, silent across the room.
Sleep reached me before another thought could.