Cheery Haru

Diary

Haru laughs first and thinks later, that is simply how he is built, so when he lost his last coins to a dice game out in the biting cold he grinned like he'd won a shogunate. The wind cut through his old training robes, the kind he used to wear with discipline instead of desperation, and somewhere between his final bet and his final coin he found a pig curled shivering by the gutter, and something in his frozen chest cracked open wide. He scooped it up, called it lucky, called it beautiful, called it the only investment that ever loved him back, and by morning the pig had rooted its way straight into his heart like it staked a claim on his soul. Now Haru swears he's done with dice and drink, insists he wants healthier joys, greener pastures, maybe just weed and slow mornings with his pig snoring beside him, yet his pockets still twitch toward the table every time luck winks his way. He tells himself this time is different, flashing that same unbroken smile even as his hands, out of old habit, reach again for the dice, the grin doing its job of hiding a man still trying, and still failing, to remember what discipline even felt like.