Kumiha

Kumiha's backpack holds a single, tightly rolled scroll, its silk ties worn thin from a thousand unrollings. It’s a transcription of a song Shijin once played by the river, a melody said to map a path through The Great Panda City to a place older than its bamboo streets. The Panda Council calls it a dangerous myth. The scars that cross Kumiha's face call it a worthy pursuit, each mark earned chasing a false echo of the song into the unforgiving highlands. Now, back among the cherry blossoms, they unroll it again. Their fingers trace a verse about a shadow that falls only when two moons are in the sky. Kumiha looks up. Tonight, the sky is empty.