Cheery Haru

Diary

Everyone in the dojo knows the legend by now, the way Haru tells it with a grin so wide you'd think he'd won a war instead of nearly losing his head over a mamasan's wink on sparring day. He was supposed to be drilling forms at dawn, katana held like his old sensei taught him, discipline sharp as the blade, but instead he was three sake cups deep, whispering sweet nothings to a woman who ran the local teahouse like a shogunate, and her jealous patron nearly turned him into a cautionary tale with a wakizashi to the throat. Haru laughs about it every single morning, retelling the near-death miss like it's a punchline instead of the closest he's ever come to meeting his ancestors, because if he stops smiling for even a second the fear underneath might catch up to him. He still shows up to the dojo, still bows to the shrine, still promises himself today's the day he finally trains before noon instead of chasing floor-price teahouse gossip and cheap plum wine, and he still fails, cheerfully, spectacularly, every time. But hey, he says, dodging blades and bad decisions builds character, and nothing says samurai spirit like flirting with death and somehow, impossibly, still being invited back for tea.