Kurushimi na Hito

He used to walk with quiet pride. Not loud, not boastful. Just… certain. He was a high-ranked warrior, trusted, precise, and deliberate. He lived by the code as if it were stitched into his breath. It told him when to speak, when to strike, when to fall silent. It shaped his mornings, his hand, his heart.
And he held it close.

Because the code was more than the rules. It was who he was. Until he broke it.

It wasn’t in battle. Not in the heat of swords or the fog of some grand decision. It was simpler. Quieter. He saw the signal. Knew what it meant.
And waited anyway. One moment of hesitation.
That’s all it was. A breath too long. A stupid, human doubt. And someone died. The mission collapsed. The line was crossed. And he couldn’t undo it.

He returned home that night. Cleaned the house. Prepared the blade. He sat in silence for an hour, eyes fixed on the floor. The code was clear.
A warrior who breaks it must give his life. Not as punishment.
But to keep the chain of honour unbroken.

He had believed that all his life. And yet, he hesitated again. This time, it wasn’t weakness. It was his family. His wife. His two small children.

He imagined their life without him. Not just the grief. But the shame. The whispered insults. The doors that would never open for them. The life they’d have to live because of his death.

And he thought:

“If I die… I escape. But they won’t.

So he lived. Not to forgive himself. Not to run. But to take the weight with him. Everywhere.

They left the village without a word. No goodbyes. No last looks. They found a place in the mountains. Harsh, quiet, distant.Unseen. The children missed their friends. The wife missed her garden. But none of it compared to having him alive.

He worked the land. Chopped wood. Built a shelter with his own hands. His children laughed sometimes. They brought him rice balls with little hands and wide eyes. They didn’t see the man he saw in the mirror.
They only saw their father.

But he woke up every day with the same thought:

“I’m not the man I thought I was.”

The weight didn’t leave. The mistake lived in his chest, just beneath the ribs. A quiet ache. Not loud. But always there.

“I broke the code.
And not for something brave.
Just because… I hesitated.”

And he could not forgive that.

Some nights, he sat outside with the old blade beside him. He would hold it. Not to use it, just to feel how cold it stayed, even in his hands.

He thought:

“This would be easy.
A single motion.
Silence.
Peace, maybe.”

But then he would hear soft footsteps. A small voice. His child bringing him tea or a blanket.

And he would choose again
To live. To suffer.

It wasn’t strength. It wasn’t noble. It just was.

A man living with what he did. A man who couldn’t return. Couldn’t forget. Couldn’t forgive himself. But who stayed. So that others wouldn’t carry what he should.

People who passed through the mountains said different things about him. Some said he was a fallen warrior. Others thought he had gone mad from guilt. A few thought he was just a quiet man who preferred to be left alone.

They didn’t know. They couldn’t. He never explained. Never corrected them. His name faded with the seasons.

But if I had to name him, if I had to put all of him into a single shape, I’d call him:

Kurushimi na Hito.
The man of suffering.

Not because he wanted to be. Not because it made him better. But because he chose to live inside the pain every day. To breathe the weight. To carry what could’ve been buried.

And in doing so, he taught this:

The sacrifice of death is clean.
But the sacrifice of living with what you’ve broken for the sake of others.
That is far greater.