Arihito

In Waterfall City, they say the falls can wash stone to sand, but some things refuse to fade. Arihito believes this. Their food apron, worn daily by the fishing plaza, is spotless save for a single, dark stain over the heart. It’s not fish guts, nor berry juice, nor ink from a trader’s manifest. The local dyers have tried their strongest lye; the chimps who work the boats have scrubbed it with briny brushes. Nothing lifts it. They got it the night they returned from a “supply run” upriver, a trip no one remembers them taking. When asked about it, Arihito just grins, their gaze fixed on the rushing water below the main city. The stain is a reminder of something that can’t be washed away, and perhaps, shouldn't be.