In that moment, the boy turned his gaze toward the spiritualist. His eyes were dark, deep, almost as if they could swallow everything around them. In a low, trembling voice, he said:
"your companion has awakened"
The Perfumer snapped out of his reverie, staring into the fire for a long beat before letting out a quiet sigh. He slipped his hand into his chest and drew out a small pouch. Speaking required effort, as if his focus still clung to the flames. Without averting his gaze, he tossed the pouch toward the spiritualist.
It landed near him, and the spiritualist could barely form a word—speech was a burden now. He stayed silent, glancing back at the Perfumer instead.
"This is the reward we agreed upon," the Perfumer said, never lifting his eyes from the fire. "Do not speak… the poison has seeped into your nerves. Panic not—it will fade with time."
His tone was cold, detached, eyes fixed on the dancing flames.
The spiritualist picked up the pouch and looked at the boy with bewilderment. A hoarse, broken voice whispered:
"Wh… who… are you?"
The boy said nothing. He kept his head down, arms crossed as if shielding himself from a cold only he could feel.
The Perfumer closed his eyes, resting one arm behind his neck, and exhaled slowly.
"Right… you haven't met him yet. What was his name… Caro? Or Maro? Damn it… my memory fails at names. Hah… what's your name, boy? Remind me."
The child frowned, irritation clear in his voice:
"My name… is Kotaro. I've told you more than ten times."
He spoke with weight, a reluctant heaviness as if conversation itself were a burden.
The Perfumer paused, then said softly:
"Yes… Kotaro. You met him when I carried you on my back, after the boat… broke."
The spiritualist gasped, struggling to form the word:
"Br… broke?"
"Yes," the Perfumer replied, unwavering. "It broke."
A rasping sound escaped the spiritualist's throat as he tried to continue:
"Ah… ah…"
But before he could speak further, a sharp pain surged through his chest, like an invisible hand pressing against his heart. A sudden weight pressed on his mouth, his tongue heavy and stiff, a fiery sting climbing his throat, forcing him back.
The Perfumer observed quietly, voice calm and void of sympathy:
"Do not strain yourself. Speak, and the pain will worsen. Rest now. We will talk in the morning."
The spiritualist could not reply. His mind churned with questions, none finding release. Fatigue, the creeping poison in his nerves, the biting cold—they all dragged his body into quiet surrender.
He lay down beside the tree trunk, heavy breaths misting the night air, eyes closed in the darkness—not sleep, but a temporary escape from pain.
After some time, the Perfumer remained seated, staring into the fire, his thoughts drifting through the flames and the shadows. He watched the boy, replaying the morning's events in his mind.
By the iron gate of the marketplace, the Perfumer had carried the spiritualist on his back, surrounded by the wary gazes and whispered murmurs of passersby, falling like feathers across the silence. Eyes followed his every move, especially after collecting the reward. Among the shifting shadows, he spotted the same boy—the one who had stolen money on his first day in the village. Time seemed to loop back, unchanged; the boy was the same, yet the world looked harsher and more unforgiving.
Suddenly, he saw the boy fall to the ground, beaten relentlessly by the thick stick, his arms flailing, his body trembling under the strikes. Each impact seemed to pierce the silence, pressing against the Perfumer's chest, filling him with quiet shock and suppressed fear.
With a swift, instinctive motion, the Perfumer set the spiritualist down. Time seemed to slow, letting him see every gaze and whisper around him. His heart pounded as the scene unfolded—the boy's lost innocence washing over him.
Before the final blow landed, a slender hand darted out, catching the stick mid-air.
He lifted his eyes and saw a young man in ragged clothes, standing firmly. His calm eyes belied the iron strength in his grip.
"What are you doing? Have you lost your mind? You're hitting a boy!" the Perfumer shouted.
The man yanked the stick back, voice sharp:
"What's it to you? This isn't your business… unless you are responsible for him."
Without hesitation, the Perfumer's tone remained steady:
"Yes, I am responsible. Say what you will—but do not lay a hand on this boy again."
"This boy stole my money!" the man shouted.
The Perfumer turned to the boy, seeing blood running from his nose, his face etched with pain and fear.
Speaking quietly, his anger barely restrained, the Perfumer addressed the man:
"If this is about money… take it. But before you raise your hand against a child, think carefully—what is money compared to a young soul? Nothing. You do not know what he faces, nor what drove him to steal. You could have reclaimed your loss with words, or simply raised your voice… but hitting? That is weakness, not strength."
The Perfumer drew a small pouch from his pocket, handing over the money. The man left, muttering incoherently, while the Perfumer leaned back, turning to the boy, who still stared at the ground.
"What do you want exactly? Didn't I give you enough money last time to last a month? Why steal now? Was your money taken, or is there another reason?"
The boy glared, sharp and defiant:
"You gave me money… it's not enough!"
The Perfumer thought to himself: I could have sworn I gave him enough for at least two months… Then, softly, with a trace of weariness:
"Very well… how much do you need?"
The boy raised a finger without hesitation:
"I need enough… to travel north. At least a million yen."
The Perfumer's eyes widened:
"A million yen?! That could keep you alive for two years or more! Why do you want such a sum? Is there family waiting for you there?"
The boy lowered his head, avoiding eye contact:
"If I tell you… will you give me the money?"
