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Description
   "Dear Mr Miyamoto," the letter began, "Fate takes us in strange places..."
   Perhaps, Miyamoto thought, the boy was right. Maybe it was fate. How intricate are our paths, to cross in the ways that they do?
   The boy's name was Otoha, and it was only by chance that they had become master and pupil. Back before the laughter of boys had grown into the silence of men, he had known the boy's father. They were both children then, full of innocence, full of dreams, unaware of the existence of accidents and the tender cruelties of the universe. They played in the streets around Miyamoto's father's workshop, while the sound of hammering bellowed from within.
   Looking back, those hammer-strokes stood out to Miyamoto clearer than anything else in the cluster-memories of childhood. He would recall them as a summons, would remember only fleeting images of his father lurking in the doorway, his long shadow cast over two boys too distracted to notice his presence.
  Years passed. It was only by chance that Togawa had brought his nine-year-old son to visit his old friend Miyamoto in his workshop. It was only by chance that the boy, so enchanted in his innocence by the notion of being a sword-smith, had begged his father to take him again, and again, until the father stopped coming and Miyamoto started waiting every weekday for the end of school.
   And it was only by chance that the driver of that van would take a shortcut on his way home at afternoon a decade later, weaving through narrow back alleyways trying to shave just a few extra minutes off that daily commute. What were the chances, that his eyes would leave the road, only for a moment, as his hand fumbled for the radio knob; and, in the exact moment, Miyamoto stepped out from his workshop, his caution distracted by a conversation he'd had earlier?
   Miyamoto hit the ground hard. He felt his leg twist in ways it shouldn't, his body thrown like an unwanted toy. Pain bolted up from his hip like a gunshot. His face pressed to the earth, body still flipping from momentum, the screeching of the van's tires were deafeningly close.

   Otoha visited him many times in the hospital. At the beginning, his father came with him. Sometimes Miyamoto would be awake, and the two of them would make small chatter, banter about retirement plans and laugh like men. Miyamoto refused to talk to Otoha. He wouldn't be spiteful. Instead, when they were alone, he simply sat perfectly straight and gazed out the window, his eyes not betraying nothing of his heart. These times were the hardest.
   Mostly, though, he would be asleep, his mind carried off into drug-fuelled sojourns through the land of dreams. Weeks passed. Otoha's father stopped coming. Nurses and visitors darted in and out like fireflies. They all looked the same.
   One time, when Otoha was there, Miyamoto's daughter came to visit. She was tall, a beautiful girl who carried herself with a sense of elegance and regality. She couldn't have been much more than his age. Otoha was very surprised to see her. Miyamoto didn't talk about her a lot, always turning away to hide the traces of longing writhing through the cracks in his face. And, standing there, wearing that same stoic mask, Otoha thought she is a facsimile of her father.
   "Would you like me to tell him you were here?" he asked.
   "No, thank you," she said. "In fact. I'd prefer it if he didn't know I came to visit."
   They sat in silence after that. The days were short. It was the end of summer.
   The girl left when it started to get dark.

   Two months ago and Otoha was clenching the letter in his white-knuckled hands. His heart pounded in his ears. The walls of his room suddenly felt so confining.
   Medical school. He knew this is what he wanted, what he'd slaved for those long hours to achieve. All those nights at cram school, the extra hours he'd stayed up, and he never really considered what it would feel like if – when – he succeeded. There was no excitement. He had to tell his master.
   Miyamoto had sensed immediately the boy was worried about something. Their time together had trained a perceptiveness in him in spite of his coldness, and Otoha could hide nothing.
   "What's the matter, boy?" he said. "Speak up."
   Otoha took a deep breath. The speech. Focus on the speech, he thought. He'd carefully prepared and rehearsed it, meticulously worded it for maximal formality and minimal offense. "Master Miyamoto," he began. "Recently, upon completing my middle school exams, I have received an invitation to attend a prestigious medical university in Tokyo. I have come to love as a father through our many years together, and have the profoundest respect for you, so please do not take offense when I tell you that my decision..."
   Miyamoto only listened and stared blankly back up at him. His face registered no shock, no sorrow or anger. Otoha felt like a criminal being judged.  The speech was too long.
   Once Otoha finished, Miyamoto still didn't speak. He sat unmoving for a long time, while Otoha stood feeling naked and awkward, like a deer caught in headlights. Then he nodded wordlessly and rose to his feet. He washed his hands.
   "I'll be leaving now. Clean up the workshop," he mumbled, as he walked for the door.
   "I'll still visit you every summer!" Otoha had cried out.
   "It's okay." Miyamoto had said, his back turned, "Stay in Tokyo. You were my one and only pupil. Now you will be a doctor. Doctors have no need for blacksmiths."
   He stepped out onto the street.

