The Fool Who Defied War

Nobody knew who Mado was. Not his parents, nor where he came from. His ways were peculiar, his antics unorthodox—an oddity among the village folk. He never spoke in full sentences, only letting out loud shrieks of “aangh” while nodding for yes or no. Occasionally, when displeased, he blurted out strange, scattered words, but beyond that, he had no other means of communication.

Eventually, the villagers accepted him. Since they could not get a name out of him, they called him Mado—meaning Idiot.

Mado survived on odd jobs. Farmers had him tend the fields, potters let him knead clay, traders sent him on errands. Many tried to keep him as permanent help, but he never stayed—always drifting, tethered to nothing and no one.

Then came the Japanese.

They stormed into the village, boots stamping against the gound, rifles slung across their backs. Their uniforms were pristine, their voices sharp, shouting orders in a language foreign to the villagers. They took what they pleased—food, livestock, young men for labor.

Fear gripped the people, but Mado, unlike the others, felt only fascination. His wide eyes sparkled at the sight of their rifles, their polished bayonets and their leather boots. He followed them from a distance, mimicking their actions, saluting with exaggerated gestures, sometimes even letting out shouts as if he were one of them.

But fascination did not earn him favor. The soldiers barely acknowledged him. If he got too close, they shoved him aside. Some kicked dirt at him, others muttered things in their strange tongue, but none found him worth more than a passing glance.

Then, one evening, Mado saw something different.

At the outskirts of the village, behind a fence, was a man sat down meticulously cleaning his rifles. Every day, Mado returned, inching closer, his gaze locked onto the gleaming metal. The man noticed him but did not shoo him away. Instead, he tossed him some food.

The next day, and the next, Mado came back.

Eventually, the man let him inside.

At first, Mado only watched. Then, seeing his obsession, the man handed him a rifle to clean. The moment Mado touched it, he let out a gleeful shriek. From then on, it became his duty. He polished the rifles with near-religious devotion.

But Mado did not know this man was a British informant.

The Girl Who Saw Him

The man had a daughter. Unlike the others, who laughed at Mado or dismissed him as a fool, she saw him—truly saw him.

At first, she only observed from a distance, watching as he clumsily wiped down the rifles with a strange mix of reverence and delight. But as days turned into weeks, she began to care.

She set aside extra food for him, handing warm rice and curry to him when she could. Sometimes, she finds him huddled up in a corner, tired and fast asleep on the cold floor, and quietly drape a blanket over him.

When the air grew colder, she gave him real clothes—a proper shirt, a jacket that once belonged to her younger brother, a scarf to help him keep warm. At first, Mado only blinked at them, unsure of what to do. But when she tugged the jacket onto him, buttoning it with the same patience she might have shown a younger sibling, he did not resist.

She worried about him in ways no one ever had.

"Did you eat today?" she would ask, knowing he wouldn’t answer.

On occasions, when he disappeared for too long, she gazed outside on multiple passes, waiting for his awkward yet familiar figure to return.

And sometimes, in the quiet moments, she sat beside him, humming softly as she knitted or combed her hair. Mado never spoke, but he listened, tilting his head slightly, as if soaking in the sound.

For the first time, in his own way, Mado found something close to belonging.

But peace never lasts in times of war.

One evening, on receiving word, the Japanese raided the house.

The father was gone. Soldiers stormed in, overturning furniture, ripping open grain sacks, searching for weapons, for messages—anything that smelled of British influence. Their boots thundered against the wooden floor.

Then they found her.

The informant’s daughter.

Cowering in the corner, her breath shallow, her eyes wide with terror.

The soldiers paused. One of them smirked. He stepped forward—slow, deliberate. His reached forward, grabbed her wrist, pulling her to her feet.

She flinched. He did not let go.

The others watched in silence, unreadable eyes reflecting the dim glow of the oil lamp. The air grew thick, charged with something unspoken yet understood.

The man’s grip tightened. His free hand lifted, fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve, brushing the fabric, lingering—

Mado did not understand many things.

But he understood this.

His body stiffened. His hands clenched, trembling at the sight.

The officer yanked the girl closer as his smirk widening at her desperate struggle to free herself. A muffled cry broke from her lips.

Then Mado moved.

Something broke inside him.

A primal, wordless roar escaped him as he pounced. He shoved the officer back.

The soldier stumbled, eyes flashing with rage. Orders were barked. Guns were drawn.

The officer pulled out his pistol.

Mado did not understand death. He did not understand war.

But he understood that he had to protect her.

Even as the officer raised his gun.

Even as the room filled with shouts.

Even as the trigger was pulled.

The gunshot rang out.

Mado lurched. His chest burned. He looked down—red seeped through the shirt she had given him, spreading fast. His fingers curled, grasping at nothing. His lips parted, but no sound came.

His knees buckled. His body swayed, fighting to stay upright. Then, like a felled tree, he crashed to the ground.

Silence.

Even the soldiers did not speak a word. They only stared at the lifeless body of the village fool who had dared to stand against them.

The girl did not scream.

Something inside her shattered.

Mado– the idiot, the outcast, the one who never truly belonged– had died for her.

And just like that, he was gone.

That night, they buried him at the outskirts of the village, where the echoes of his screams would fill the air across the fields. No prayers were spoken—only the rustling of leaves, the distant grumble of war, the restless whispers of the wind.

Before they lowered him into the grave, the girl knelt beside him. Her hands clasped a sweater she had knitted for him. Her hands trembled as she slipped it over his cold body, smoothing the fabric over his stiff limbs. It was warm. Soft, and Made with care.

It was all she could give him now—a final kindness for the fool who had given everything.

As they began to lower him, she sank to her knees, her fingers grasping at the dirt as if she could hold onto him just a little longer. The villagers stood in silence, their grief thick in the air, settling over them like the mist that clung to the hills.

Some swore they still heard him—

A whisper in the wind. An echo in the trees.

A voice forever caught in the place where the bullet rang.