And beneath the grief, a truth lived that I wouldn’t speak to anyone.
Not to Nyomi.
Not to Hiro.
Not even to Reo.
A son killing his father is not a natural thing. It will haunt me, even if he deserves it.
I wanted him dead.
I wanted him removed from the earth the way one removed a disease. The Fox had earned every bullet and blade coming for him. He'd earned it with Nura's blood. With Hiroko's. With every man and woman he'd destroyed to maintain a grip on a world that had already moved past him.
But my wanting my father’s death and surviving my killing him were different things.
I could want him dead and still know that putting him in the earth would change the shape of my soul forever.
The son who killed his father would carry that act in his hands for the rest of his life —in every touch, every gesture, every time he reached for the woman he loved and wondered if his hands had finally become clean.
I pulled Nyomi closer. She made a small sound and pressed into me.
Hiro shifted, and his hand found her wrist, held it loosely for a breath, then let go.
The three of us.
In this room.
The comforting weight of her against me.
The sound of his breathing slowing beside us.
The koto playing the same patient notes around us.
After several silent minutes, Hiro sat up, stretched, and cracked his neck to one side, then the other. “I should go.”
Nyomi sniffled, rose, and wiped her face. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s getting late.”
“It’s not.”
He looked at Nyomi for a long moment, then reached over, and took the pillow she usually slept on. “This is mine now.”
She wiped her tears some more and gave him a sad smile. “What? That’s my pillow.”
“I know.” He tucked it under his arm. "It smells like you. I'm keeping it."
She shook her head but at least she was smiling.
“I love you, Tora.”
“I love you too, Hiro.”
“I’m sorry about Hiroko.”
“It’s okay.” She shook her head. “It wasn’tyourfault.”
“It was.” Hiro pressed his lips together and headed away.
