But the children did not know the truth. They did not know that every night, when the rain stopped, a small, muddy hand would reach out from the puddle beside his wooden leg. Not to harm him. To hold his finger.
Kurogane wept. Then he smiled.
On the fourth night, the rain stopped. The moon came out. The small hand rose again, not muddy this time, but clean. Small. Real. gaki modotte
He never did.
But Kurogane could not move. Not because of his missing leg, but because the only way to return was to go where the boy was. Beneath the water. Into the flooded field. Into the moment he had chosen survival over love. But the children did not know the truth
Gaki modotte. This time, he did.
He took the hand.
The old man known as Kurogane sat alone in the rain, his spine curled like a broken branch. He had not moved in three days. The village children dared each other to throw pebbles near his feet. "Gaki modotte," they'd whisper. Return, brat. A cruel nickname for a cruel man.