Cheery Haru

Diary

Haru still smiles the way a temple bell rings, loud and hollow and impossible to ignore, ever since that misty morning when some grubby-fingered stranger decided his personal space was public property and walked off with a piece of his integrity tucked under one arm. He laughed about it before the fog even cleared, slapping his own knee like it was the punchline of the century, because a real samurai never lets you see the crack in the armor, not even when the armor is mostly grin. Some nights, though, when the dojo's gambling den gets loud and the weed smoke curls thick as that morning's mist, he catches himself daydreaming about the stables back home, about the simple honest dignity of shoveling horse poop before sunrise, no ambushes, no wandering hands, just a shovel and a job well done. He tells everyone he is fine, chin up, grin wide, vowing tomorrow he will wake at dawn and meditate like the old days, and tomorrow always arrives to find him instead face down after another all-night sake bender, laughing anyway because what else is there to do. Discipline keeps rugging him worse than any market ever could, but Haru just refills his cup, flashes that same relentless smile, and calls it character development.