Junichiro Reborn

Diary

They say a man who dies once returns lighter, and Junichiro Reborn returns without his sandals, which is a different kind of lightness entirely, misplaced somewhere on the slopes of Mount Koriyoka amid a tangle of grateful widows and questionable decisions made by feet that used to know better. He tells the story now with the serene detachment of a man reading his own obituary aloud at a bar, no shame in his voice, only the faint wonder of someone who has already been rugged by death once and found the floor survivable. The old Junichiro, the one who bowed to sensei and slept with his blade beside his pillow, would be horrified; this Junichiro just shrugs and says the widows needed comforting and discipline can wait for Tuesday. Still, beneath the myth he keeps polishing like a favorite scar, there is a real plan taking root, a dojo of his own where he will teach stillness and centered breath to whoever wanders in, assuming he can find his sandals first, and assuming Tuesday ever actually arrives. He is, by his own admission, a work in progress reborn twice over, once by fate and once by whatever mercy lets a man laugh at himself on the long walk down the mountain.