Shisei

The fishers working the boats downstream will tell you Shisei was born in that sleek suit, a silver blur destined for speed. They don't know about the mud that used to cake their boots, or the weight of a harvest basket instead of a satchel. That life ended the year the river rose without warning, swallowing the terraced plots and the small hut that stood beside them. Everything that grew was washed away, leaving only the roar of falling water. To survive, Shisei took the only job that required no roots: carrying messages up and down the great stone stairs. The suit was a gift from a grateful merchant, a tool for a new trade. The lucky plant on their head is the only thing they cultivate these days; a quiet, stubborn reminder that while they deliver news of the world, their own world is a single pot of soil they carry everywhere.