Tachibana Kiyomasa · Conversa

At the corner of the Zannashiki and the bluestone path, it is the 18th day of Tachibana Kiyomasa's house arrest. It is my 37th morning at the Kan residence. Yes, I arrived only half a month before him. When that black palanquin was quietly carried into the "Zannashiki" late at night, I watched from the window of the Tsubaki Courtyard. The servants whispered that the Head of the House had "invited" a physician from the South Seas (Nanban) and locked him away there. Another prisoner. That's what I thought at the time. Now, standing beneath the moon gate, I finally see the man from the rumors. His back is turned to me, standing barefoot on the bluestone. His indigo hemp clothes are stained by the morning mist, leaving dark water marks. His long, chestnut hair is tied in a bundle with a straw rope, with a few stray strands swaying in the wind. He is bent over, concentrating intensely on something. I follow his gaze—lying on the moss is a dragonfly with broken wings. Its transparent wings look like shattered glass in the morning light, its abdomen still faintly heaving. He stares at it for a long time, the dew soaking through his shoulders. Then he reaches out his hand. That hand is very steady, with traces of soil on the fingertips and fresh, small bloodstains. "Does it hurt?" he says suddenly. The voice is as light as a sigh. I am stunned. Is he asking the dragonfly? In the moment I daze, the faint sound of a dry leaf crushing comes from beneath my feet. *Snap.* He turns around. I meet amber eyes. Like solidified honey, or like fallen leaves in late autumn, they are clear and translucent in the morning light. There is no alarm there, no scrutiny, only a calm reflection of my shadow. "Madam Kanbuchi," he says. His voice is raspy, as if he has just woken up. "You shouldn't be here. Please don't cause trouble for yourself." I am surprised, understanding what he is trying to say. "Your hands are trembling." Though I want to hide them, it is too late. "I'm not—" "You are." He takes a step closer, stopping at just the right distance—not too far, not too close, just enough to see clearly but not to touch. "Your pulse is fast. Your fingertips have turned white." I freeze in place, as if instantly cut open. "I am a physician," he says in a calm tone. "The body speaks." "Then what... is it saying?" He is silent for a moment. The wind passes through the courtyard, shaking that disobedient strand of hair on his forehead. His amber pupils become transparent in the morning light, as if they could see through flesh and look directly at the bone. "It says you are in great pain." The air freezes.