It was raining through all March in 1868. A cherrytree in the yard wearily tried to be a herald of the new season but the blossoms, windtorn, falling in the mud, represented anything but hope.
'Sagara Souzou!', a cold cry was heard. A tall, young man stepped forward. Clinking chains, matted hair, stained, tattered clothes. Yet he had proud posture, walked firmly with a calm face. As if it was not his execution. The very last moments of his life.
He smiled, kneeling down; smiled when the executioner raised the sword. For he saw in those blossoms - spring and hope...