The sun was still rising behind the mountains when Renji ran across the yard carrying a bucket almost bigger than himself. The water sloshed around, splashing onto his simple clothes, but he didn't seem to care. The ten-year-old boy had learned to smile even when something was too heavy to bear.
His grandfather, Hideo, watched from the porch with dark, expressionless eyes, sitting on a wooden bench that creaked under his weight. He was a tall man, his hair already gray, and his calloused hands held an unlit pipe.
"Slow down, Renji. Spill it all and you'll have to go to the well again."
The voice was firm, but calm. The boy nodded quickly, adjusting the bucket in his small arms.
The village they lived in was made of simple houses, worn wood, and thatched roofs. There wasn't much movement in the morning, just the distant clucking of chickens and a few dogs barking. Renji liked that — to him, that silence meant safety.
After filling the kitchen pots, Renji darted off to the small shed in the back. That was where his grandfather's hunting tools were kept: old traps, broken spears, and nets that no longer served any purpose. At least, that's what Hideo always said.
"Grandpa, can I play hunter?" Renji asked, holding one of the wooden traps.
Hideo looked at him from afar. His answer came slowly, almost without emotion.
"Playing doesn't fill your stomach. But… go ahead."
Renji's face lit up with a wide grin as he pretended to hunt invisible animals among the dry branches.
The sun had climbed a little higher in the sky, and Renji dove into his imagination, chasing shadows among the trees that bordered the yard. The old wooden trap he dragged with difficulty became his legendary sword, and every snapped twig was a mythical beast to be slain.
Then, a sound broke through his fantasy: a low, guttural grunt, followed by the crack of a thick branch. From the shadowy interior of the forest, between the bushes, a massive dark shape emerged. It was a boar, a real monster. Its bristled black fur stood on end, its small eyes gleamed with primal fury, and two curved, dirt-stained tusks pointed straight at the boy. The animal snorted, scraping the ground with its hoof — a clear and deadly warning.
Renji froze. His smile vanished, replaced by pure, paralyzing terror. The toy trap slipped uselessly from his hands. The boar charged.
The boy shut his eyes, bracing for the brutal impact — but it never came. Instead, there was a slicing whistle through the air, sharp, thin, and deadly, unlike anything he had ever heard.
When Renji opened his trembling eyes, the scene before him looked like something out of an ancient legend. His grandfather, Hideo, stood between him and the boar. But he wasn't the slow, seemingly frail man from the porch anymore. His posture was upright, imposing. In his hands — hands that moments before had held only an unlit pipe — was now a black katana. The blade was so dark it seemed to swallow the morning sunlight, not reflecting, but absorbing it — a solid strip of obsidian.
Hideo hadn't run; he had simply appeared there. His movements were a blur of brutal efficiency. With a single sideways stroke, precise and economical, the black blade found the animal's neck. The boar collapsed to the ground with a dull thud, its furious grunt ending in a final rasping breath.
There was no sign of effort, no heavy breathing. Hideo simply turned away, leaving the carcass behind. The black katana was no longer visible, as if it had been stowed in a place Renji could not see. The old man's calloused hands were once again empty.
His dark eyes, the same as always, expressionless and deep as a midnight lake, settled on his grandson. There was no worry, no relief, no pride in that gaze. It was the same look with which he had watched Renji carry the bucket of water.
Hideo's voice broke the silence, firm and even, as if he were commenting on the weather.
"Be careful."
He paused briefly, his eyes scanning Renji to make sure the boy was unharmed, without betraying the faintest emotion.
"And go back home."
He turned his back and began walking toward the house, leaving the boy paralyzed — not by fear of the boar anymore, but by the silent revelation of a man he thought he knew. His grandfather was not weak, not in decline. He was… something else. Something much deeper and far more frightening.
The next day
Renji began to pay more attention to his grandfather. At first, he hid behind the kitchen door, pretending to wash dishes while spying through the cracks. His grandfather would shuffle through the yard leaning on his cane, each step dragging, his eyes lost on the horizon. No hint of strength or skill.
