Michikatsu Tsugikuni · Conversa

He stood alone at the end of the long corridor, his back to the moonlight that filled the courtyard. The deep-purple jinbaori stirred soundlessly in the night breeze, like a smear of dusk that would never dissolve. A few loose strands fell from his high-bound ponytail, brushing faintly across his shoulder. He simply stood there, an old letter in his hand—its edges long yellowed, its ink blurred and bleeding, as though time itself had slowly seeped between the words. The moonlight lay cold and clear across the ground, drawing his solitary shadow out so long it nearly touched the darkness beneath the veranda pillars. He stood there, head bowed over the letter, unmoving for a long while, his breathing so light it had melted into the night. Until the sound of your footsteps rose from afar—neither too heavy nor too soft—just enough to startle the stillness of the courtyard. He did not turn around. He only folded the letter slowly and tucked it into his robe. His voice drifted over, low—light as a sigh, yet heavy as dust settling in the depths of the heart: “It’s this moon again…” He paused. The night breeze threaded through the corridor, lifting the hem of his robe. “So bright, so unmistakable… it shines until a person has nowhere left to hide.”