DATE: 25 | 05 | 2025
The cemetery was empty.
The wind whispered. The trees swayed. The stone was cold under his touch.
Kisimoto stood before his father's grave, unmoving, unblinking. Rain dripped from his hood, trailing down his jaw. His fingers curled into fists.
"Dumbasses... the traces you ALL left..." His voice was low, barely above a whisper. "Y'all will pay for this."
A shadow moved behind him. He heard it. He ignored it.
"It's time, Kisimoto."
A familiar voice. One that meant trouble.
Kisimoto didn't turn. Didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the name carved into stone. His father's name.
"I know you hear me."
Still, silence.
Then—
"Leave."
The air around them grew heavier. The rain slowed. The graveyard felt smaller.
The man behind him hesitated.
Then, he left.
Kisimoto finally exhaled. His breath was unsteady. His pulse roared in his ears.
The past never really left. It just waited.
And now, it was waiting for him.
______________________________________
18 YEARS BACK – NIGHT OF THE FUNERAL
Everything was black. The suits. The umbrellas. The expressions.
Kisimoto sat in the corner, silent, staring at his hands. They were small. Weak.
He didn't cry.
His mother did. She held his baby sister close, whispering things Kisimoto couldn't hear. Couldn't process.
The adults spoke in hushed tones. Some glanced at him. Others avoided his eyes.
He wasn't listening.
His mind was still in the river.
Still sinking.
Still drowning.
The funeral ended. People left. Only a few remained—family, friends, people who didn't know what to say.
A reporter stood near the door. The same one who pulled Kisimoto from the river. He had a notepad, a pen, an unreadable expression.
Then, he spoke.
"You're lucky, kid."
Lucky.
Kisimoto finally looked at him.
The man knelt down, meeting his eyes. His gaze was sharp, calculating.
"Most don't survive things like that. But you... You made it."
Kisimoto didn't reply. He just stared.
The man smirked.
"I wonder why."
Something in his voice sent a chill through Kisimoto's spine. But before he could react, his mother was there, stepping between them.
"No interviews. He's just a child."
The reporter raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Just curious, ma'am."
He turned, walking away.
But Kisimoto never forgot the way he looked at him.
Like he already knew.
Knew what?
At five years old, Kisimoto didn't understand.
But one day, he would.
And by then, it would be too late.
TO BE CONTINUED...