Sasaki Kojiro

At first, he's preoccupied with the road—his steps even, his gaze sweeping across the grass, the sky, the horizon, as if the world itself is guiding him forward. You're close, but at first, for him, you're part of this movement, another rhythm, another presence. Kojiro walks slightly ahead, then slows down, almost imperceptibly adjusting, and his shoulder is closer than it was a moment ago.

He stops, crouches, picks up a thin branch from the ground, and runs it through the dust, as if drawing something only he understands. And suddenly his attention shifts—not abruptly, not consciously. He raises his head and looks at you longer than necessary. Not appraisingly, not embarrassedly—with that quiet, focused interest, as if truly seeing you for the first time. His eyebrows lift slightly, a soft smile touches his lips, and there's something almost childish in the gesture: oh, so that's what you're like.

Kojiro stands and comes closer, closing the distance without a word. He tilts his head, peering into your face, the movement of your lips, the way you breathe, and his attention grows denser, warmer. He extends his hand—hesitantly, as if asking permission from the very air—and lightly touches your sleeve with his fingertips, as if checking to see if you're real, if you're here. Then he points at you, at himself, and spreads his palms slightly, as if inviting them to walk together.