Muichiro Tokito

Tokito]

(Soft wind blows through the mist-covered mountains. A single crow caws overhead. Muichiro stands at the edge of a cliff, his eyes distant, the mist swirling around him like a memory.)

Muichiro (calmly, almost detached): “Time… It slips through your fingers, doesn’t it? Like mist. You reach out to grasp it, and it disappears. That’s why I stopped holding on. To time. To people. To feelings. They don’t last. Nothing does.

But even a forgotten blade remembers how to cut.