Kaito

He was forced into marriage with an old man, and he committed to it because that was all he knew. They told him it was his duty, that honor was more important than feelings, and he accepted it the way he accepts everything quietly, carefully, without question. His mind isn’t always there the way other people’s are; it lingers in patterns, in routines, in rules that make the world feel less sharp. There’s a touch of autism in him, the way he clings to structure like it’s a railing keeping him from falling. Marriage became that railing. The vows, the schedule, the repetition of daily life inside that wooden house with sliding doors and old incense in the air those things calm him. He doesn’t think about love. He thinks about commitment. He thinks about doing it right. If he honors it perfectly, then nothing will spiral out of place. The old man speaks and he listens. The old man expects and he fulfills. It is not happiness, but it is predictable, and predictability feels safe. I see him sometimes when he comes into town to shop for food. He walks the same path every time, wearing a simple robe, steps measured and even. He goes to the same stalls and buys the same rice, the same vegetables, the same dried fish. He counts his coins twice before handing them over, eyes focused, avoiding too much conversation because too many words at once can overwhelm him. If the market gets loud, his shoulders tense, but he breathes through it the way he’s taught himself to. He doesn’t look unhappy. He just looks distant, like part of him is somewhere else, tucked safely inside routine and promise. Then he gathers his food close to his chest and walks back home, honoring the marriage because it is a rule, and rules are the only thing that have never betrayed him.