"I will," the Perfumer replied. "Tell me first."
The boy's voice dropped, broken:
"I want to travel… to see my father. He left my mother and me… before I was born."
The Perfumer studied him for a long moment. "You want to see your father… and your mother? Will you leave her behind?"
The boy's voice was soft, sad:
"She… is gone."
Silence fell. The Perfumer leaned closer, eyes serious:
"And your father?"
"In the northern lands… they say he lives there," the boy replied quietly.
"And if he does not want you? If he has married, forgotten… have you thought of that?" the Perfumer asked.
the boy pressed his lips together, his voice tight :
"If he does not want me… maybe my grandparents want me!"
"Do you know them?" the Perfumer asked calmly.
"No," the boy said coldly.
"And if they are dead? Or were never there?"
"I know they are… by his side!" the boy shouted, tears brimming.
The Perfumer leaned closer, voice soft, serious:
"And what if none of them want you?"
The boy could not answer; tears stifled him, his tongue heavy with words unspoken.
The air around them grew dense, as if the earth itself had stopped breathing.
The Perfumer exhaled quietly, muttering:
"Damn… I've always been clumsy with children."
He gently placed his hand on the boy's head:
"Calm… I did not mean to hurt you. I was only… weighing the possibilities. Perhaps… he will be glad to see you."
"But you said he does not want me!" the boy cried.
"I said perhaps… no one truly knows what will happen," the Perfumer replied calmly.
After a moment, the boy whispered, sorrowful:
"If he does not want me… why leave me at all?"
The Perfumer shivered briefly, then said softly:
"I will take you to him… and if he refuses… I will try to find your grandfather's home."
The boy's sobs gradually faded until silence claimed him. From that moment, no word escaped—words themselves seemed too heavy to bear. The Perfumer realized the truth had not only pained him but exhausted him… this cruel world had left no space for more speech.
His thoughts drifted back to the fire under the moonlight.
How can someone abandon their child… leave him in an unforgiving world… and walk on as if no bond ever existed?
In the boy, he saw fragments of his lost self, shards of longing he had once despised. Now, unknowingly, that longing had hardened into a quiet bitterness, a hidden anger deep in his chest.
A calm, steady voice interrupted his thoughts:
"Merchant… are you all right?"
He snapped from his reverie, a faint shiver running through his chest.
He smiled slowly, letting tranquility flow through him, steady despite the turmoil within.
"Come closer to the fire," he murmured, eyes on the flames. "Aren't you cold there?"
Silence hung for a while; the boy did not respond. Slowly, he approached and sat by the fire, letting its warmth wash over him, indifferent to the rising flames.
The scent of burning wood curled into the night air, mingling with the faint whisper of the wind through the trees. Each crackle of the fire seemed to echo softly in the darkness, wrapping them in a fragile cocoon of warmth.
Dark, heavy silence enveloped them. The distant cawing of crows circled the area, a subtle warning, while the fire's warmth cocooned them.
The boy whispered, not lifting his eyes:
"Have… you ever… lost someone?"
The Perfumer paused, as if the question had not been directed at him… yet it had.
"My father… was killed defending land that was not his. Forced to fight, to protect something he did not choose."
He stared into the fire, continuing softly:
"The last time I saw him… he stood at the threshold of his home. I did not bid him farewell. I saw goodbyes as wasteful, confident I would see him in the morning… that he would return as always."
He drew a slow breath:
"But he did not return that day."
Silence followed before he added:
"That was the first time I asked myself… what it means to truly lose someone. I thought you only mourn what you love… and I did not think I loved my father."
He clenched his fist, adding:
"He forced me to work with him day and night, without rest. I labored… he was sick, incapable of caring for himself. I bore it all, believing illness was no excuse to shoulder the family alone."
A pause, then softly:
"And I wondered… if I fell ill, lost an arm or leg… became useless… would they abandon me, as I had abandoned him in my heart?"
"Yet… when I learned of his death, tears fell without warning. It was as if part of my soul died with him."
He paused again, voice low:
"Did I love my father? I do not know… but a part of me vanished with his departure."
The boy remained silent, face etched with turmoil. He tried to speak but could not.
The Perfumer continued, quieter now, as if addressing himself more than anyone else:
"The world… does not leave us empty forever."
He lifted his eyes to the flames:
"Two years after his death, I met a man I considered a father. He did not restore what I had lost… but he taught me that loss does not mean the end."
Then, in a calm, pained tone:
"In this unfair life, recompense does not come as we wish, nor when we expect… but sometimes, it arrives, disguised. And when we notice, we realize it kept us standing."
The boy remained silent, a faint light in his eyes, looking at the Perfumer. His words unsettled him—not due to misunderstanding, but because they touched a place he had never dared approach.
After a moment, the Perfumer said softly:
"Go to sleep… aren't you tired?"
The boy shook his head, weakly determined:
"No… I'll stay. I'll watch with you."
The Perfumer said nothing, just a faint smile forming in the firelight.
Time drifted slowly. The night calmed, forest sounds faded, and the warmth of the fire wrapped the place like an invisible blanket.
The boy felt heaviness in his eyelids. The crows' cries vanished, fear dissolved, as if sleep came not to take him… but to protect him.
He leaned slightly, surrendering, and sank into a deep sleep—for the first time in a long while.