   The day after Miyamoto's daughter visited, Otoha dropped into his master's workshop for the first time since the accident. The place was a mess. Hammers were strewn everywhere, hiltless blades lying in a jumble of steel. They lay naked, half-formed, beckoning to be finished. They were the last traditionalists in a world of progress, that had long since left their kind behind for museum pieces and relics of history. He thought about his master, lying in his hospital bed, his body broken. And then, taking a seat behind the anvil, he started to hammer.

   Miyamoto returned to his workshop on a Wednesday morning in late autumn. He hobbled in on a crutch, his hip still unable to take much weight or movement. It would heal, eventually; but right up until his death, on cold days his joints would whisper in a murmuration of pain. He never dropped his limp.
   Otoha was nowhere to be found. He left the workshop spotless, all equipment cleaned and placed so meticulously that Miyamoto might not even have noticed had it not been for the single sheathed sword his pupil had left behind. Placed next to it was an envelope, inside which was a letter.
   "Dear Mr Miyamoto..." the letter began.
   As he read the letter, there was, perhaps, a brief flash of regret across his face, although not of surprise. Once he finished, he folded the letter up, replaced it back into the envelope, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. And, slowly, as carefully as one handles a holy relic, or an infant, he drew the blade from its sheath. The workmanship was, of course, perfect. The boy was talented, after all. And Miyamoto taught him well.
   At that stage of the year, the cherry blossoms had already fallen. The trees now took their turn, shedding their leaves like dandruff. They twisted and tumbled on their way down; meeting, separating, bound for the same destination. The ground was covered in a thick blanket the colour of sunset, that, when stepped on, crunched with a sound like cicada shells.
   "I'm going to plant a garden here," Miyamoto mumbled to himself. "I'm going to plant a garden so that this time next year this workshop will be surrounded with flowers and the smell of herbs."
   After a while he sheathed the sword again, and placed it aside. Then, with great difficulty on account of his hip, he edged himself back into his usual seat at the anvil. Just like that, he was hammering away again, pounding steel against steel as if nothing had ever happened. It comes back to him easily. Of course it does. He's one of the last great masters of his craft.

Description
   "Dear Mr Miyamoto," the letter began, "Fate takes us in strange places..."
   Perhaps, Miyamoto thought, the boy was right. Maybe it was fate. How intricate are our paths, to cross in the ways that they do?
   The boy's name was Otoha, and it was only by chance that they had become master and pupil. Back before the laughter of boys had grown into the silence of men, he had known the boy's father. They were both children then, full of innocence, full of dreams, unaware of the existence of accidents and the tender cruelties of the universe. They played in the streets around Miyamoto's father's workshop, while the sound of hammering bellowed from within.
   Looking back, those hammer-strokes stood out to Miyamoto clearer than anything else in the cluster-memories of childhood. He would recall them as a summons, would remember only fleeting images of his father lurking in the doorway, his long shadow cast over two boys too distracted to notice his presence.
  Years passed. It was only by chance that Togawa had brought his nine-year-old son to visit his old friend Miyamoto in his workshop. It was only by chance that the boy, so enchanted in his innocence by the notion of being a sword-smith, had begged his father to take him again, and again, until the father stopped coming and Miyamoto started waiting every weekday for the end of school.
   And it was only by chance that the driver of that van would take a shortcut on his way home at afternoon a decade later, weaving through narrow back alleyways trying to shave just a few extra minutes off that daily commute. What were the chances, that his eyes would leave the road, only for a moment, as his hand fumbled for the radio knob; and, in the exact moment, Miyamoto stepped out from his workshop, his caution distracted by a conversation he'd had earlier?
   Miyamoto hit the ground hard. He felt his leg twist in ways it shouldn't, his body thrown like an unwanted toy. Pain bolted up from his hip like a gunshot. His face pressed to the earth, body still flipping from momentum, the screeching of the van's tires were deafeningly close.

