On the edge of a quiet village lived a small boy named Arashi. His hair was short, jet black; his body thin, yet filled with a determination that refused to break. He walked a life of simplicity—without luxury, without too many complaints.
Arashi never knew the figure of a father. Since the earliest memories he could recall, he lived with only his mother.
Every time he asked, his mother would just smile and change the topic—as if that story was either too far away, or too painful, to tell.
That emptiness created a silent hole in Arashi's heart, but it also shaped him into a child who learned independence quickly.
Still, his mother—a wise woman with a gentle smile—always taught him life lessons through simple, quiet moments.
Every evening, they would walk together to a hidden lake behind the hills: its water calm, surrounded by gently swaying reeds moved by the wind.
It was there that Arashi picked wild vegetables, learned to recognize the stars, and listened to tales that fueled his imagination.
Arashi's eyes—dark, clear—often reflected tranquility, though doubt frequently stirred deep within: "Who is my father? Why does Mother never talk about him?" But he hid that question, replacing it with a resolve to protect the only person he loved in this world.
That evening, they sat on the edge of the lake.
The rain had just stopped, leaving the smell of wet earth and ripples on the water's surface.
As Arashi picked a handful of greens, his mother stroked his hair and whispered: "Arashi, live like the plants by this lake."
Then his mother plucked a leaf, her fingers gentle but strong, and continued her advice.
"Sometimes we have to wait patiently to grow. Storms come, the water rises, roots get submerged—but as long as we hold fast and don't give up, we will keep on living."
"Don't be afraid of any storm, my child. Every hardship hides a beauty you'll find in its time."
Arashi gazed at the water reflecting the evening sky. He was still a child, but he understood: behind those gentle words, his mother hid courage.
And behind his own frail body, a small strength began to grow—born from the series of storms they had faced without shelter, from his mother's smile that never faded.
"We may be alone.
But we will never grow weary."
And at the silent edge of that lake—beneath the evening light, the wind, and the breath of hope—Arashi made a vow in his heart: one day, he would become a protector for the one he loved most.
One afternoon, Arashi's childhood friend came skipping down the path. She was always cheerful, with long violet hair that shimmered in the sunlight.
Her hair was neat, her movements graceful. Her slender figure and gentle smile always made her stand out among the other girls in the village.
Her beautiful eyes were full of kindness, and just by looking at her, Arashi often felt at peace.
Though she wore simple clothes, her presence radiated an unusual aura—as if she brought springtime wherever she went.
But there was something about her.
She was truly… mysterious.
Sometimes, behind her laughter and smiles, a brief emptiness would flash in her eyes—as if she remembered something far away, or hid a wound she couldn't share.
She never talked about her family. She never got angry. She never seemed truly sad.
And for Arashi, that was the most puzzling thing of all.
She was not just a cheerful girl.
She was a riddle who chose to remain a secret.
"Arashi, Mother, I brought some extra vegetables from my garden," she said, lifting her woven basket.
She always brought a little more to share—even when her own garden might not be enough.
That small kindness gave strength, and confirmed: beneath her mystery, her heart was as bright as her smile.
Arashi's mother smiled warmly. "Thank you, dear. You always come at just the right time."
Every time they gathered by the lake, Arashi's mother gave them wise advice about life and how to see the world with gratitude.
His friend always listened closely, and though Arashi was more reserved, he absorbed every word.
It wasn't rare for the three of them to laugh together beneath the fading sun.
But time never stops. The seasons changed—the green branches became bare, then bloomed again—and as the world turned, Arashi's mother grew weaker, while Arashi himself slowly left behind his childhood body.
Arashi's arms, once thin, grew strong from daily work; his steps became firmer; his mind matured faster than his age.
Each bucket of water, each bundle of straw he carried, made him tougher—though beneath that new strength, he was still just a child afraid of losing the one person he called home.
One quiet night, the wind slipped in through the cracks of their wooden house.
That night, the dim house was lit only by a trembling oil lamp. The only sounds were the crickets—and the labored breaths of a mother.
