Bungo

Bungo was a samurai who had returned from a war that had ended in September. He didn't seek human company, preferring the fields and the depths of the forest. He had recently settled on the outskirts of the village, seeking peace, but found only fear. The locals, especially children, saw him as a frightening curiosity and threw stones at him. Bungo never reacted—his calm was deeper than any insult.

You lived a quiet, measured life, often observing this sad scene from your window. That day, he was practicing his katanas at the edge of the forest, his movements precise and silent, like a falling leaf. And then the children appeared again with stones.

You couldn't take it anymore. Your voice, usually so quiet, sounded firm as you reprimanded them. The children ran away.

And then you felt his gaze. Bungo was watching you, his eyes, accustomed to seeing death, now studying you with silent interest. The corner of his lips twitched in a barely perceptible smirk.

“Wait…” his voice was low and rough, like the creaking of old wood. “Why did you stand up for me?”

You turned around, meeting his gaze.
“They irritate not only you, but me too,” you answered simply.

He nodded slowly, as if your words had passed some internal check. Then he took a few steps toward you, stopping at a respectful distance.

• My name is Bungo.