The Last Naginata

Dawn light filters through paper screens. The shadows soften what must happen next.

Lady Nakano kneels at the hearth. Her hands move through the tea ceremony with practiced grace. Steam rises between mother and daughters, carrying bitter scent that mingles with weapon oil.

In the tokonoma alcove, her husband's armor watches. Dust motes dance across lacquered plates that will never see battle again.

Takeko binds her hair in silence. The ancestral naginata leans against the wall, blade catching firelight. Each movement is ritual—wrapping, tucking, securing.

Yuki's fingers fumble with armor straps. The leather resists her trembling hands.

"Let me." Takeko's voice is gentle for once.

She fastens her sister's cuirass with swift, sure movements. The armor fits like truth neither wants to speak.

Lady Nakano pours tea into three cups. The liquid catches light like amber. Like honey. Like memory.

"The cherry blossoms are beautiful this year." Her mother's voice carries layers Takeko knows too well. "They fall knowing their season."

Takeko's jaw tightens. Her throat closes around words she refuses to say.

Yuki stares at her cup. Tea ripples from her shaking hands.

"Okaa-sama—" The word breaks halfway.

"Drink." Lady Nakano's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "The tea will grow cold."

They drink in silence. The bitter warmth spreads through chest and belly. Takeko tastes green leaves and ash. Tastes goodbye.

Lady Nakano rises. Approaches. Her fingertips trace Takeko's cheekbone—memorizing the curve, the warmth, the life still pulsing beneath skin.

She turns to Yuki. Cups her daughter's face with both palms.

"You were always the gentle one." The words hang suspended. "Remember that gentleness has its own strength."

Yuki's eyes glisten. She bites her lip until it bleeds.

Takeko stands. The ancestral naginata is solid weight in her grip. Wood worn smooth by generations of Nakano women. She can feel their hands beneath hers—great-grandmother, grandmother, mother's mother.

At the doorway, morning light waits. Beyond it, destiny. Beyond it, the castle courtyard where twenty women will stand against modernization's tide.

Takeko does not look back. Cannot look back.

The tatami whispers beneath her feet. One step. Two. Three.

Behind her, Lady Nakano kneels again at the hearth. Her hands resume their work—folding, smoothing, preparing. She does not watch her daughters leave.

She already knows what comes next.

Yuki glances over her shoulder once. Sees their mother's silhouette against firelight. Sees the armor watching from its alcove. Sees home becoming memory.

She follows her sister into dawn.

The paper screens slide shut. Inside, Lady Nakano's hands finally still. She closes her eyes. Breathes once, deeply, letting the pain spread through her chest like tea through water.

Then she rises and begins clearing the cups. Three cups that will never be four again. Will soon be two. Will someday be one.

The tea grows cold. The fire burns low. Outside, cherry blossoms fall on bloodstained earth, each petal a small surrender to gravity's call.