"Hold on—dinner's almost ready."
Urokodaki Sakonji was in the kitchen frying tempura. The festival was the day after tomorrow; the boy would go home and wouldn't be here for New Year. So—for a solitary old man—today was New Year.
There should be osechi… char siu soba with tempura, dotted with sweet black beans.
Drawn by the smell, Roy came to help. Beside him, Makomo peered and licked her lips like a little cat.
"Practice on your own this afternoon. I'll wrap some dumplings for you to take on the road. Tonight we'll slice boar for sukiyaki…"
The tempura set and came up. Uncharacteristically, Urokodaki rambled on—more mother than master—like Roy's own mother Kie once did.
Before he left home, Kie had given him just such instructions. Now it was Urokodaki.
Roy listened quietly without interrupting. On the post, Sabito stood silent, arms folded, the hidden face under the fox mask clouded. He wasn't sentimental—but around this time his mood sank, just like Makomo, Shinsuke, Fukuda—the whole brood. He simply didn't show it—he was the eldest brother. He had to hold the roof up.
Soon, the noodles were done.
They sat across the square brazier, one bowl each. Unlike usual, Urokodaki pulled extra bowls and chopsticks from the case and lined them around the brazier—thirteen sets.
For Sabito, Makomo, Shinsuke, Fukuda… thirteen gone.
"It's the holiday. They can't eat—but if they're watching, maybe they can at least smell it…"
He lifted his own bowl and ladled out portions into each. Roy watched quietly; Makomo's eyes reddened, a hitch in her breath. She set down her bowl and touched Urokodaki's hand. "It's not enough, Master. They're watching—we can't be stingy…"
Who… is watching?
Urokodaki froze—then felt a warm flow slide from Roy's palm into his, spreading up his arm, chest, neck—washing over his eyes—and then—
The old Water Hashira—like a weathered stone statue who had stood guard over a fallen past—saw his children come home, and stopped. Shock and joy wiped him blank.
"Makomo?" After a moment his hand, trembling, found her head and patted it.
Makomo stiffened—stunned. Then Sabito. Then Shimizu. Then Fukuda. Then more—children he had taken in as disciples, some he had even raised himself.
All of them fell into the same wonder.
A strangled yelp—the beam rattled. Shinsuke, too excited, dropped straight from the rafters—apparently forgetting a ghost can fly. He hit the floor and didn't get up—he scrambled on all fours to Urokodaki and hugged his leg, bawling: "Master—it's me, Shinsuke!
"Waaah—you can finally see me!"
Are you aggrieved?
Years of loving someone with no response… Always there, but only able to give one-way. Between life and death only a paper pane—and that pane makes "close as a handspan, far as the horizon" real.
"Master." Sabito came back to himself at last—tears streaming. He lifted his mask. Thump—on his knees at Urokodaki's feet. Fukuda, Watanabe, Shimizu—thump, thump, thump—made a circle around him.
"I… you all… Rōichirō…" Urokodaki was overwhelmed—decades of steadiness shattered in a rush.
Makomo threw herself into his arms and sobbed.
Outside, the snow rattled the paper windows.
Roy sat by the brazier, quietly watching. Through himself as a conduit he kept the Nen flowing—bridging life and death—leaving the world entirely to Urokodaki and his children—
and, with soba in his bowl, slowly tasting their longing.
"Master… all these years I waited for you to look at me once. When you cooked, I stood right here. I couldn't eat…"
"Master, every time you carved, I was beside you. I blew the woodchips on purpose—thought you'd see. You blamed the wind…"
"Master… every time you came to our graves, I blew out the shrine's candle—to tell you I was there…"
"Master…"
"Master…"
Face after familiar face—words straight from the heart—hammered at Urokodaki's.
Behind the mask, his face was a wash of tears. He patted one head, then another—wishing for twenty hands to hug them all.
He shook with the words:
"I missed you… Master missed you too…
"I knew it. I knew you were always here…"
Joy poured out in tears. After a while the cabin settled; everyone wiped their faces—and then remembered there was a living boy in the room.
Urokodaki, Sabito, Makomo, Shinsuke, Fukuda—they turned to Roy. He slurped noodles, popped a tempura into his mouth, and, chewing, smiled. "Carry on. Ignore me."
Ahem. As eldest, Sabito coughed, rose, and fixed him with a steady look. "This is your doing, isn't it, Rōichirō."
Or rather—
"You knew about us long ago, didn't you?"
Lacking goodwill in his eyes, his tone had an edge. As the carrier of Nen, Urokodaki could feel the "warm current" directly. His gaze was deep—saying nothing and everything.
Whoosh— Shinsuke swirled into a gust around Roy, slung an arm over his shoulder, and grinned. "Well well, Rōichirō—hiding it deep. You almost had me fooled…"
"Fooled"—Makomo, in Urokodaki's arms, thought of something, peeked at Roy—he felt it and glanced back—she buried her face again in the old man's chest.
I'm done for—he knows—he saw everything—Makomo, Makomo, how will you show your face… The girl steamed, cursing: Rōichirō is too bad!
The big bad Rōichirō finished his noodles. He neither admitted nor denied—said nothing, and said everything. Finally he set down bowl and chopsticks. "For the record, I don't bring the dead back. You still can't eat. I mean… the noodles."
"No—you've done enough." Sabito drew a breath and stepped up—face solemn. Roy could see the old stitches at his cheek—how many it took.
The fox-boy bowed low, formal and deep. "I, Fujita Shūichi, thank you on behalf of our fallen kouhai brothers and sisters."
So… your name is Fujita Shūichi.