A voice, familiar and yet distant, pulls me from the trance.
"Tomoe-chan!" Okami-san's voice, louder than customary, beckons her.
Her steps, quiet as a whisper, draw near to Okami-san.
"Yes?" The soft utterance of Tomoe-san meets my ears.
Again, Okami-san speaks, "Tomoe-chan, it appears we need more Shikki afterall."
"I understand," comes Tomoe-san's gentle reply, and their dialogue continues.
"Tomoe-chan, could you select a few Shikkis for Kohagiya? I trust your sense of aesthetics. Truly, I cannot entrust this to anyone else but you."
"Yes."
"Himura-san!" Okami-san's call, loud enough to jolt me, finds me.
It is then I recognize that I have been standing here, eavesdropping on their entire exchange.
A part of me wishes to flee, to feign ignorance of my presence, hoping against hope that Okami-san might dismiss my figure as mere illusion.
"Himura-san!" Her voice, more insistent, slices through the air.
I understand now; delaying further would only draw the attention of the entire Kohagiya.
Reluctantly, almost against my will, I descend the stairs and approach.
Before Okami-san, I dare not meet Tomoe-san's gaze.
If Izuka-san embodies the persistence of a leech, then Okami-san possesses the cunning of a serpent.
I gaze upon Okami-san's face and catch her eye; a curious smirk plays at the corner of her lips, an odd expression of amusement.
"Tomoe-chan, it might take you a while to finish the purchase. It is not safe for a woman to be out so late on the streets of Kyoto. And..." She pauses, her eyes on me, not on her.
"The Shinsengumi patrol the streets of Gion almost daily now."
"Why don't you have Himura-san accompany you?"
I overhear Tomoe-san's immediate response, "No, it's alright. I'll manage."
Her refusal irritates me at once.
She seemed fine talking with that man, yet now she declines even my company for protection.
Recalling them together, my irritation deepens.
She had spoken at length, though she usually speaks so sparingly with others.
Had Okami-san not intervened, she might have continued even longer.
I remain quiet, my thoughts swirling.
Then I hear Okami-san, "Oh! If Himura-san is busy... I guess I can ask someone else."
Almost without thinking, I say, "No need. I'll go."
Regret washes over me as Okami-san's smirk evolves into a crafty grin.
This scheming old woman.
I look at Tomoe-san; she looks back.
"I'll prepare to leave then," she says, and walks away, ascending the stairs to our room.
Once she disappears, Okami-san leans in with a scrutinizing look and that crafty grin, and she stays thus. Abruptly, she slaps my shoulder. It might have been meant as a pat, but it strikes like a slap.
She whispers, "I have done what I could! Now make sure to get a grip on her."
"Huh?" My reply comes almost without thought.
She whispers again, "A fine woman like that if you don't get a grip on her very soon, she might get stolen away."
It feels as though the fears I have buried deep within are being voiced right before me. Her casual manner of speaking leaves me uneasy.
I find myself looking down, lost in thought.
She grasps my shoulder, her voice firm like a general bolstering a soldier's resolve, "If you can't even get a grip on the woman you have fallen for, how will you bring about victory to the ideal that will change an entire nation?"
The woman I have fallen for.
Her words echo, making everything else she says seem distant, and unclear.
The woman I have fallen for.
I repeat it over in my mind.
"Shall we leave?" Tomoe-san's voice comes from behind. Lost in my thoughts, I had not noticed her approach.
Now I truly grasp the unsettling, almost frightening nature of this emotion called "falling." A single glance from the one I admire throws my world into disarray.
I turn to see her face and breathe in the scent of white plum blossoms that cling to her.
"Let's go," I respond.
The midday sun dangles lazily, casting dancing shadows through the bustling streets of Gion. She follows a few steps behind me, sunlight clinging to her form. Her calm, graceful movement almost seems out of place on these streets, forever in a rush, in search of excitement. The soft rustle of her kimono reaches my ears.
As is my habit, I walk with a studied nonchalance, my eyes hidden beneath my hat's brim, scanning my surroundings. This habit sharpens my awareness of the attention she, perhaps unwittingly, draws. I cannot escape the disquieting realization that the beauty I see in her is mirrored in the eyes of others.
The gazes of men, some mildly curious, others tinged with lust, stir a peculiar irritation within me, a feeling strange in its intensity.
I halt almost instinctively. I hear her footsteps cease behind me. Without fully turning, I angle my head to keep her in my view.
"Walk beside me." The words escape me more sharply than I intend. An unfamiliar surge of possessiveness washes over me. She raises no questions; quietly, she comes to walk beside me. I feel the brush of her sleeve against mine.
As we continue, I find myself unconsciously stealing glances at her.
How else would I notice her slight curiosity towards a shop selling carved inkstones, or the tea houses and bookshops?
Whenever something catches her eye, she slows, looks deeply, and is lost in that world. After a moment, she turns away as if she had never looked, her expression, feels as if it's tinged with loneliness.
Each subtle movement of hers captures my attention. The way she tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, the way she glances—not at me, but at the vibrant world of Gion—I find all these actions painfully endearing.
A part of me wonders, has she walked with him? The moment this thought arises, irritation begins to claw at me. I try not to dwell on it too much.
As we pass through the crowd, my fingers almost unconsciously tighten around the hilt of my katana. My senses heighten.
Yet I release the hilt when I notice the person beside me might feel uncomfortable in the crowd. However, she likely will never reveal this to me.
Without warning, my hand seeks hers. Her fingers twitch slightly at the sudden touch, but she does not pull away. I feel the softness of her hand calmly nestled in mine, her smooth skin against the calloused skin of my hand.
