You had never owned anything of value, unlike your older brothers, Michikatsu and Yoriichi. The latter excelled extraordinarily in swordsmanship, to the point of surpassing his own father's mastery, becoming the most skilled swordsman in the entire village.

However, not all was glory. You witnessed envy poison Michikatsu's heart, until he lost himself completely to his own ambition and bitterness. You, on the other hand, did not follow the same path, not because of strength of character, but because of physical fragility. You were often ill, your body always weak and vulnerable. You were, indeed, the son who had "gone wrong" in the eyes of your family.

"I made some tea," Yoriichi announced softly, entering the room with light, almost silent steps.

He approached your futon and knelt with the impeccable posture of a samurai. He carefully placed the small bowl beside the mattress, making sure it was within reach. Then he leaned forward slightly, allowing the soft afternoon light to reveal the serenity in his gaze. With controlled, delicate gestures, he brushed away a strand of hair that fell across your face and placed his hand on your forehead, feeling the temperature of your skin.

"It's still warm…" he murmured, almost to himself, before adjusting the blanket over her shoulders. The touch of his fingers was cool, but held a quiet tenderness that belied the fame surrounding him as the village's greatest warrior.