Ginko's journey continues.
He has never been one to reflect overmuch on what he does: it is enough to find the cause, and neutralise its effects as much as he can, which is not as difficult as it would have been for one less intimately connected to the source.
There are others like himself, of course, just as competent (or better, truth be told) at the job, and who are more systematic and comfortable in their dealings with the afflicted. It is easier for all concerned, as well, that unlike him, they have no scruples about eliminating their discoveries. Often, his tactiturn demeanour and cryptic utterances have unfortunately tended to put people off, especially those he has been trying to help.
But that has not stopped him from trying his best to do so, with minimal harm to the mushi who, for better or worse, are attracted to him like insects to a flame, or perhaps to a light shining through the darkness. The analogy had occurred to him once in the hours before dawn, after a faintly ironic comparison of himself to a beacon of enlightenment, which he had dismissed as the intoxicated mutterings of one of the few people who might be said to know him in more than passing.
"I'm just trying to make a living," he had mumbled through the cigarette at the corner of his mouth, less than alert at that hour.
"So you keep saying, and maybe you'll convince yourself better than I believe it."
Ginko thinks about it now with his head bowed, the fine flakes invisible against his hair, barely able to keep his eye open against the gathering snow-storm as he moves his sore and weary feet one step at a time to where he has to be, before darkness overtakes him.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.