Edmundo

Diary

Edmundo came from somewhere no one in the dojo could pronounce, but he watched the gates like he'd been born to them, dry-eyed and unblinking, the outsider who chose loyalty when loyalty was the last discipline left standing. They say he might have worn the shogun's mantle once, back before the grass incident, before dawn found him flat on his back in a rice paddy counting blades of grass like they owed him money, wrecked on some regional brew that promised enlightenment and delivered only mud in his topknot. He has chosen to forget the incident, the way a man chooses to forget a rug pull, filing it under lessons the universe refused to let him keep. Still he stands post now, sober-faced, sword steady, telling himself this is the new bushido, only his hands shake faint and familiar whenever the sake jug rattles past the barracks door. Ask him about the grass and he'll just squint at the horizon, mutter something about weather, and go back to guarding a gate that, some mornings, he's not entirely sure isn't guarding him instead.