Goro

Diary

Goro had been the youngest of his brothers and learned early that patience outlasts every blade, every insult, every impatient fool who swings first and thinks second, so when the shaman's lair filled with shrieking birds diving at his topknot he simply stood still, waiting, the way he waited out storms and debts and hangovers alike. The birds did not know they were dealing with a man who once sat motionless for six hours to win a bowl of rice off his eldest brother, and so they wheeled and screeched while Goro only blinked, questioning not the birds but his own honor, wondering if a true samurai should be standing this calmly while feathers rained down like a cheap airdrop nobody asked for. He did not draw steel. He did not run. He let the chaos wash over him like weed smoke through a low-ceilinged room, and when the birds finally tired and scattered he walked out untouched, chest puffed with a pride so large it barely fit through the shaman's door. Now he tells the story to anyone who'll sit still long enough to hear it, though he still can't sit through a full meditation session without reaching for his sake, proof that the discipline he brags about is mostly theory these days. Still, ask him about the birds and watch him wait a full minute before answering, just to prove the point all over again.