The mist crept low over the cemetery, curling around headstones like smoke from a dying fire. The air was cool but not cold, touched by that particular hush that only comes when the world agrees to quiet itself. Somewhere nearby, a crow called once and then fell silent.
The gravedigger, as always, moved without hurry. He was finishing up a burial—nothing dramatic, just routine. A modest marker, freshly turned soil, and the thud-thud of a shovel meeting earth. He wiped his brow, leaned on the handle, and paused. Not because he was tired. Just… attentive.
From the path came the sound of sandals on dirt and the soft clink of a gourd bumping against a hip. Noboru.
He emerged like a shadow from the treeline—thin, slouched, dreadlocks swaying slightly as he walked. His shamisen was slung across his back, its lacquer dulled with age and blood. At his side hung the katana. Always the katana.
"Evening," he said, lowering himself onto a crumbling bench without invitation. He never needed one.
The gravedigger gave him a knowing nod before sitting beside him.
Noboru uncorked the gourd, took a swig, sighed like the whole world had finally let go of its breath.
"How's business?" Noboru laughed, "hopefully not good?"
The gravedigger only nodded. He didn't speak, he never did.
"Jabari is quite the kid, he learned how to adapt so fast." He took another long swig and sighed. "If only I could adapt like that."
The gravedigger grunted his agreement as he stared upon the crooked gravestones and uneven dirt. He had never wanted to be a gravedigger, and never was any good at it.
"Quiet out here tonight. The kind of quiet you don't get in towns."
The gravedigger grunted in agreement again, watching the cloud roll across the night sky.
Noboru reached behind him and unslung the shamisen, settling it on his knees. His fingers brushing against the strings.
"You remember the songs better than I do, Hibiki." he murmured.
A few soft notes drifted into the night. The melody was unfinished, like a memory interrupted mid-dream. He played until the notes wavered, then stopped.
"Played a tune like that for a soldier once. He was bleeding out under a cherry tree. Asked me to play something peaceful. I didn't know any peaceful songs, so I made one up. Think he died before the last note."
He took another drink, swished it in his mouth.
"You always know how to empty out my head," he said to the gourd, tilting it in mock salute. "Not a good friend, maybe, but a loyal one."
He turned his head toward the gravedigger, eyes lidded. "You don't drink either? Can't blame you. Dangerous habit…"
The gravedigger nodded, letting out a deep sigh of his own as he stared at a small grave separated from the others and covered by flowers.
A long silence followed as the men sat in the cool night breeze. A crow called, the only noise to permeate the sky.
"I don't want to die loud… Not with fire… Not with screaming… I want to go quiet… like this." Noboru leaned back on the bench, the graveyard growing colder with the night. The mist had thickened like memory, rising from the soil between worn headstones. Noboru's voice had softened to a murmur.
Now he was just mumbling.
One hand rested on Hibiki, the shamisen slung lazily across his chest. The other gripped the neck of his gourd. Noboru's head drooped, chin nearly touching his collarbone. Sleep had finally won.
The gravedigger sat still, shovel still in hand, watching. Not judging. Not intruding. Just there, like the stones. It was always the same. Same bench. Same silence. Noboru came on nights like this—when the wind carried memory and the ground held its breath.
The gravedigger shifted at last. With the quiet grace of someone who knew the weight of life, of bodies, of silence, of unspoken words. He examined the sleeping warrior, breath even, eyes closed, sword still sheathed but resting several inches from reach.
Too far, if something came.
Carefully, the gravedigger lifted the katana from where it lay in the grass. It was heavier than expected—not just in weight, but in presence. The kind of object that remembered its purpose.
He placed it across Noboru's lap, just so. Close enough to draw in one smooth motion.
Then he looked across the graves—past the fresh dirt, past the tilted rows—to the small stone tucked beneath a leaning tree. The one covered with wildflowers.
His fingers tightened around the shovel's worn handle. His gaze lingered on the stone.
A short breath. A grunt.
He slammed the shovel into the soil.
The night wind stirred the gravedigger's hair as he struck again, dirt flying from the earth. Behind him Noboru mumbled something unintelligible, and let out a long sigh that might have been relief.
The mist thickened slightly.
A crow called again.