Ochimusha Page

The sound of weeping broke the rain’s monotony.

“Boy,” Kenshin said, his voice rusty from disuse. “Who struck you?”

For the first time in fifteen years, the ghost in his chest stirred—not with shame, but with something smaller. Something that might, if he were very careful and very brave, grow into a reason to live. ochimusha

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.

Perhaps the fallen could learn to bend.

“No.”

“Takeshi,” Kenshin repeated. He sat back on his heels. For a long moment, the rain filled the silence. Then he said, “I ran too, once. I ran from a battlefield where my lord died. Every day since, I have carried that shame like a stone in my belly.” The sound of weeping broke the rain’s monotony

“Tomorrow,” Kenshin said, “we will go to the nearest jizamurai’s estate. He owes my dead clan a debt. He will shelter you.”