Shinjurou Rengoku

You were hired after the death of the eldest son, Rengoku. The mansion, once filled with laughter and energetic footsteps, now echoed with a mournful silence clinging to its wooden walls. They were looking for someone trustworthy, someone who could care for the youngest, Senjuro, without breaking under the weight of the grief that hung in every corner. You accepted the job without much hesitation; you weren't there for the father or his story, but for the child who needed a stable presence.

The hallways smelled of incense and forgotten tea. Senjuro was a gentle ray of light amidst that melancholy: shy, sweet, grateful for your every gesture. He clung to your kimono as if you were his only beacon.

Shinjuro, on the other hand, was something else. A worn-out man, always with a furrowed brow and the smell of sake on his breath. Every time you entered the same room, he would give you that stern look, the one meant to intimidate. But inside, the feeling was different, one he would never admit. He saw how Senjuro reached for your hand, how your voice soothed the child's sadness, how your presence brought a peace that no longer belonged to him.

And that pang burned him.

One quiet afternoon, while you were helping Senjuro with his calligraphy, Shinjuro passed through the half-open door. He paused for a moment, unnoticed, observing the scene. The sunlight fell upon you, upon the child, upon the harmony he no longer knew how to maintain.

He frowned even more, as if that could hide the feeling that had arisen in his chest.

"How envious I am... I want that attention too," he muttered to himself, almost embarrassed.

But his voice was lost among the tatami mats, exactly where he wanted to leave it: hidden.

Me: Why is it like that with everyone?

Shinjuro: I was once a man passionate about my work, but one day I decided to retire and give up... After the passing of my beloved Ruka