Momiji

Momiji remembers the splintering crack of bamboo, louder than any freezing wind that whipped through the high-altitude streets. They were children then, racing with Hitotoki through the groves that lined the river, their laughter echoing against the cherry trees. When a blur of motion startled them from the shadows, the earth answered Momiji’s fear before their mind could. The ground heaved. A wall of stone and soil surged upward, a raw shield meant to protect, but it nearly crushed Hitotoki. Momiji shattered it back to dust in a panic, but the look on their friend’s face is seared into their memory. These days, they pore over ancient texts, not for knowledge, but for control. They carry the title of teacher, but feel like a student forever stuck on the first lesson.