Goro

Diary

As the youngest of his line Goro learned before he learned anything else that patience outlasts every blade, every storm, every fool who swings first, and for years that quiet watchfulness made him the last man standing in any duel. Peace came, the dojo emptied into taverns, and Goro traded his stillness for whiskey-thick nights and weed smoke curling toward a ceiling he stopped bothering to fix his eyes on. One dawn, half-drunk and convinced the shapes tangled in his blankets were raiders, he drew steel on his own futon and the three degens who had crashed there after a mahjong run that went too long, cutting nothing but a pillow and every last thread of the honor he thought he still had. He has not forgiven himself, not for the blood he never spilled but for the stillness he broke, and now he sits cross-legged at the edge of every rowdy table, watching the dice, the charts, the floor price bleed red, telling himself he will wait it out this time. He always says that, and he always ends up the last one awake, staring at his own quiet hands like they belong to someone he used to trust.”