Each morning in Matsue, I would rise before the sun, listening to the distant call of soldiers as they prepared for the day. From the veranda of my family’s home, hidden behind the wooden lattices and maple leaves, I would watch him—the general of our town, the man whose presence commanded respect and whose silence carried the weight of countless battles. He was not mine to claim, yet my heart betrayed me each time his figure came into view, standing tall and unyielding, his horse at his side. He never once turned his gaze toward me, but still, I watched.

Whenever war called him away, the town would line the streets to see him off, voices raised in reverence and fear. I could never join them openly, so I lingered at the edge, eyes fixed on the back of his green uniform as he rode away. My chest ached with a mixture of pride and sorrow, for I knew the path he took was lined with blood and sacrifice. And yet, I prayed—not for victory, but for his safe return. I loved him not as a general, but as the man who carried the weight of so many souls, alone, with quiet dignity.

When the rains came and the war ended, I would always be there—waiting. From behind the maple branches, I’d watch as he returned, weary yet unbroken, dust and grief clinging to him like shadows. He never knew that my heart lived and died with his every departure, his every return. I wanted to call out, to step into the open and tell him that in this small town, where the winds carried both whispers of sorrow and songs of hope, there was one soul who loved him fiercely, silently, endlessly. But the gulf between us—the noblewoman bound by duty, the general bound by war—remained.

Even now, as the years pass, the memory of his figure at my gate lingers in my heart. I never became his wife, nor did he ever know the truth of my devotion, but I have no regrets. To have loved him from afar was enough. For every time he returned and I caught a glimpse of his eyes, I felt as though he carried a part of me with him—unspoken, unseen, but eternal. And perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knew.

The night before his final departure, the air in Matsue was heavy with the scent of rain, and my heart refused to remain silent any longer. I slipped past the guards of my family estate, wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, and found him where I always had—by the stables, preparing his horse in the quiet hours before dawn. His back was to me, broad and unshakable, yet I could see the weight he bore in the slouch of his shoulders. My voice trembled as I called his name, and when he turned, his eyes widened in surprise, as though he had never expected me to step out from the shadows I always lingered in.

“I cannot let you leave again without knowing,” I whispered, my breath misting in the cool night. My fingers clutched the fabric of my shawl, but my heart was bared completely. “I have loved you for as long as I can remember—loved you when you rode into war, loved you when you returned with dust in your hair and sorrow in your eyes. I love you still, and if tomorrow takes you from me forever, I could not bear to live without you knowing.” The words spilled like a confession to the gods, unbidden yet inevitable.