He reached for his sake gourd. It was empty. He crushed it in his palm.

“Are you a samurai?”

The words struck Kenshin like a blade between the ribs. I ran. I lived. I am nothing.

Kenshin did not sleep. He sat awake, one hand on the boy’s shoulder, the other on his sword. Outside, the autumn rain began again, softer now. He listened to it wash the world clean.

The boy looked up. His eyes were large and dark, like a deer’s. “Bandits,” he whispered. “They came to our village. They killed my father. My mother told me to run. I ran.” His lip trembled. “I ran away.”

Perhaps the fallen could learn to bend.