It was morning.

  The campfire was smaller than it had been at night, its flame pale.

  The branches burned through during the night had mostly turned to charcoal, and the fire held only the minimum heat necessary.

  Morning in the forest was noisier than Kei had expected.

  Leaves brushing against each other.

  The distant flutter of birds hopping somewhere unseen.

  The faint sound of feet pressing into damp earth.

  All of it layered together, flowing without interruption.

  Kei Mochizuki sat on the ground, letting those sounds surround him.

  Morning in the city had been arranged.

  Frequencies that provoked anxiety were trimmed away.

  Noise was pushed to a distance.

  Only the stimulation necessary for waking was allowed to remain.

  Here, nothing was filtered.

  Sound existed simply as sound.

  Inside the pot was nothing more than water with pieces of the beast they had killed yesterday, chopped and boiled.

  No herbs.

  No salt.

  When he took a mouthful, the taste was thin, yet the animal fat lingered on his tongue.

  Each bite caught fibrous strands between his teeth, forcing him to chew harder than he was used to.

  The girl silently held out a bowl.

  For a moment, Kei hesitated.

  Accepting what was offered here felt like it might mean agreement.

  Still, he took it.

  “…Thank you for the food.”

  Only after saying it did he realize it was a phrase unnecessary here.

  No one was reassured by it.

  No one’s safety depended on those words.

  The girl gave no reply.

  She took her own bowl and sipped the broth without comment.

  “…Is morning dangerous too?”

  Kei asked, almost as if the thought had simply slipped out.

  “Always.”

  The girl answered immediately.

  “Even when you’re asleep?”

  “We sleep.”

  “…Safely?”

  The girl tilted her head just slightly.

  “We close our eyes.”

  That was all.

  Kei let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

  In the city, whether one could “sleep safely” was guaranteed.

  Sleep quality was measured.

  Nightmares were predicted.

  Awakenings were optimized.

  Here, there was only sleeping.

  Between closing one’s eyes and opening them again, there was no guarantee at all.

  “…Have you been here long?”

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  Kei asked while staring at the fire.

  “Here.”

  “Ten years.”

  The answer was short.

  Kei held his breath.

  Ten years.

  Almost the same length of time since his daughter had been born.

  “…From the beginning?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “I had a home.”

  The way she said it carried the faintest weight.

  “I left.”

  “…You were driven out?”

  She shook her head again.

  “By myself.”

  She said no more.

  But Kei understood.

  It wasn’t that she had been unable to return.

  She had chosen not to.

  That was how people spoke when they had decided not to go back.

  “…Why?”

  He wasn’t sure he had the right to ask.

  Yet he did.

  The girl finished the last of the broth in her bowl before answering.

  “Someone who understood…”

  A pause.

  “…went to the side that didn’t.”

  No name.

  No anger.

  No resentment.

  Only the quiet fact that the connection no longer existed.

  Kei didn’t push further.

  Instead, another sentence slipped out.

  “…I…”

  His voice was lower than he expected.

  “I have to go back.”

  The girl said nothing.

  “I have a daughter.”

  Those words came without hesitation.

  “Even if I think this place isn’t bad…”

  “…I still have to return.”

  By saying it out loud, he could feel that he was trying to convince himself.

  For an instant, another thought surfaced.

  —What if he didn’t have a daughter?

  —What if he could stay here?

  Kei crushed the thought immediately.

  The mere fact that it had appeared felt like betrayal.

  The girl spoke while still looking at the fire.

  “You’re someone who can go back.”

  It was a statement.

  Not praise.

  Not envy.

  “We…”

  She paused briefly before continuing.

  “…threw away the place we could return to.”

  Kei understood the weight of those words.

  They had thrown away what protected them.

  They had lost the reason to go back.

  And because of that, they could choose.

  That freedom was not light.

  It was the price for continuing to endure.

  The girl looked at him.

  “…You don’t have the resolve to lose it.”

  It wasn’t a denial.

  It wasn’t an accusation either.

  Only the confirmation of a fact.

  Kei immediately rejected it.

  “Of course not.”

  His voice grew slightly stronger.

  “No parent can abandon their own child.”

  Even as he said it, he realized it sounded less like an argument and more like a prayer.

  “Protecting them is what a parent does.”

  “The idea of being ready to abandon them… shouldn’t even exist.”

  The fire cracked softly.

  The girl did not answer at once.

  She stirred the last of the broth at the bottom of her bowl.

  It wasn’t quite thinking.

  It was more like tracing an old memory.

  “…I thought that too.”

  Kei raised his head.

  “When my mother died.”

  Her voice was flat.

  Not emotionless.

  Just worn smooth.

  “At first, I thought it was an accident.”

  “Then I thought it was an illness.”

  If there was a reason, perhaps it would be easier to accept.

  If there was a reason, maybe feelings would eventually catch up.

  “Finally…”

  She paused briefly.

  “…I thought she abandoned me.”

  Kei swallowed.

  “…Abandoned you?”

  “Yeah.”

  The girl stared into the fire.

  “I didn’t feel protected.”

  “There was no explanation.”

  “One day she was just gone.”

  “Whether I’d been safe.”

  “Whether I’d been protected.”

  “All I could do was think about it afterward.”

  She continued quietly.

  “That’s why the word ‘protect’…”

  “…belongs to the one who remains.”

  Kei fell silent.

  “The one who disappears…”

  “…doesn’t explain why they couldn’t protect you.”

  “And if you’re left behind without an explanation…”

  “…a child has to create the meaning themselves.”

  The fire flickered.

  “I couldn’t believe I was protected.”

  “It was easier…”

  “…to believe I had been abandoned.”

  Kei felt something tighten deep inside his chest.

  “…Even so…”

  He forced the words out.

  “Even so, parents…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “You…”

  The girl cut him off gently.

  “You can still go back.”

  “Your daughter is waiting.”

  A pause.

  “I’m not saying I’m jealous.”

  Another pause.

  “That’s not it.”

  She continued while still watching the fire.

  “When people have a place they can return to…”

  “…they can’t really choose.”

  Kei stopped breathing for a moment.

  “Stay or go.”

  “The answer already exists before you even think about it.”

  After saying that, the girl paused again.

  “That’s not a bad thing.”

  “But—”

  Kei stared into the flames.

  Protecting someone.

  Not letting them choose.

  Never abandoning them.

  For the first time, he realized those things all stood along the same line.

  “…I…”

  His voice lowered.

  “I don’t want my daughter to go through the same thing.”

  “I don’t want her to think she was abandoned.”

  “…So I’ll go back.”

  It wasn’t a declaration of resolve.

  It was the confirmation of a restraint.

  The girl stayed silent for a while.

  Then she said simply:

  “That’s fine.”

  Neither approval nor rejection.

  “You…”

  The words were pared down to what remained.

  “…aren’t someone who stays here.”

  Kei let out a breath.

  He hadn’t been rejected.

  He simply hadn’t been accepted.

  And that was all right.

  The sound of the fire melted into the forest.

  That morning, Kei understood something clearly.

  He could not choose the forest.

  And the girl

  would never choose the city again.

  That difference alone

  was what separated them.