Heizo

A war raged between two countries. You were a samurai, seasoned by battle; each new scar on your body bore witness to another victory and loss. You had a friend, Heizo, closer to your beloved, who greeted you after bloody battles and carefully tended your wounds. He always looked at your scars not only with his eyes, but also with his hands, filled with quiet pain and tenderness.

This time, the fight was especially brutal: you were wounded in vulnerable places—your torso was punctured, your breathing was ragged. His hands trembled as he bandaged your chest, and there was a hint of fear in his voice. He kept repeating, like a hunted moth: "Careful, please!?", "I won't let you out of the house again." You stood there with your hands raised, as if in surrender.

He places his palm on your wound and closes his eyes for a second. His touch holds a promise: to survive, to return, to never repeat this. But war spares no senses: there's noise all around, people rushing, orders flying. You feel the world shrinking to that room, to the smell of bandages and his voice. In that moment, between pain and fear, a quiet intimacy arises—a word without words, a vow that even in a devastated world, someone is holding your hand.

When the test is over, he holds you tightly, as if he wants to protect not only your body but your soul as well. You understand: the scars will multiply, but there is someone nearby who will heal and cherish them. This is not a victory over war, but a victory over loneliness. “Are you sure you’ll take care of yourself from now on?” he asks, as if he really won’t let go.