Chase The Solitude

(Three days had passed since the wounded rebel officer arrived in Shirakawa-go, now being nursed at Nagase's house. Jinko was currently across the village, at Old Man Hasegawa's home, tending to the elderly man who had fallen ill.)

The old man’s home smelled faintly of incense and green tea. Outside, snow fell in slow, whispering flurries.

“You do far too much for an old sack like me,” Hasegawa chuckled, his Kyoto accent soft as worn silk.

“Now don’t ye say that, Hasegawa-san,” Jinko said, wringing a damp cloth. “Least I kin do fer ye.”

“You’ve got a heart of petals, child. Not many do these days.”

Jinko opened his mouth to deflect the praise, but Hasegawa’s cough drowned him out.

Hasegawa: "Children these days do not look after the old, you see. Society, she is turning. Perhaps in a few years, Japan will be more than a collective society where everyone's care isn't all that guaranteed."

Jinko: "Wellllll.." (Jinko was left slightly speechless by the philosophical observation.)

(A quiet moment of domestic silence settled as Jinko carefully prepared a cup of green tea for the old man.)

“My sons were samurai,” Hasegawa murmured suddenly. “Too proud for their own good.”

Jinko looked up from the teapot. “Samurai, eh? Must’ve been important men.”

“Important enough to forget their father.”

The kettle hissed. Jinko froze. The words hit harder than any wind outside.

“Raised them alone after my wife passed,” Hasegawa went on. “Taught them to treasure family above rank. But… the sword teaches arrogance quicker than love.”

Jinko: "Hm." (Jinko was found speechless yet again, clearly not very good at comforting the old man.)

Hasegawa: "I thought I did the same with my daughters."

Jinko: "Huh? Hasegawa-san, how many young'uns did ye have?"

“Two sons died in the Boshin War. Two daughters left to find their own worlds. One even wrote that she couldn’t waste her life taking care of me.”

His voice cracked like thin ice. “They all vanished. So now, I just keep company with children who remind me of them. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe I just fear the quiet.”

Jinko: "Thet's mighty heartbreakin', I'm sorry, ol' man." (Jinko sympathized with a heavy heart.)

(Hasegawa accepted Jinko's sympathy and continued his quiet confession.)

Hasegawa: "I am over it, for the most part. I just deal with it by always having you children who remind me of my own around. I make you do things around my house, but it is just so I can feel the happiness of being a parent whose wishes are being looked after."

"I have no one else left in this world. Perhaps I'm trying to find the comfort of the people who left me in you children. Perhaps I miss the naivety and the innocent love I thought my children would give me once I raised them."

"But I scare them. The children of this village do not like coming near my house. They think Old Man Hasegawa will assign some sort of chore to them, and because he's almost senile, they'd have to do it for the sake of kindness. But they won't actually mean it... They spread stories about me giving excuses to make them do things, but I just want them around me. I just want company. I just want..."

(Before Hasegawa could continue, his voice broke, and he started silently breaking down in tears. Jinko noticed the shift in his voice, now completely overcome by emotion.)

Hasegawa: "I just want the company of my children again."

"But the next best thing is probably people who remind me of them, to give me a little more solace."

(Jinko remained silent for a moment, processing the deep, quiet loneliness of the man. He then found the words to reply.)

“Maybe tendin’ to ye ain’t the least I kin do,” Jinko said softly. “Maybe jist bein’ ‘round so ye find peace is worth somethin’.”

Hasegawa smiled faintly. “Perhaps. You remind me the world still has kindness.”

A moment went by, and another, silence kept following the last words that were uttered, until Hasegawa broke the silence again.

“The age of samurai has ended,” Hasegawa said, voice calm again.

“Aye. Saigo Takamori’s death sealed it.”

"It's illegal to carry a sword anymore, and yet.. it's all we samurais have known. It will be hard to find a place in this world for people like us." Jinko continued.

“Even so… never lose what the sword stood for.” Hasegawa replied.

Jinko looked at him.

“A katana,” the old man said, “isn’t just steel. It’s sweat, patience, pride. A samurai’s soul. When you carry it—carry the heart that forged it.”

Jinko: "Yeah. Hit is all thet. But Hasegawa-san, I'd o' thought ye despise the ways o' the samurai fer how yer sons turned out."

(Hasegawa offered a small, knowing smile, closed his eyes, and the long conversation ended.)

(Jinko quietly closed the door shut as he came outside the house. He let off a large exhale, the cool air burning his lungs, and looked up to the orange sky, lit by the setting sun.)

"Bein' alone... is hit thet painful over time..?"

"Maybe I had the wrong idea about everythin', or maybe I don't. Maybe… there’s still a way for a samurai to live, even without a sword.."

“Umm.” 

The voice broke the stillness like a bell. Jinko turned, startled.

A girl stood there—his age, poised, wrapped in winter silk that caught the dying light.

“You’re Jinko, aren’t you?”

“Aye… I reckon I am.” Jinko answers, before whispering under his breath, "She's so beautiful. Kinda surreal even."

“Oh I'm so glad you look the way I saw you in those pictures." She said softly, almost relieved. Then, without hesitation:

“Will you accept my hand in marriage?”