“gun killed my mom and my sister.”

tendo’s fingers curl around the edge of the bench, thumb picking at the loose paint. her eyes, always sharp, are now flavoured with anger and grief.

a break in your work usually allowed for such conversation, especially with how comfortable tendo had gotten around you, given how long you’ve been partners.

a secluded(ish) bench under some out of season cherry blossoms was nice enough.

“i was maybe a couple meters away?” she continues, hand moving to the scar on her nose. “from its path of destruction, i mean.”

it doesn’t take a therapist to see the survivor’s guilt etched into each wrinkle in tendo’s skin, the faint purple beneath her eyes.