𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 || 𝐒.𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 | 𝐍.𝐙𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 : 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

✩ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 : 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 ✩

"𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓫𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓾𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝔂 𝓼𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶, 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓲𝓽 𝓱𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓱."

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Rain falls on the land of sorcerers. A fine, endless drizzle, clinging to the ceramic tiles like a hand gripping the threshold of life. Between the stones of temples and lacquered wooden screens, it flows in silent rivulets, carving paths in the mud where the sandals of masters and servants alike leave their imprints.

In the shadow of the great clans—Gojo, Zenin, Kamo—others lurk. Names no one speaks aloud, families whose histories are nothing but debts contracted long before their birth. They have no glorious ancestors, no divine bloodlines, only a duty carved into their bones: to serve. To serve until their flesh crumbles, until their breath is no more than a whisper drowned beneath the sliding doors of forgotten shrines.

The village has no name. It is a fold in the map, an in-between place, a parasitic outgrowth of jujutsu society. Here, only daughters are kept. They are shaped like clay beneath a potter's hands—pliant, silent, impeccable. They are taught to exist without taking up space, to breathe without disturbing the air.

And then, sometimes, one of them disappears.

The masters come, they choose, and the child leaves. Her shadow fades from the paper screens, her scent dissolves into the rain. No one speaks her name. No one asks where she has gone.

⸻

Beneath the porch of a moss-eaten temple, a child sleeps. Her orange kimono—too bright for this world of silence—sprawls over the wooden floorboards, stained with damp and dried mud. Her long, black hair clings to her cheek. She does not dream. No one here does.

The rain falls. The pale light carves her frail body like a specter trapped in daylight.

Then, pressure.

Rough, insistent. Something warm scrapes against her skin. The scent of damp cloth, the acrid taste of wood against her lips.

— Get up, Mute.

The voice snaps, cold, devoid of patience. A woman stands over her, a bare foot pressed against her cheek, forcing her out of sleep. A chuckle. A larger shadow approaches, carrying the scent of cold tea and linen washed in ash.

— Still here, like a stray cat...

The pressure lingers, then releases. The Mute does not flinch. Slowly, she sits up, her kimono slipping from her shoulder, revealing the sharp curve of her collarbone. Her gaze remains fixed on the floor, as it should.

— You have chores.

That is all they leave her. Orders. Tasks. Cleaning the shrines, erasing the footprints, making the presence of others invisible.

The Mute rises. Her bare feet touch the frozen wood. She says nothing.

She never does.

The rain intensifies, its rhythm pounding against the roof like an unrelenting drum, a brutal lullaby that drowns the sorrows of the world. From her place by the small window, a shard of her soul presses against the damp wood as she watches the world beyond. Her eyes, dark and empty, trace the fragile silhouettes of women moving in the temple courtyard, their forms caught between light and shadow, like spirits bound to the earth.

She watches them.

A young woman, still a girl, argues violently with another, older woman. The girl, her eyes red from crying, struggles to break free from the older woman's grasp, forcing her to look her in the eye. A cry tears through the heavy air, pure pain, a scream of rebellion and terror.

— I don't want to go. I don't want to...

The words slip out in a trembling breath, but the older woman's response is sharp like a blade, hard, uncompromising.

— You don't have a choice. It's for the good of the temple.

The girl's tears fall down her cheeks, the rain adding to their torrent. She screams, but her voice is smothered, drowned in the coldness of the world around her. She doesn't want this man, this stranger. She doesn't want him near her, to enter her. But the weight of centuries and tradition is heavier than her own flesh. She stands there, caught between shame and duty.

— You must leave.

She struggles, her skin marked by the tension of the fight, but the older woman pushes her firmly. Her body has already given in to the inevitable.

The Mute doesn't move, her eyes wide open, watching the scene with silent distress. Her breath becomes shorter, but she says nothing. She can say nothing. The world around her is a distant echo, a cruel melody that never reaches her.

Suddenly, a harsh voice, sharp, breaks the scene, shattering the quiet of the temple.

— Chihiro, stop eavesdropping!

The name, like a lash, makes the Mute flinch. Her eyes drop, ashamed to have been caught, but no excuse slips from her lips.

The voice continues, cold.

— Anyway, no one will ever want you. So you might as well do your job well here at the temple. You have delivery chores in the rain. And you'll go barefoot.

The command is given like a sentence. The Mute stays there, the weight of the words falling on her shoulders like a leaden burden. She could rise, but the moment is too heavy.

She turns, her thin silhouette sliding into the shadows, stepping away from the window like a shadow herself. The rain begins to fall harder, beating against her face, her bare arms, as cold as a winter's wind. But she walks. Always barefoot. Always in silence.