The words struck Kenshin like a blade between the ribs. I ran. I lived. I am nothing.
“Boy,” Kenshin said, his voice rusty from disuse. “Who struck you?” ochimusha
The sound of weeping broke the rain’s monotony. The words struck Kenshin like a blade between the ribs
He reached for his sake gourd. It was empty. He crushed it in his palm. ” Kenshin said
For the first time in fifteen years, the ghost in his chest stirred—not with shame, but with something smaller. Something that might, if he were very careful and very brave, grow into a reason to live.