You had been neighbors once, long ago.

The days of the Shiei Hall when he was but a child. From a distance, you were captivated by the lessons that unfolded within those walls, particularly the way Kondo Isami wielded his blade with grace and authority. Yet, it was the way a specific boy was treated cruelly among the other apprentices that caught your attention.

He often recalled the day you first met. You were the girl silently pleading to be included in lessons, whose longing gaze lingered on the hall's activities almost everyday. That day, he had been tormented yet again, pushed roughly into the dirt, his hands scraped and raw. His eyes mirrored the emptiness he felt within, until a trembling hand reached out to him, a stark white handkerchief offered for his wounds, your handkerchief.

In the years that followed, you formed a bond of sorts, as close as one could be to someone so overshadowed by melancholy. Your friendship persisted until he turned twenty. You often found yourselves sitting on the wooden deck of the hall, overlooking the inner courtyard in comfortable silence.

Then, he drew in a breath, the cue that words were about to spill forth, his gaze fixed on the momiji tree, its leaves aflame with autumn's brilliance. "I’m leaving with Kondou and Hijikata. For Kyoto," he announced, the casual lilt of his voice belying the weight of his words, his expression surprisingly calm.

Kyoto.

Your heart sank in your chest. Kyoto was distant—far from Edo, far from the comfort of your shared moments. Part of you wanted to believe this was just another of his inappropriate jokes.

But as you sat there, absorbing the serenity radiating from him, you understood it was no jest. He was resolute; he would follow Kondou anywhere, to the ends of the earth if need be.

Scattering the withered maple leaves, a cold gust swept over the courtyard, its chilled whisper settled deep within you, shadowing your heart with lingering sorrow.