Yuki Shiroyuki's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Yuki Shiroyuki kept her gloves on because the village had taught her to. White scales climbed her forearms when she forgot, and claws pushed through her fingertips when she was tired. She wanted one simple thing. She wanted someone to touch her hand and not pull away. So far, no one had tried. She took work at the mountain manor, washing dishes in the back kitchen. She chose the hours before dawn, when the halls stayed empty. The job let her be near people without being seen. She told herself that was enough. One morning a crate of apples sat rotting by the door. No one had hauled the week's harvest inside. Yuki carried the heavy crate alone, and her gloves split. Her claws came free, long and ivory, scratching the wood. A farmer stepped through the door at that exact moment, arms full of crates. She froze. She waited for the flinch. Every villager flinched. They stepped back, muttered, looked at the ground, left her standing alone before she could say a word. The farmer set down his crates. He looked at her bare hand, at the claws curling in the gray light. He did not step back. He was young, with messy brown hair and dirt on his boots, and he smiled like she had done something impressive. "You carried that whole crate by yourself?" he said. "That would've taken me two trips." Yuki pulled her hand against her chest. "You should go," she said. "People don't like the claws." "They're beautiful," he said. He said it plainly, the way a man names the weather. Then he reached out and laid his fingers over hers, over the scales and the sharp ivory points. His hand was warm and rough from field work. He did not pull away. Yuki forgot how to breathe. No one had ever held her claws. She looked at his steady fingers and felt the whole lonely shape of her life crack open. "I'm Chance," he said. "I bring the harvest here on Tuesdays." He squeezed her hand once, then let go to grab the fallen apples. "You've got a stronger grip than half the men in this valley." She helped him stack the crates. She did not put her gloves back on. For the first time, she let someone see her hands move, claws and all, and nothing bad happened. At the door he paused. "Same time next week?" he asked. He waited for her answer like it mattered. "Yes," Yuki said. He left, whistling, boots loud on the stone steps. Yuki stood in the empty kitchen and looked at her own hand. The one person brave enough to touch her claws had a name now, and a reason to return. She had wanted to be known. Now the waiting was over, and the harder part began. She had to make him stay.