They had left this house in spring, right after the first rains had fallen. On that dawn a faint mist made their journey more of a folktale trip than anything real, and the cool slowly turned to heat when the sun got rid of the dew. Now it was cool autumn and the hints of last night's frost still lingered in the air, leaving a slight chill. He was weary, but Akodo Touya walked as if unburdened. No one could say he came home without keeping his face before the time of grief. These formalities served their purpose: to honor the one who was gone.

He carried two swords in his hands, wrapped in golden silk. They were hers. His own daisho was tucked into his obi. His servants had dispersed to different places, returning to routine. What was his routine? Return the swords to their proper place, then rest, before calling his retainers and finding out what has happened since he was gone. The fields were being harvested. It was the busy time before winter.

Their son was on the verandah, waiting. He bowed. "Father, welcome home."

"I'm home, Torajirou."

"I heard." His son's face reflected none of the emotions he'd expected. No grief, no sadness, just plain acceptance. Touya worried about how young his son looked. Could a sheltered child understand what the news meant? "Can I--"

Torajirou lifted his hands, waiting to receive the swords. They were heavy, but he held them up by his chest, his thin arms steady under the weight. He turned on his heel into the room. Touya stepped out of his sandals and walked inside, where his son was by the alcove.

The stands had been dusted and polished. The servants knew and expected this. He removed his wakizashi first and placed it on the lower notch of his rack, repeating the motion for his katana. They were clean, and at the sight of them resting unsullied on the rack he wondered if they were the same swords he'd used to stab and slash at enemies a few weeks before.

Torajirou struggled to keep her daisho from falling from his hold, holding . Touya first took the wakizashi from him. He then used both hands to lay the smaller sword on the stand. He reached for the katana, hesitated, then took it up. Laying it down had a note of finality to it.

This was usually the moment when they were happy. She would put the swords down and turn to him, saying it was time to make-believe. And make-believe they did, except for practice time in the afternoons. The roads to them buried in snow and forgotten by the world, they would spend time in pleasant pursuits, teaching Torajirou, being a family.

The two stands, similarly laden and side by side, repeated the pattern of his old life. His wife had always been by his side, but the war ended all that. Torajirou stared at the swords.

"Mother isn't coming back, is she?"

"No, Torajirou. She isn't."

It was barely perceptible at first, but soon Torajirou was trembling as he tried not to reveal his emotions. It was their training showing through. He watched as Torajirou's shoulders shook. Wordlessly he knelt and closed his arms around his son. They clung to each other in overwhelming silence, finding no words to relieve their loss.

--end--

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