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Matsurize ate quietly for a while, head down, until every crumb on the table was gone.
Ayane had prepared plenty — enough that, for once, he didn't finish still hungry.
When he finally looked up, he noticed her eyes fixed on him again.
"Uh, Ayane," he said hesitantly, "why aren't you eating? Why are you staring at me like that? Do I have dirt on my face?"
He patted his cheeks a few times, trying to brush away something invisible.
Ayane couldn't help but laugh.
He looked so awkwardly earnest that she almost melted on the spot.
"Alright, alright," she said with a grin, "stop fussing. Eat before it gets cold."
She joined him, and the two ate together — a simple, peaceful breakfast that somehow felt warmer than it had any right to.
When they were done, Ayane pushed back her chair and stood.
She gave Matsurize a little nudge toward the kitchen sink.
"Ze," she said with mock sternness, "from now on, we follow house rules. I cook, you wash the dishes. That's called teamwork — got it?"
Ze blinked, then nodded obediently. "Got it."
Ayane picked up a small bowl to show him how to clean it properly, explaining each motion slowly and clearly.
Ze followed along, his movements clumsy but improving fast.
She watched him work — focused, serious, eager to learn — and couldn't help but smile.
Maybe this wasn't so bad.
Maybe having him here made the house a little less lonely.
Since the day Matsurize had lost his memory, Ayane hadn't once said anything about sending him away… nor about keeping him forever.
But her heart had quietly decided already.
She thought back to her joke with Uncle Ben yesterday — about taking Matsurize in as a blacksmith apprentice.
Now that she looked him over more carefully — his tall frame, the shape of his hands — she realized he actually had the makings of one.
She remembered the villagers' tools: hoes, sickles, kitchen knives — all forged by her own hands.
It had been a while since she'd reforged the village's supply of kitchen knives, and they were probably starting to dull.
Perfect, she thought. I can make a new batch… and maybe test whether Matsurize's cut out for the forge.
Her mind made up, Ayane moved quickly.
While Matsurize quietly finished washing up, she'd already stepped out of the kitchen and into the blacksmith's workshop across the courtyard.
Naturally, Matsurize followed her — like a shadow drawn by instinct.
The forge room smelled of iron and pine.
The furnace was already packed with pine charcoal, still smoldering faintly. This wasn't ordinary fuel — it was a family secret, made from fallen pine branches mixed with ingredients only her clan knew.
Beneath the furnace sat a heavy bellows — part hand-pumped, part foot-treadle — a contraption Ayane usually operated alone.
It was backbreaking work, requiring both strength and rhythm: one hand on the hammer, one foot pumping air to keep the flames alive.
She turned toward Matsurize and said,
"Alright, Ze, today you'll learn how to work the bellows. Watch closely."
She demonstrated once — the push, the pull, the timing.
Then handed the handle to him.
Normally, she wouldn't expect much from someone who'd lost their memory — not with coordination, not with strength, not with focus.
But Matsurize was different.
In just one morning, Ayane had already seen that he learned fast — too fast.
He could memorize steps after one explanation, adapt them instantly, even refine them on his own.
It made her chest tighten a little. Just who were you before you lost your memory?
"Start," she ordered gently.
Matsurize gripped the handle and began pumping.
The furnace roared to life, flames swelling into bright orange tongues.
Ten minutes later, sweat soaked through his shirt, and his breathing came in ragged bursts.
The pine charcoal glowed red-hot — but the iron ore inside hadn't yet turned.
Ayane frowned slightly. His technique was fine — his stamina wasn't.
Well, of course, she thought. He's still skin and bones. No wonder he's struggling.
But she didn't stop him.
She knew he had enough strength to endure — and more importantly, she could see it in his eyes: he wanted to.
Another twenty minutes passed.
Finally, the iron turned cherry-red.
Ayane nodded. "Enough. Rest a bit. Watch how it's done."
Matsurize dropped the handle, exhaled deeply, and leaned against the side of the forge, chest rising and falling heavily.
Ayane smiled faintly at the sight — sweat-soaked, exhausted, but determined.
She picked up a pair of iron tongs, reached into the blazing furnace, and pulled out the glowing ore.
She placed it on a massive black anvil — a block of stone so worn it was covered in old hammer marks, some faded with time, others still sharp and recent.
That anvil had served her family for generations.
Every blade, every tool, every masterpiece had been born on that stone.
Ayane lifted her hammer — a monstrous piece of metal that looked absurdly large in her slender hands.
Matsurize blinked in disbelief. The hammer's shaft was as thick as her forearm, the head nearly the size of his own skull — and yet, she lifted it with ease.
Then came the rhythm.
"Bang. Bang. Bang."
The blows fell with perfect timing — like a heartbeat, like music.
The ringing echoed through the forge, sharp and powerful, sparks dancing with every strike.
Matsurize found himself unconsciously nodding along to the beat.
Ayane worked for a while longer before swapping the iron out with her tongs again.
When she returned to the furnace, she glanced at him and smiled.
"Alright, Ze," she said softly. "Back to work."
And without complaint, Matsurize bent down again — hands gripping the bellows, eyes bright with purpose.