Hariko

The scent of cherry blossoms and river water always gets stronger when Hariko is near. The children who play by the bamboo-lined streets of The Great Panda City have a hundred stories about them. They say Hariko’s mask isn’t to hide a scar, but to keep the starlight in their eyes from spilling out and getting lost in the daylight. Hariko never speaks, just casts their line into the river, patient as a heron. They don't seem to be fishing for fish, but for secrets—a lost trinket, a smooth stone, a waterlogged prayer tag. Whatever they pull from the depths, they examine with a quiet intensity before letting it go. We don't know where they came from, only that the city feels a little dreamier when they visit.