There was a family of birds on the maple-tree. They sang to Miyo as he scattered seeds. He was alone, there was no sign of Sai.

So be it.

It made him feel a certain sort of way, but he would not admit this to himself. It was what he wanted, wasn't it? Peace, solitude. No more reminders. He watched the tendons in his hands flex as he scattered another handful. Would a stranger, perchance upon this scene see a contented old man feeding his birds? Or a withered sad husk of something once much more? His back was rounded, he was no longer watching the birds chatter and quibble on the branches above. He was watching the seeds disappear into too tall grass. He looked at his rock garden, at the sand unraked for a great many years. This then, would be one of the grim days. He hadn't even uncorked another jug. He was stark sober under the stark sun. Naked for the world. He could feel eyes burrow into the back of his liver-spotted skull. His Father, the shrine. Neglected. Everything neglected.

Hand unsteady with something other than drink, Miyo closed the bag of seeds, he went back inside. He stared at the door obscuring his Father's shrine. He would need incense. He would need go out. A wash first, and then his best clothes. The robes with holes only in the pits of the arms, respectable at a glance. He loathed this part. The eyes imagined everywhere laden with so many weights to drape around his neck:

“There he goes, the poor old-man, you know he drinks?”

“Pitiable. Yoshitaka was a great man – a winner of battles – to have a drunkard for a son.”

“Crumbled at the first scent of hardship...”

“I hear Koji whipped him so badly he walks with a limp; see, look at him limp!”

“No, he wouldn't even fight. Pissed himself!”

Laughter.

Miyo blinked back tears. Eyes rheumy.

Truly no one knew who he was. That had to be the case, but the voices swam, the eyes phantom saw.

Kurobe dead.

The world moved so fast. Was it not only yesterday that the Emperor won again the whole of the land? Was it not only yesterday that Father returned, scarred, but smiling, to scoop Miyo up in his arms and proclaim, “We will make a school here.”

It was not.

It was a long time ago now.

Enough procrastinating. Go out and face the bright light and the old thoughts. He owed nothing to anyone. Why stand here dithering? The shrine needed incense.

There was no great reckoning. There were no eyes on him especially, the few walking about the broad cobbled way tended to their own affairs. One more old man in a neighbourhood of old men was nothing to note. Miyo walked on, head down. The walk down to the market was not a long one, it was going back uphill that was regrettable. The sights and sounds and scents were overwhelming as always. It was only once a month that Miyo got out, restocked wine and millet and whatever small comfort he might afford himself. His purse about his neck, tucked into his robe clinked dimutavely. It was all he had in the world. When he blinked, he saw the armour packed away. His Fathers, deep red and accented green. The helm a snarling mask with a crescent moon affixed to the forehead. A fortune that could bring, but no, no thoughts of that yet. He had enough yet for incense, for supper. Tomorrow would be reckoned tomorrow. This was how one got on, a day at a time.

The store he sought had one wall open to the street and stacked about were bolts of cloth and pottery and bundles of incense. The woman at the shop was young, modest. Her hair loose and traditional. She welcomed Miyo as he stepped across the threshold. He tried to smile back, but did not meet her eyes. He ambled about, picking at this and that. It was much cooler inside, comforting. Courage gathered he approached the counter with the woman, a bundle of green fragrant sticks in his hand.

She smiled at him broadly and bowed. “It is a good thing,” she said, pointing at his bundle of incense. “We do not sell much of that any longer, only to the temples. Too many people don't pay proper respect, I am glad there are still some devout.” Her face was so earnest it was painful to look at. Miyo was one of them, neglectful. He smiled unsteady; blinked back tears.

“I know what you mean,” he mumbled.

“For that I will give a discount, only a mon.”

Miyo fished out a brass coin from his purse. She moved some beads on her abacus, and handed him back four smaller coins. He left quickly.

Back home there was more courage to gather. He stood and stared at the doorway to the shrine long enough to loose track of time entirely, and then he slid open the door. The room was dark, there were cobwebs in the corners, it smelled of must. There centre in the small space was a cabinet of dark-black wood, hinges tinged in gold, intricate carvings on the doors. First he would clean, clear away the webs, light the lanterns, dust the cabinet itself. This took longer than it should have, he dragged his feet. When there was no more busy work to delay, he took a deep breath and opened the doors. Inside his Father's spirit rested, a small part of it worked into stone.

The tag hung suspended by a string from the roof of the cabinet, below it a short sword was resting on wooden pegs. There were bowls on the bottom shelf for the burning of incense. Miyo cleaned the ash out of these, lit his incense, and knelt in front.

Before closing his eyes, before clasping his hands together and bowing his head in meditation, he stared deep at that slate token, his Father's name engraved and painted in red.

Minori Yoshitaka

He bowed his head.

Tears pattered on the mats, squeezing out behind wrinkled eyes shut tight.