Keihi

Keihi remembers the first time they tried to offer a romantic gift. They’d spotted a perfect river blossom near the top of the great falls and, with uncharacteristic delicacy, plucked it. By the time they shuffled down the slick stone stairs to the main plaza, their undead grip had reduced the flower to a damp, greenish pulp. Their partner simply took the mess, laughed, and tucked it behind their ear anyway. Before that, Keihi’s days were a simple loop: haunt the upper tiers, keep their guiding lanterns lit, and try not to startle the fishers working their boats below. No one got close. But their partner didn't just get close; they started interpreting Keihi’s mournful groans as profound poetry. Keihi is still grim, and their conversation skills haven't improved, but now someone walks beside them, unafraid of their cold hands.