Soul of a Samurai

The door creaked open.

At first, I didn't react. I was sitting on the floor, playing with a piece of cloth I had found earlier, absentmindedly tugging at it. My mother, who had been cooking, suddenly froze. Then she turned, her breath catching.

I followed her gaze.

My father stood in the doorway.

Something was wrong.

He looked… smaller. Not because he had shrunk, but because something was missing.

His right arm.

Gone.

I stared.

He was covered in bandages, his armor gone, replaced by wrappings that stretched across his shoulder, chest, and what little remained of his right side. His white hair was disheveled, his posture heavy, as if even standing was exhausting.

My mother rushed to him.

She was already pulling him inside, her hands gripping his remaining arm as she guided him toward a seat. Her voice was quick, worried, but not panicked. She was asking him what happened, if he was in pain, if he had eaten.

He barely answered.

I just sat there, watching.

Even though I was only a year old, I felt the weight in the room. My father was always strong, always steady. He was never wounded, never weak. But now, he looked… human.

Then, despite his exhaustion, he looked at me.

Slowly, he lowered himself down, kneeling so we were at eye level.

His face was tired. Worn. But then—he smiled.

It was small, barely there, but real.

It was strange. My father rarely smiled. But somehow, seeing it now, I felt warm.

He raised his remaining hand and patted my head gently.

"I'm back, Kyojin."

His voice was softer than usual, lacking its usual firmness. But it was still him.

I didn't know how to respond. I wasn't even sure if I fully understood what had happened, but I knew one thing—I was happy he was back.

So, I smiled back.

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened. Then, with great effort, he stood up.

Without another word, he walked toward his room, each step slower than the last. By the time he reached the door, he was barely standing.

He disappeared inside.

My mother sighed, her hands trembling slightly before she clenched them.

Then, she turned to me.

She picked me up, holding me close. "It's a good time for a nap, Kyojin," she murmured.

I didn't argue.

She carried me to the bedroom, laying down beside me. I could still hear the faint, steady breathing of my father in the other room, already deep in sleep.

The house felt different.

Something had changed.

But for now, I let my mother's warmth lull me into sleep.