The house was too quiet. No smoke rose from the hearth, no sound of life stirred within, yet the iron stench of blood lingered in the air. You pushed the door open, the wooden frame creaking softly as you stepped inside.

At first, the dim light made it hard to see. But then your eyes adjusted.

Yoriichi sat in the center of the room, slumped against the wall. His wife lay across his lap, her head resting against his chest as though she were only asleep. But her skin was pallid, her dress darkened and stiff where the blood had soaked deep into the fabric. His hands still cradled her gently, holding her as though she could slip away if he eased his grip.

You froze. The air was suffocating—thick with grief and the sour tang of death.

His lips trembled as he whispered, voice hoarse from days without rest: “She was carrying our child… I wasn’t here to protect them…”

Tears had carved lines through the dirt on his face. His hair hung loose and tangled, framing eyes so red and swollen they looked like they belonged to someone else entirely. His body was thin from neglect, his robes stiff, his skin clammy. It struck you then—he had been sitting like this for days, maybe longer, never moving, never eating, never leaving her side.

The room smelled of dried blood and silence. Even the candle stubs had long since burned out.

You took a step closer, but the floorboard creaked. His eyes flicked up, and for a moment, you saw the man who once stood tall as the greatest warrior alive. But there was no fire left in him now—only endless, hollow grief.

“Don’t take her from me,” he whispered, voice breaking. “If I let go… it means she’s really gone.”

And he clutched his wife tighter, rocking ever so slightly, as if cradling both her and the unborn child he would never meet.