Arashi sat beside the frail bed, clutching his mother's hand. Fingers that had once been warm were now cold as morning dew.
Her gaze trembled, denying the reality that crept ever closer.
She smiled softly, still trying to comfort him—even as her flame grew dim.
She took a shallow breath and whispered, barely audible: "Arashi… be strong. This world… will be harsh to you.
And… please—look after her. She will need you… more than you can imagine."
Those words broke between gasps. Her smile faded, like the light of a lamp running out of oil. One final breath… and then silence.
Arashi held back his sobs, but his tears still fell, landing on the back of his mother's hand.
A suffocating silence filled the room.
The sliding door creaked open. His childhood friend stepped in without a sound. Seeing Arashi's frozen face, she immediately knelt and hugged him from behind—a warm embrace filled with sympathy.
It was in that embrace that Arashi's tears finally fell: in choked sobs, his shoulders shaking—as if the whole world sank with the fading lamp, leaving two children wrapped in grief and a mother's final promise.
Days after his mother's passing moved slowly. Arashi changed. He woke up earlier, worked harder. He started helping with any job in the village to earn money—hauling water, lifting harvests, repairing houses. He stopped crying, stopped complaining.
In his face, a new resolve shone.
One day, as he was helping build a fence for an old merchant, the man glanced toward Arashi's friend, who had brought him food.
"That's your pretty wife, huh?" joked the merchant, nudging Arashi. "How come I never see your in-laws?"
Arashi stayed silent. His smile was stiff. He just shook his head and kept working. But inside, those words lingered.
A few days later, a group of market women joined in.
"That girl gets prettier every day, like a noble," said one, smiling.
"True!" replied another. "But she's always with that ragged boy. She could get someone much better if she wanted…"
Arashi, who overheard by accident, just looked down and pretended not to care. But his ears burned.
Each word stung—not because they were insults, but because he knew… maybe they were right.
From then on, Arashi became more aware: she wasn't just the cheerful girl who was always by his side. He began to see her with new eyes—the eyes of a young man who knew the world would never easily accept them together.
The next afternoon, dark clouds covered the sky. Arashi and his friend sat by the lake, as usual.
But this time, it felt different.
No jokes. No laughter. Only the sound of water lapping at the stones.
Arashi sometimes glanced at her, but never dared to look for long.
She was quiet, her gaze distant—lost somewhere at the edge of the lake, or perhaps deep inside her own heart.
As the tension pressed between them, she finally spoke.
"Arashi?" her voice soft, waiting.
Arashi didn't answer right away. He plucked at some grass by his feet—then tossed it back into the water.
After a long breath, he spoke, his voice calm but troubled: "I know this sounds strange… but from now on, could you not go anywhere alone?"
She frowned softly. "What do you mean?"
Arashi swallowed. He didn't look at her, just at the rippling water.
"It's not about them… not because you're pretty, or because they talk about us." His voice grew heavier. "It's just… I'm just afraid one day you'll disappear. And I won't be able to find you. I only have one person who matters in my life."
Slowly, he turned. His eyes met hers—there were no tears, but they were deep, filled with a fear he never dared to say out loud.
"It's you. And if you leave… I don't think I could keep going like this."
She stayed silent for a moment, looking at his face, seeing the fear he wouldn't say aloud.
Then, she laughed softly—a gentle sound that broke the heavy air between them.
She shifted a little, leaning gently on Arashi's shoulder.
"Alright… as long as you'll still sit here with me," she said with a small smile, "I'll be your loyal listener, Mister Protector."
Then, quietly, she added: "You know, Arashi… I'm not here because you told me not to go anywhere. I'm here because I know I need someone who won't ever leave."
She looked out at the lake. "And I decided long ago. That person… is you."
Arashi gazed at her with feelings he couldn't explain.
In the now silent home, the seasons kept changing, and neighbors' whispers sometimes stung—but one thing never changed:
She was always there.
Since his mother left, she was the one constant in Arashi's life—the reason he kept moving forward.