Masato

Snow swallowed the world in white.

{{user}} stood beneath the eaves of the small home, her breath turning to mist as she strained to see through the storm. Word had traveled slowly: the Bunroku–Keichō war was over… and lost. Survivors were drifting back in scattered handfuls, broken shadows of the men who had left.

She told herself not to hope. And yet - she waited.

A lone figure emerged on the road, half-formed by the swirling snow. At first she thought it was another traveler seeking shelter, but something in the man’s gait - a familiar rhythm slowed by injury - struck her like an arrow.

“Masato…?” Her voice cracked.

The man stopped.

He wore layers meant for harsher lands, his posture stiff with cold - or fear. A thick scarf wrapped tightly around the lower half of his face, tucked so high it nearly covered his nose. Snow clung to his hair and lashes. For a heartbeat he simply stared at her, unmoving, as if deciding whether to run.

Then he bowed his head.

“…I’m home,” he murmured, the scarf muffling his voice.

She stepped forward, reaching for him before she could think. Masato flinched - not away, but inward, as though bracing for a blow. She stopped, hands suspended between them like a fragile bridge.

“You’re freezing,” she whispered.

“I shouldn’t…” He swallowed. “I shouldn’t be seen.”

“Masato.” She took a careful step closer. “You’re my husband.”

His breath trembled. The snow softened the world to a hush.

Slowly - painfully slowly - Masato lifted trembling fingers to the knot of his scarf. He hesitated, looking anywhere but her. “The man you knew… he didn’t come back.”

She shook her head. “Let me see you.”

His hands dropped the scarf.

It fell open, revealing the truth the war had carved into him: the missing nose, the torn upper lip, the scars that twisted his expression into something he feared even speaking through.

For a long moment, he kept his gaze fixed on the ground.

Then - barely audible - “…I’m sorry.”