There were days when if you tried to reflect yourself in his pupil you could not, everything in his countenance suddenly darkened, and his skin became cold, his lips dried up, everything in him became autumn.
The era of darkness and suffering had come to an end, wandered through the towns and villages only the remnants of past wars, those bodies that like ghosts wander among the memories of the traces once alive left in their wake.
The gentle hand of the dojo that my father once founded was no stranger to the changes of the new order, the days of peace came in the form of a smile. And although he no longer walked this earth his ideals ran alive through my veins, with that will present is that man with his eyes lost in the past and the body so full of wounds had to be helped.
"he chased demons with his eyes like stars."
His story was not told by his lips, but by his sword, and that was not an ordinary sword, it was a sabakatou, the double-edged sword, the one that only Hitokiri Battousai was able to wield, but he did not know that yet. From the way he carried it, it was obvious that he was not an active samurai, at least not one that had killed recently.
Slowly he was regaining his strength, enough to enter the hall for his sword, and for the first time I heard his voice, and when I answered smiling his eyes came back to life, those that once were opaque, today they found their brightness again, and it was as if the sky opened between the clouds in the middle of the night to find stars, his gaze pierced my eyelashes flying like butterflies making room for me. And life, though it was already hard to live it Kenshin brought joy back to where perhaps I did not yet know it was missing.
His days I couldn't tell if he sent it or not, for he wandered between two worlds, fighting imaginary battles in his head, and at times returning to the real world, a back and forth from the infinite hell he had left on his shoulders and hid behind a simple, warm smile, one he didn't know at the time I could read.
His reddish hair falling on his forehead, and with the swaying of the wind tickled his cheeks revealing the legendary scar and he listened again to the whispers of the people "a wound made with rancor never heals".
Perhaps how many times in the history of his life had he ended up in a dojo like this, traveling the same landscapes, being ignored and despised by people for the simple fact of carrying a sword in a world where the sword was senseless violence.
From all those places he ended up falling into our arms, we cuddled him in our rooms, cleaned his body, stitched and bandaged his wounds, fed his body and let his soul heal with words of love. And suddenly we simply let his soul merge with the dojo to such an extent that letting him go was no longer an option, his heart was taking roots too deep not only in the dojo but in all the people who came to his feet.
Without looking for it, without intending to, his fingers became entangled in mine, and life wanted us to walk together in the face of all his demons and mine.
"I always wanted someone who could understand how painful and difficult it is..."