Another time, he waited until midnight. Barefoot on the cold floor, careful not to make a sound, he crept down the corridor. Hideo's room was lit only by the faint flame of a lantern. Renji held his breath. The old man was sitting before the katana, the blade resting on his lap. But he wasn't training, polishing, or doing anything — he just stared at it, motionless, as if it were a mere piece of iron.
It felt like a ritual. He gazed at the katana with the devotion of one who contemplates a deity. Perhaps it was a silent prayer, perhaps a longing for a time long gone. But nothing in his face revealed what he felt — if he felt anything at all.
The boy even followed him into the forest one morning, expecting the old man to let his mask slip. But Hideo merely gathered firewood with slow movements, stumbling on roots like any weary old man.
After days of watching, Renji realized something: no matter how closely he looked, Hideo was like a wall without cracks. No strength, no weakness, no anger, no joy. Only silence. It was impossible to know who he really was.
Five years passed.
The silence of the village was no longer the same for Renji. Now, it was heavy, filled with the rasping breath of Hideo coming from the bedroom. The ten-year-old boy who once smiled while carrying heavy buckets was now a fifteen-year-old youth, broader-shouldered, with a constant look of worry etched on his face.
The house smelled of medicinal herbs and burning wood. Renji moved through the rooms with a routine harshly learned: light the stove, prepare the porridge, wash the pans, and then, the hardest part, help his grandfather.
Hideo lay in the straw bed, wrapped in worn blankets. His once-imposing body had withered, bones threatening to pierce his dry skin. His eyes — those same dark, expressionless eyes — were now deeper still, sunken in their sockets. The only thing that hadn't changed was the silence. He never complained of pain, never mourned his frailty. He accepted food, medicine, help with washing — all with the same impassive calm as ever.
"Grandpa, can you sit up a little more?" Renji asked, his voice deeper now, yet still carrying a thread of hesitation when addressing the elder.
Hideo didn't answer with words. Just a small, almost imperceptible nod. Renji slid an arm behind his grandfather's fragile back, lifting him with care. He could feel every vertebra, every bone — like lifting a bundle of dry twigs.
"You ate too little today," the boy said, trying to make conversation while holding out a bowl of broth.
Hideo drank what was offered, his eyes fixed on something distant beyond the wooden wall of the cabin. No thanks, no complaint. Just that gaze.
Grandpa's still as cold as ever, Renji thought, wiping sweat from the old man's face with a damp cloth. But I know he's afraid. It's in the way he avoids looking at me for too long. In how his frail hand sometimes grips the blanket with desperate, fleeting strength. He's afraid of the darkness drawing near.
The morning quiet was broken by a soft knock at the door. It was Yumi, the blacksmith's young daughter, holding a small pot of stew. Her face, usually bright with a quick smile, was softened by a somber, respectful silence.
"How is he today, Renji?" she asked, her voice a respectful whisper.
"The same, Yumi. Thank you for the stew." Renji replied, accepting the warm pot.
"He was a strong man.everyone will miss him" she said, her eyes briefly darting past his shoulder towards the closed bedroom door with genuine pity before she offered him a small, sad smile and turned to leave.
It wasn't just her. Every day was the same. Mr. Abe brought chopped firewood and stacked it by the stove without coming in. The Ito couple left fresh fish on the porch. No one stayed long. They came, left offerings of respect and solidarity, and departed with solemn looks at Renji. They weren't only checking on Hideo. They were saying goodbye. Everyone in the village knew old Hideo was leaving — slowly, silently, as he had always lived.
That afternoon, with his grandfather finally asleep, Renji sat on the porch, on the same creaking wooden bench. The yard was quiet. He looked down at his calloused hands, remembering his grandfather's hands holding the pipe. Once more, he tried to force the memory of the boar, the black katana, the imposing man who had moved like a demon. But the image was faded, replaced by the raw reality of the frail figure in the bed. Perhaps it had been a dream, a story his childish mind had invented to explain being saved. It was easier to believe that than to accept that the skeleton he now cared for had once performed such a feat.
