August 1921

Muichiro sat alone on the porch, sharpening his sword. The scraping of the blade against the whetstone was the only sound between you. The sky was a pale blue, but it felt cold, the air heavy with unspoken tension

He didn't look at you as he worked, his focus entirely on the sword in his hands.

"I'm sorry" he murmured, pausing for a moment as if the words were foreign to him. "I can't give you what you're waiting for."