By Year 40, my physical "hardware" was finally getting some much-needed patches. I was still small probably the runt of the village but I could finally walk on my own without sounding like a broken accordion every time I took a breath. Being mobile changed everything. For the first time, I wasn't just stuck in a playpen; I could actually see the world I'd been dropped into.
My daily commute hadn't changed much. Sharyu still took me to the workshop every morning. I had the route memorized: out of our stone-cave apartment, down the wind-beaten main road, through the narrow canyon with walls so high they blocked out half the sky, and finally into the oil-scented chaos of the repair bay. It was a lot of sand and a lot of beige.
But curiosity is a hell of a drug, and even after thirty years as a cynical engineer, I still had that itch to see what was behind the next door.
The chance came when Sharyu got called into an emergency meeting at Headquarters. He left me at the workshop gate with an old craftsman he trusted. The second the old guy turned his back to argue with a supply team, I made my move.
I wasn't actually trying to run away. It was this flower this tiny, stubborn purple blossom growing out of a crack in the rock. In a world of 99% yellow dust, a splash of purple is like a neon sign. I followed it on my short toddler legs, but the wind kept dancing it just out of reach.
Before I knew it, I'd wandered down a path I'd never noticed before. It was a steep, narrow trail that wound downward into a secluded pocket of the canyon. The noise of the village faded away, replaced by an eerie, heavy silence.
At the end of the path sat a temple.
It was ancient, built of rough stone that looked like it had been carved directly out of the cliffside. No fancy gold leaf, no statues just a weathered cloth curtain fluttering over the door. Something about the place felt... different. It wasn't the smell of grease or dust; it was a vibe of pure, unadulterated stillness.
I hesitated for a second, then figured, what the hell, and pushed the curtain aside.
The inside was dim and smelled like old incense. A single oil lamp flickered on an altar, casting a tiny circle of light. Sitting on a cushion in the center of that light was a man.
He was an old monk, his robes faded and patched a dozen times over. He wasn't chanting or praying; he was just sitting there, as still as the stone walls around him. He looked incredibly lonely, like a piece of furniture forgotten in a basement.
He sensed me and slowly turned his head. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, but his eyes were startlingly clear. They weren't the eyes of a senile old man; they were high-definition, sharp, and weirdly gentle.
"Well now," he said. His voice was raspy, like he hadn't used it in years, but it was kind. "Amitābha. Little one, how did you find your way into my corner of the world?"
I didn't feel any of the usual "stranger danger." There was a profound sense of peace coming off this guy.
"I got lost," I said, my voice sounding way too high and squeaky for my internal monologue.
The old monk smiled, and for a second, he looked decades younger. "Lost, or perhaps led? This place isn't exactly on the map. It seems you've got a bit of a connection with the Buddha, kid."
He gestured to a cushion next to him. "Come in. The sand's blowing pretty hard outside; stay a while."
I sat down, my tiny body sinking into the old fabric. "My name's Sayo."
"Bunpuku," he replied gently.
As I sat there, my engineer brain started scanning the room. That's when I saw them. Peeking out from under his sleeves and the hem of his robe were metal shackles. They were thin, custom-made, and bolted to chains that disappeared straight into the rock floor.
My heart did a little double-take. Imprisoned? In a temple? In Sunagakure?
I vaguely remembered the name Bunpuku from the lore. This was the first Jinchuriki of the One-Tail. The guy who spent his whole life in a cell because people were terrified of the monster inside him.
Bunpuku noticed me staring at the chains, but he didn't try to hide them. He just gave me this knowing smile, like he was apologizing for the mess. "A bit of a weird setup, right?"
"Is it... lonely?" I asked. I didn't have to play the 'goo-goo ga-ga' card here. This guy felt like he could see right through a person's soul anyway.
"Sometimes," Bunpuku said, his voice drifting. "But I've got the lamp, the Buddha, and a very restless 'old friend' to keep me company."
"Old friend?" I blinked.
He didn't explain. Instead, we just talked. I told him about the workshop, the gears, and how I liked the way things fit together. He actually listened not like a grown-up humorizing a kid, but like someone who genuinely cared about the logic of machines. It was the most comfortable conversation I'd had since I "rebooted" in this world.
We sat there for a long time until I heard Sharyu's voice echoing down the canyon, sounding absolutely frantic.
"Sayo! Sayo, where are you?!"
I scrambled up. "That's my dad. I gotta go."
Bunpuku nodded. "Go on, then. Don't let him worry."
I ran to the door, but right before I pushed the curtain aside, I looked back at the thin, shackled old man sitting in the dark.
"Grandpa Bunpuku... can I come back?"
He looked surprised for a second, then his whole face lit up. "Of course, Sayo. As long as you don't mind a boring old monk, you're always welcome here."
I gave him a quick nod and sprinted out to meet my dad. I didn't tell Sharyu where I'd been—just said I was chasing a bug.
Inside the temple, Bunpuku closed his eyes and went back to his meditation. The room fell into silence once more.
Then, from the deep shadows behind the altar, came a low, gravelly snort of pure annoyance. It sounded like something huge and grumpy was waking up from a nap.
Bunpuku just smiled and kept praying.