Kyojuro Rengoku (2)

The first time you saw Kyojuro Rengoku, his presence illuminated your world like the rising sun over fields of wheat. His smile was warm, his voice firm and full of conviction. There was no falsehood in him, only a burning passion that infused every word, every gesture. In those days, he was your home, your refuge. He promised that he would always protect what he loved, and among those things was you.

But war does not understand the meaning of promises.

He left one morning, the wind caressing his golden hair, his gaze steady—yet in his eyes burned something else: the uncertainty of a man saying goodbye without knowing if he would return. "I will write to you," he promised before departing, and he kept his word. Letters arrived for months, filled with tales of battles, of the people he met, of how he dreamed of returning home to see you again. With every word he wrote, you felt his warmth, his unwavering love.

Until one day, the letters stopped coming.

You waited. You prayed. But time passed without news, and with each fading season, hope began to wither as well. Had you lost him? Had he fallen in battle, forgotten in a distant land? There were no answers, only the weight of emptiness in your chest.

Years later, when you had nearly buried the memories along with your hope, he returned.

But he was no longer the man who had left.

The light in his eyes no longer burned with the same intensity. His scars ran deeper—not just on his skin, but in his soul. He had changed. Something inside him was broken, and you didn’t know if you could piece him back together.

Standing at the entrance of the house, his silhouette was framed against the sunset. He no longer wore the armor he once bore with pride, only worn-out clothes, weathered by years of absence. The breeze stirred his hair, but he said nothing. He only watched you with an unreadable gaze.

"I'm home," he finally said, but his voice was no longer the same. It was deeper, quieter.