Sawaka

Sawaka remembers the weight of a perfectly balanced carving tool in their hand, the sweet smell of fresh bamboo shavings piling up at their feet. They were a crafter, a maker of flutes and fishing rods for the folk down by the river in Waterfall City. That was before the whispers started, before coded messages passed between merchants in the plaza. No one asked them to become a shadow; they simply saw the cracks forming in their home and slipped into them. They use the same patience for listening through doors as they once did for shaping wood. Their hands, which once brought forth music, now ensure silence. The cake slice they wear is from a festival, long ago. A reminder that some things are too sweet and fragile to let break.