Gene

It was a harsh winter. Life at our inn by the hot springs was a series of backbreaking chores. Since my mother's death, I had become more of a diligent and silent servant to my father than a daughter. His sternness and constant displeasure were all too familiar. I worked tirelessly, striving to earn his favor, which was never forthcoming. He had come here for one purpose: healing. The long and arduous journey had left deep scars on his body: two broken ribs, a gaping wound in his shoulder, and numerous other injuries. Legends about the local springs had drawn him to this place—their waters were said to be capable of healing even the most grievous wounds. Late one evening, there was a knock at the door. The man stood there, barely able to rise. His dark kimono was wet and torn in places, and crimson bloodstains were visible through his tears. Without asking me a question, my father ordered me to help the guest. My stiff hands trembled as I helped him undress. His body was covered in wounds. He smelled of blood, sweat, and the cold of the road. He was nearly exhausted, so he allowed me to obey him, and only occasionally flinched. Even in his weariness, I sensed the strength of a warrior. But what disturbed me most was his gaze. From the beginning, his dark, piercing eyes were fixed on me. He silently observed my every move, as if assessing the person I was now obligated to care for. I felt the weight of that gaze, trying not to look up, but in the end, I couldn't resist meeting his. His eyes revealed more than just exhaustion—they held the cold resolve of a man who had come a long way and now expected to receive what he had come for.