I cannot stop myself from wondering, has he held her hand? Surely that cannot be. No matter how hard I try not to think about it, I end up pondering her closeness with that man. What does she think of him?
I guide her through the less crowded spaces, she remains silent and does not resist. She just quietly lets her hand be held by me.
"Himura-san," her voice reaches me, halting her steps. With curiosity, I observe her.
"We are here," she states, her gaze steady, seemingly expecting an action from me.
What does she expect?
Ah, the hand.
In haste, perhaps too hastily, I let go of her hand, more abruptly than the manner in which I had grasped it. She turns without a word and begins walking towards the shop. I follow her movement with my eyes.
She pauses, glancing back slightly, and asks, "Will you not come in?"
"Do I have to?" I reply. There seems nothing of interest within. What business does an assassin have with Shikki or Togei?
"No," she replies, conveying that she might not extend the invitation again.
"There is nothing to do anyway," I remark as I proceed to follow her inside.
In the dimly lit Shikki-ya, familiar scents envelop me—pine resin mixed with the tang of ink and a hint of metal. These are smells from the mountain days with my master, where I trained in Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu.
On tatami mats, a man sits enveloped in silence, clad in an indigo-dyed kimono. His face, creased with wrinkles, reveals his age as clearly as rings mark the years of a tree.
In his aged hand, he cradles a lacquered vessel, its surface detailed with golden lines and iridescent flecks. My gaze is drawn to a rare expression in the woman accompanying me—her eyes gently alight upon the object, almost with affection.
She turns to the elderly artist and bows politely, her voice soft as she asks, "Sensei, has your health been faring well?"
He coughs lightly and chuckles, "Aren't I a lucky old man? Being worried about by such a beauty."
In her eyes, there's a tenderness akin to her gaze at the lacquerware.
"Tomoe-chan," he says, "That which you wanted to see so much, it is in the other room."
Her eyes briefly sparkle.
He begins to rise, his movements strained with pain.
"Sensei," Tomoe-san steps forward to assist him. Observing from a distance, with my arms crossed near my chest, I eventually move closer to offer support. It's only then he seems to notice me, leaning heavily against me.
"Arigatou," he says, his face breaking into a wide smile as he looks at me. I blink several times in response, then my gaze drifts to my hand.
He moves toward another room. "Come with us too," he calls, glancing back at me. I trail behind him, Tomoe-san at my side. We enter a dimly lit room, where he hands Tomoe-san "that" which they had discussed earlier.
I examine it with curiosity. It appears much like any other Shikki, yet there is something distinct about it. The pattern of pine trees and cranes, typically delicate, is marred by golden lines resembling cracks. Perhaps it was once broken—like me, a fractured human. Just as a Shikki loses its value when broken, I too am destined to be discarded when no longer of any use.
The world does not need what is broken. As this thought crosses my mind, a chill begins to envelop me. The old artisan exits the room, possibly in search of something, and I watch Tomoe-san trace her finger along the gold-filled cracks.
"It's strange," I murmur, observing the object. She looks into my eyes.
"Strange?" she echoes.
"I do not know of the arts, but this, despite its flaws, seems beautiful."
She listens until I finish, then softly disagrees, "No. It is beautiful because of its cracks."
Her gaze lowers, eyelashes casting shadows over her eyes.
She meets my eyes again, asking, "Do you dislike what is broken?"
Her question catches me off guard.
"Does anyone favor such things?" I retort.
Her gaze is steady as she replies,
"But isn't it true that a seed must break its shell to sprout, or that rivers carve paths through cracks in the earth, nourishing life?"
"And isn't it through cracks that light penetrates walls, despite the rain and storms they let in?"
She maintains her unwavering stare. I look away, a warmth spreading through me. "So you do smile," she observes.
I blink, startled.
Smile? Me?
She replaces the Shikki where it was originally set. "It is called Kintsugi, an art that shows beauty in imperfections," she explains.
Kintsugi, I repeat to myself.
I hear the artisan's footsteps as he approaches, and in his hands he carries trays, adorned with patterns of unknown flowers and butterflies. They are neatly stacked.
"Here you go, Tomoe-chan," he says, his face breaking into a grin.
She takes the trays, her eyes shining with admiration, softening as her finger traces the delicate contours of the design.
"These are beautiful."
"But it's rather surprising that Sensei would go for a design so delicate," she remarks, a trace of curiosity in her voice.
The old artisan chuckles at this.
"I was going to go with Seigaiha," he admits his laughter light, as if time has not weighed him down.
"But then I saw a beautiful lady, and all that came out are these. What can this helpless old man do but follow the heart?" His eyes twinkle mischievously.
This lecherous old man and I had thought him merely a feeble elder in need of assistance.
"I will go pack these for you." He departs with uneven steps, declining help, though I scarcely wished to offer it, compelled only because Tomoe-san did.
"Sensei," she says, stirring a ripple of irritation within me. How can she still call him that?
"He still has feelings for Okami-san, it seems."
Her words catch me off guard.
"Okami-san?" I inquire.
"How do you know?"
Without meeting my gaze, she explains, "Usually butterflies are paired with Peonies, symbols of bravery and wealth. But Sensei has chosen tiny Shibazakura, which symbolizes a timid heart."
"A timid heart? What would that mean?" My curiosity piques.
Gazing at me, she replies, "It's the heart of a coward, unable to express his love to the one he loves."
As she speaks, a strange tightness grips my heart, fading as quickly as it came.
The old artisan returns, his trays neatly packed, and hands them to me. Tomoe-san bows respectfully to him, and we leave the Shikki-ya.
The tightening in my chest ebbs and flows, insignificant enough to be dismissed, yet persistent enough to be felt.