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[119]
[Day 1]
The snow had just melted when he left.
I stood at the village’s old torii gate, its red paint faded and peeling, as if time itself had worn it down. The road ahead stretched long and winding, flanked by slender trees still caught in winter’s grasp. It was early morning, the air sharp with the final breath of winter, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering frost.
Riku’s figure grew smaller with each step, his dark hakama swaying slightly as he walked. His katana rested at his hip, his haori draped over his shoulders—no emblem, no insignia, nothing binding him to the life he once lived. A lone wanderer, swallowed by a world too vast for a single person.
He never looked back. Not even once.
The night before, he had spoken with a sense of urgency that left no room for argument.
"Wait for me," he had said, his voice low, weighted. "One hundred and nineteen days."
Why so precise? Why not one hundred? Why not simply say, ‘until I return’?
I didn’t ask. He never explained.
Now, I stood there, my feet frozen in place long after he had disappeared from view. My fingers tightened around the woven sash of my kimono, gripping it as if I could hold on to something—anything—before it slipped away.
A crow cawed in the distance, breaking the fragile silence.
I turned back toward the village, toward the quiet house he had left behind.
The days ahead felt impossibly long, each one an empty bowl, waiting to be filled.
---
[Day 11]
The house felt empty without him.
Too empty.
The silence wasn’t gentle, nor was it peaceful—it was heavy and suffocating, clinging to the wooden beams and tatami floors like an invisible fog. I had never noticed how quiet this place was before. How the absence of just one presence could make the walls feel wider, the air colder.
I wandered through the rooms, running my fingers over familiar objects. His inkstone sat on the low writing table, its surface smooth and darkened by remnants of dried ink. His brush lay beside it, untouched since the night before he left, its bristles stiff from a forgotten stroke. A half-unrolled scroll remained where he had left it, a poem he never finished writing. I didn’t dare roll it back up.
I promised myself I would leave everything as it was.
Dust settled faster than I could sweep. No matter how many times I wiped the wooden floors, the fine layer of dust returned, as if time itself was trying to claim this place. The scent of old paper and faint traces of cedar oil still lingered, but they, too, were fading—just as his presence was fading from this house, day by day.
Outside, the world moved on without him.
Every morning, I sat by the engawa, my knees tucked beneath my kimono, the fabric pooling around me as I watched the path he once walked. The wooden planks beneath me felt cold, their grain smoothed by years of footsteps—his footsteps.
From here, I could see the road winding past the rice fields, disappearing into the dense forest beyond. I imagined him walking that road, shoulders squared, gaze fixed ahead. He never faltered when he left. Never hesitated.
Still, whenever a figure approached from the distance, my breath caught in my throat.
Could it be him?
A wandering traveler appeared, a merchant leading an ox-drawn cart, his voice rising in conversation with a young apprentice. At another time, a monk in saffron robes, his steps slow, deliberate, undisturbed by the world around him. And once, a messenger on horseback, his cloak marked with the emblem of a distant lord—he passed through the village without stopping.
Each time, I waited with foolish hope, and each time, disappointment followed, heavy as a stone.
It was foolish, I knew.
He wouldn’t return so soon.
And yet—
Yet, I couldn’t stop searching.
---
[Day 34]
Spring arrived gently, like a mother waking her child.
Winter’s sharp bite had loosened its grip, and in its place, warmth seeped into the earth. The riverbanks, once barren and gray, now brimmed with cherry blossoms, their pale pink petals unfurling in slow, graceful movements—as if the trees themselves were stretching after a long slumber. When the wind blew, it carried the scent of new life, and the petals scattered like whispered promises, drifting over the...
The snow had just melted when he left.
I stood at the village’s old torii gate, its red paint faded and peeling, as if time itself had worn it down. The road ahead stretched long and winding, flanked by slender trees still caught in winter’s grasp. It was early morning, the air sharp with the final breath of winter, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering frost.
Riku’s figure grew smaller with each step, his dark hakama swaying slightly as he walked. His katana rested at his hip, his haori draped over his shoulders—no emblem, no insignia, nothing binding him to the life he once lived. A lone wanderer, swallowed by a world too vast for a single person.
He never looked back. Not even once.
The night before, he had spoken with a sense of urgency that left no room for argument.
"Wait for me," he had said, his voice low, weighted. "One hundred and nineteen days."
Why so precise? Why not one hundred? Why not simply say, ‘until I return’?
I didn’t ask. He never explained.
Now, I stood there, my feet frozen in place long after he had disappeared from view. My fingers tightened around the woven sash of my kimono, gripping it as if I could hold on to something—anything—before it slipped away.
A crow cawed in the distance, breaking the fragile silence.
I turned back toward the village, toward the quiet house he had left behind.
The days ahead felt impossibly long, each one an empty bowl, waiting to be filled.
---
[Day 11]
The house felt empty without him.
Too empty.
The silence wasn’t gentle, nor was it peaceful—it was heavy and suffocating, clinging to the wooden beams and tatami floors like an invisible fog. I had never noticed how quiet this place was before. How the absence of just one presence could make the walls feel wider, the air colder.
I wandered through the rooms, running my fingers over familiar objects. His inkstone sat on the low writing table, its surface smooth and darkened by remnants of dried ink. His brush lay beside it, untouched since the night before he left, its bristles stiff from a forgotten stroke. A half-unrolled scroll remained where he had left it, a poem he never finished writing. I didn’t dare roll it back up.
I promised myself I would leave everything as it was.
Dust settled faster than I could sweep. No matter how many times I wiped the wooden floors, the fine layer of dust returned, as if time itself was trying to claim this place. The scent of old paper and faint traces of cedar oil still lingered, but they, too, were fading—just as his presence was fading from this house, day by day.
Outside, the world moved on without him.
Every morning, I sat by the engawa, my knees tucked beneath my kimono, the fabric pooling around me as I watched the path he once walked. The wooden planks beneath me felt cold, their grain smoothed by years of footsteps—his footsteps.
From here, I could see the road winding past the rice fields, disappearing into the dense forest beyond. I imagined him walking that road, shoulders squared, gaze fixed ahead. He never faltered when he left. Never hesitated.
Still, whenever a figure approached from the distance, my breath caught in my throat.
Could it be him?
A wandering traveler appeared, a merchant leading an ox-drawn cart, his voice rising in conversation with a young apprentice. At another time, a monk in saffron robes, his steps slow, deliberate, undisturbed by the world around him. And once, a messenger on horseback, his cloak marked with the emblem of a distant lord—he passed through the village without stopping.
Each time, I waited with foolish hope, and each time, disappointment followed, heavy as a stone.
It was foolish, I knew.
He wouldn’t return so soon.
And yet—
Yet, I couldn’t stop searching.
---
[Day 34]
Spring arrived gently, like a mother waking her child.
Winter’s sharp bite had loosened its grip, and in its place, warmth seeped into the earth. The riverbanks, once barren and gray, now brimmed with cherry blossoms, their pale pink petals unfurling in slow, graceful movements—as if the trees themselves were stretching after a long slumber. When the wind blew, it carried the scent of new life, and the petals scattered like whispered promises, drifting over the...
