Dusk fell rapidly, and with it, the winds began to howl around the cottage like hungry wolves. Inside the room, Amisa stood by the window, wiping the condensation off the glass every minute, her eyes fixed on the darkness that had swallowed the path leading to the forest.
"Mother, Yujiro is very late..." Shin said, pulling his little brother, Taki, closer. The excitement in his voice had died out, replaced by a stifled fear.
Amisa didn't answer; her hands trembled as she clutched her shawl. The hearth began to fade, leaving nothing but dying embers—much like the hope eroding in her chest. Suddenly, a sharp cough echoed from the corner. It was the father, summoning his remaining strength to lean on his arm.
"Where... where is Yujiro?" the father asked in a raspy voice.
Flustered, Amisa rushed to his side. "He went out to fetch firewood; he'll be back shortly. Lie down, Kenji, you are still—"
"He is late..." Kenji interrupted with a firm tone that hadn't lost its prestige despite his illness. He pushed aside the heavy blankets with clear effort and tried to stand. His body swayed for a moment, but he propped himself against the wall.
"Kenji, no! The forest at this time is suicide, and you can barely breathe!" Amisa cried out, trying to stop him. But he gently pushed her hand away and moved toward the old wooden chest beneath the bed. He opened it and pulled out a long sword; its scabbard was covered in worn leather, but when he drew the blade slightly, it still held the glint of death.
"My son is out there, Amisa... and there is no disease in this world more lethal than my heart should any harm befall him."
Kenji stepped out into the storm, ignoring his wife's pleas and his children's cries. In the forest, the snow reached his knees, and every breath he took felt like a dagger's thrust into his ailing chest.
"Yujiro! Yujiro!"
He screamed with all his might, but his voice dissipated amidst the roar of the wind. He walked for several minutes until he reached a scattered clearing. There, he saw Yujiro's axe lying in the snow, next to strange footprints that did not belong to his son.
"Yuji—"
The word caught in his throat. He felt a sudden chill behind his neck—a coldness that did not come from the snow.
He spun around quickly, brandishing his sword, only to find a stranger before him. A man wearing a solid black mask that covered his entire face, with no holes even for eyes. He wore a dark cloak billowing behind him, and in his hand, he gripped a massive black scythe, its blade resembling a crescent from hell.
"Where is my son?" Kenji roared, lunging in a desperate strike.
Kenji had been a master hunter, but the illness had robbed him of his speed. The masked figure didn't move until the very last second; with a swift, almost invisible motion, he parried the sword and swung his black scythe through the air.
There was no sound but the hiss of metal slicing through flesh. The sword fell from Kenji's hand, and he stumbled back two steps, clutching his chest as crimson blood began to stain the white snow around him. He cast one final look at the black mask—a gaze of helplessness and agony—before his body collapsed onto the frozen ground.
The wielder of the scythe stood over the lifeless corpse for a few seconds, wiped the blade on the hem of his cloak, and vanished silently among the trees, leaving the forest to return to its heavy silence, while the name "Yujiro" was the last thing formed on the dying father's lips.