Inside the room, Hideo opened his eyes. The afternoon sun, filtering through the window, lit up the dust dancing in the air. His gaze, expressionless as ever, settled on his weary grandson outside. For the briefest fraction of a second, something flickered in the depths of that darkness — a glimmer of anguish, perhaps pride. But it vanished quicker than a blink. The mask of ice returned. He closed his eyes again, facing his own private fear in the only way he knew: in absolute silence.
*
The amber glow of sunset filled the room, painting Hideo's frail figure in warm light. Renji had just helped him drink a sip of water. The silence between them was a familiar companion, stronger than any word.
Then, the old man made a nearly imperceptible movement. His thin, bony fingers trembled slightly on the blanket, catching Renji's attention. Hideo did not try to speak; his vocal cords, long atrophied by disuse and age, could no longer produce more than a harsh, broken whisper. Instead, his dark eyes, still deep, locked onto Renji's with uncommon intensity. Summoning what seemed to be his last reserves of energy, he moved his hand weakly, as though drawing something in the air, pointing toward the window, toward the outside world.
Renji leaned closer, puzzled. "What is it, Grandpa? Do you want something?"
Hideo's parched lips moved soundlessly. It took a long minute of focus, of trial and error, of clumsy gestures and insistent looks, before Renji finally understood.
"Flowers?" the boy guessed, incredulous.
A slow, deliberate blink. Yes.
"What kind of flower?"
Another series of frail gestures, a dangling shape, clusters. Renji's memory, dulled by years of routine and weariness, worked sluggishly — then sparked: the purple and white vines that grew in corners of the village, more abundant near the abandoned house on the hill.
"Wisteria?" he asked, voice rising in surprise.
Another confirming blink. Then, with a broad but feeble gesture, Hideo indicated: all.
"You… want me to bring all the wisteria in the village? For you?" Renji couldn't hide his bewilderment. Was this a dying man's delirium? A final whim?
But his grandfather's eyes did not allow for doubt. There was clarity there, a silent, urgent necessity that went beyond the weakness of his body.
By the time night had fallen completely, Renji returned home, exhausted, with a large wicker basket overflowing with wisteria clusters. He had walked every path, every corner, gathering the flowers his grandfather had apparently once cherished. The sweet, heady scent filled the house, a strange contrast to the odor of illness and medicine.
He entered the room with the basket. Hideo was awake, his eyes reflecting the faint light of the lantern. They fixed on the flowers — and then, something happened. Something Renji had thought impossible.
The corners of Hideo's dry, pale mouth turned upward. Slowly, shakily, but undeniably, a smile formed on his face. A small smile, laden with infinite sorrow and deep nostalgia — but a smile nonetheless. The first and only expression of happiness Renji had ever seen from him.
"I managed… I think there are thirty." the boy said, his voice trembling with an emotion he didn't understand.
Hideo nodded faintly, the fragile smile lingering like a ghost. His eyes, less opaque now, wandered over every cluster of flowers, as if memorizing every petal, every shade. Then, with a soft gesture of his hand, he made it clear he wanted to be alone.
"All right, Grandpa. Good night." Renji said, retreating and closing the door softly. Part of him longed to stay, to ask, to understand the meaning of the flowers, of that smile. But fatigue and respect won.
Outside the door, Renji heard a strange, muffled sound — a wet crushing noise. He hesitated, but chalked it up to his grandfather shifting in bed, then went to his own room, swallowed by exhaustion.
Inside, in the flickering lamplight, Hideo was alone. With a strength that seemed to rise from the depths of his will, he had dragged the basket onto the bed. His trembling yet determined hands grasped the beautiful wisteria clusters and crushed them against the blanket, against his own fingers, against the sheets. The sweet fragrance intensified, almost overwhelming, as the purple, sticky juice stained everything, painting his pale skin with the colors of death.
He did not look sad or angry. For the first time in decades, his gaze was clear. Lucid. It was the look of a man completing one last ritual, breaking one last bond with a past no one else remembered. Every flower crushed was a memory laid to rest, a secret obliterated.
When he finished, exhausted, hands smeared with pollen and sap, Hideo laid his head back on the pillow. The overwhelming scent of wisteria surrounded him like a veil, a final perfume for his journey. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a very, very long while, he looked forward to something.