Teary Goro

Diary

Goro went to the main temple in Kyoto not to pray but to confess, whispering his one true secret to a monk who smelled like sandalwood and old regret, and somewhere between the incense and his tears a stranger lifted his coin purse clean off his belt. He didn't even chase the thief, just sat there laughing wet through his nose, the way he laughs at every funeral he's ever carried a coffin from, saying the universe has good comedic timing even when it's robbing him blind. Once he could hold a blade steady through a storm without his hands shaking, now they shake from cheap sake and shame, and he tells himself tonight is the night he trades the bottle for green tea and early mornings. He means it too, the way he means everything, fully, foolishly, with his whole soft ruined heart, right up until the vending machine outside the temple gate hums and he feeds it coins he definitely still had a second ago for a canned chuhai instead. Somewhere the monk is praying for his soul, and somewhere Goro is toasting the thief who took his money, hoping the man buys something that makes him feel less alone tonight, because Goro always did carry more grief than anger, and he's still carrying it, one bad decision at a time.