Goro

Diary

Goro was always the one who waited, youngest of four brothers, patient as spoiled fish left too long in the sun, and even the blade that found his ribs at the fish market could not rush him into panic. He and Raiku had been passing a joint between crates of mackerel, unhurried as monks, when some nameless hothead with a grudge and a knife decided the afternoon needed excitement it did not ask for. Goro simply watched the wound bloom red beneath his gi, the way he watched everything, calm as a heron deciding when to strike, and figured this was the universe's clumsy way of suggesting healthier hobbies. Now he tells himself he is done with smoke and slow poison, that he will take up tea ceremony or fishing without the getting-stabbed part, though most mornings still find him crouched behind the same stalls, patient as ever, waiting out a craving he has no real intention of outlasting. The old discipline of his samurai years lingers in him like a scar, felt more than seen, and he wears his failure to reclaim it the way he wears everything else: quietly, and without complaint.