Ochimusha -

He looked down at the sleeping boy. Takeshi , he thought. Strong bamboo. A thing that bends but does not break.

Kenshin’s hand went to his sword hilt. The weeping came from behind the altar—a child’s cry, raw and desperate. He crept forward, firelight dancing on his gaunt face. There, curled against the rotting wood, was a boy of perhaps eight winters. His kimono was torn. His left cheek bore a fresh bruise the color of plums.

“Boy,” Kenshin said, his voice rusty from disuse. “Who struck you?” ochimusha

The old warrior’s name was no longer his own. They called him Ochimusha —the fallen warrior—a ghost who had outlived his lord.

The boy looked up. His eyes were large and dark, like a deer’s. “Bandits,” he whispered. “They came to our village. They killed my father. My mother told me to run. I ran.” His lip trembled. “I ran away.” He looked down at the sleeping boy

Kenshin looked at his chipped sword, his empty gourd, his armorless chest. “I was. Now I am an ochimusha . A fallen one.”

For the first time in fifteen years, the ghost in his chest stirred—not with shame, but with something smaller. Something that might, if he were very careful and very brave, grow into a reason to live. A thing that bends but does not break

The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Are you a bandit?”