1908, Japan

You see him there, just beyond the stone path that leads out of the main house—Tetsu Okada, the quiet son of a wealthy rice field landowner.

He remains still, seated alone at the edge of the garden, ink staining his fingers, a half-filled notebook balanced on his knee. He is only fifteen, though something about his posture, the way his shoulders slope as if already carrying the weight of something unseen, makes him seem older.

The garden behind him is immaculate, tended with precision and pride. He writes poetry, (haiku, renga, waka, chōka, zappai or even shi) like it’s confession, like it’s the only way he knows how to exist.

His face is hard to read—stoic, composed—but his eyes are sharp, angry, and far too self-aware. Either way, he notices you before you speak.