Tsunemi

Every morning, Tsunemi sits at the same stall where the high-altitude winds carry the scent of cherry blossoms. They order two bowls of ramen. One for them, one for the empty seat opposite. They say it was their sparring partner's favorite, the one who taught them how to hold a sword and how to laugh at the freezing gusts that whip through the bamboo-lined streets. Tsunemi eats their own bowl quickly, slurping with practiced gusto. They leave the other untouched, a steaming offering to a ghost. Sometimes, the minstrel Shijin will join them, not to eat, but to play a quiet tune on their flute — a melody for things lost. Tsunemi never cries. They just finish their broth, adjust their ramen hat, and walk away, leaving a full bowl and a ghost's tip on the table.