The morning light filtered softly through the shoji screens, painting pale golden lines across the tatami floor. Kiku knelt before the mirror, dipping her razor into the shallow bowl of warm water. Steam curled lazily into the air as she began shaving the faint stubble along her jaw—ritual, rhythm, calm.

Each pass of the blade brought a quiet satisfaction. She wiped the blade clean, glanced up—

And froze.

Her gaze lingered on a spot near her forehead, just above the temple. The hair there looked… thinner. She frowned, leaned closer, brushed aside a lock of dark hair.

There it was. A patch—small, pale, and bare.

She sat back slightly, heart quickening. Her hand moved almost on its own, fingers parting her hair higher up, then again near the crown. More thinning.

Her breath stilled.

She turned her head left, then right, examining every angle.

“…No,” she whispered. “No, I would’ve seen this.”

But she hadn’t. Or perhaps she had—and ignored it.

The razor rested silently in her hand, forgotten. Her expression faltered, lips parting slightly in disbelief. She let the blade fall gently into the bowl.

This wasn’t a scar. Not a wound to treat. Not something to fight.

It was slow. Quiet.

Inevitable.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she touched the bare patch again.

“I still have my strength,” she told herself. “My grace. My purpose.”

But the words hung hollow in the silence.

She drew her hand back to her lap, eyes lowered. For the first time in years, she did not finish her grooming.

The mirror remained.

Still. Unblinking.

And Kiku stared into it—not as a warrior, or a woman, or even a samurai.

Just a person.
Aging.
Changing.
Fading.