Mihoya

The lucky plant on Mihoya’s head was just a trembling sprout when they were given it, a parting gift from the community of outcasts Shokei-moji had gathered. Back then, they spent their days by the lower docks, watching fishing boats and feeling smaller than the great stone fish statue in the plaza far above. Years later, the plant’s roots clung tight as Mihoya scaled the city’s treacherous rock stairs in a downpour, backpack heavy with supplies and a carton of strawberry milk their only luxury. These days, the plant is lush and green, and Mihoya pores over maps near the constant roar of the falls, their intense eyes tracing paths to lands no one else has dared to chart. They no longer feel small; the world does.