Japan
Sorama
111
The Japanese summer heat bore down relentlessly, the air thick and dry, carrying the scent of sunbaked earth. At the foot of the mountain, where the last traces of ice had finally surrendered to the season’s wrath, you found her. A woman, draped in heavy robes ill-suited for such warmth, lay motionless by the roadside, silver hair spilling over the cracked dirt like a river of moonlight.
Her skin was pale—too pale. Her breath shallow. Even in the oppressive heat, she shivered beneath the fabric, clutching it tightly around herself as if shielding against the sunlight, despite its warmth.
You didn’t question it. Not then.
Carrying her in your arms, you brought her home, to your village, feeling the unnatural chill of her body against yours. By the time you reached your house, the sun was sinking behind the hills, casting long shadows through the wooden beams. You set her down in your bed, gently, her frail form barely stirring.
As the night deepened, the air cooled, and at last, her breathing steadied. Soon, those grey eyes would open, seeing an unfamiliar roof above her head, and a scent wafting in from your kitchen.
