Taro cleaned the katana with a square of white silk. He wrapped it again in the faded cloth. He knelt beside the body and closed the eyes.
“Taro runs a noodle cart.”
“You are up early, Sensei,” Kazuo said, not turning. His voice was the flat grey of the winter sky. harakiri y seppuku
From his sleeve, Kazuo drew a folded paper, creased and re-creased, the ink smudged in places as if from tears or rain. He handed it over. The old man read it slowly. It was a debt notice. The family shrine, the last piece of land, the final anchor to a name that had once made peasants prostrate themselves—all of it would be seized by the end of the month. Taro cleaned the katana with a square of white silk