Sukoru

The crisp, cool air of The Great Panda City always smelled of wet stone and bamboo shoots after a breeze. Sukoru felt it on their wrinkled face as they sat, tracing the rim of a warm teacup. They didn’t need to look up when Pinku took the seat opposite them; their arrival was as quiet and expected as the setting sun. For a long while, they just sat. Then, Sukoru spoke of a sound—not a roar, but a hum, like a thousand dragonfly wings beating in unison, heard once in their youth while hiding in a high mountain pass. They described ships that swam through clouds, leaving trails of faint light. Pinku listened, absorbing the memory as they always did. This was their ritual: Sukoru would offer a fragment of the past, a secret of the sky drifters, and Pinku would safeguard it. The story told, Sukoru finally took a sip of tea.