Kenshin did not sleep. He sat awake, one hand on the boy’s shoulder, the other on his sword. Outside, the autumn rain began again, softer now. He listened to it wash the world clean.
One autumn evening, rain fell in gray sheets. Kenshin found shelter in an abandoned shrine to Hachiman, god of war. The wooden statue’s face had rotted away, leaving only a serene, blank expression. He built a small fire and stared into it. ochimusha
“Are you a samurai?”
Kenshin’s hand went to his sword hilt. The weeping came from behind the altar—a child’s cry, raw and desperate. He crept forward, firelight dancing on his gaunt face. There, curled against the rotting wood, was a boy of perhaps eight winters. His kimono was torn. His left cheek bore a fresh bruise the color of plums. Kenshin did not sleep
The boy looked up. His eyes were large and dark, like a deer’s. “Bandits,” he whispered. “They came to our village. They killed my father. My mother told me to run. I ran.” His lip trembled. “I ran away.” He listened to it wash the world clean