   Otoha visited him many times in the hospital. At the beginning, his father came with him. Sometimes Miyamoto would be awake, and the two of them would make small chatter, banter about retirement plans and laugh like men. Miyamoto refused to talk to Otoha. He wouldn't be spiteful. Instead, when they were alone, he simply sat perfectly straight and gazed out the window, his eyes not betraying nothing of his heart. These times were the hardest.
   Mostly, though, he would be asleep, his mind carried off into drug-fuelled sojourns through the land of dreams. Weeks passed. Otoha's father stopped coming. Nurses and visitors darted in and out like fireflies. They all looked the same.
   One time, when Otoha was there, Miyamoto's daughter came to visit. She was tall, a beautiful girl who carried herself with a sense of elegance and regality. She couldn't have been much more than his age. Otoha was very surprised to see her. Miyamoto didn't talk about her a lot, always turning away to hide the traces of longing writhing through the cracks in his face. And, standing there, wearing that same stoic mask, Otoha thought she is a facsimile of her father.
   "Would you like me to tell him you were here?" he asked.
   "No, thank you," she said. "In fact. I'd prefer it if he didn't know I came to visit."
   They sat in silence after that. The days were short. It was the end of summer.
   The girl left when it started to get dark.

   Two months ago and Otoha was clenching the letter in his white-knuckled hands. His heart pounded in his ears. The walls of his room suddenly felt so confining.
   Medical school. He knew this is what he wanted, what he'd slaved for those long hours to achieve. All those nights at cram school, the extra hours he'd stayed up, and he never really considered what it would feel like if – when – he succeeded. There was no excitement. He had to tell his master.
   Miyamoto had sensed immediately the boy was worried about something. Their time together had trained a perceptiveness in him in spite of his coldness, and Otoha could hide nothing.
   "What's the matter, boy?" he said. "Speak up."
   Otoha took a deep breath. The speech. Focus on the speech, he thought. He'd carefully prepared and rehearsed it, meticulously worded it for maximal formality and minimal offense. "Master Miyamoto," he began. "Recently, upon completing my middle school exams, I have received an invitation to attend a prestigious medical university in Tokyo. I have come to love as a father through our many years together, and have the profoundest respect for you, so please do not take offense when I tell you that my decision..."
   Miyamoto only listened and stared blankly back up at him. His face registered no shock, no sorrow or anger. Otoha felt like a criminal being judged.  The speech was too long.
   Once Otoha finished, Miyamoto still didn't speak. He sat unmoving for a long time, while Otoha stood feeling naked and awkward, like a deer caught in headlights. Then he nodded wordlessly and rose to his feet. He washed his hands.
   "I'll be leaving now. Clean up the workshop," he mumbled, as he walked for the door.
   "I'll still visit you every summer!" Otoha had cried out.
   "It's okay." Miyamoto had said, his back turned, "Stay in Tokyo. You were my one and only pupil. Now you will be a doctor. Doctors have no need for blacksmiths."
   He stepped out onto the street.

   The day after Miyamoto's daughter visited, Otoha dropped into his master's workshop for the first time since the accident. The place was a mess. Hammers were strewn everywhere, hiltless blades lying in a jumble of steel. They lay naked, half-formed, beckoning to be finished. They were the last traditionalists in a world of progress, that had long since left their kind behind for museum pieces and relics of history. He thought about his master, lying in his hospital bed, his body broken. And then, taking a seat behind the anvil, he started to hammer.

   Miyamoto returned to his workshop on a Wednesday morning in late autumn. He hobbled in on a crutch, his hip still unable to take much weight or movement. It would heal, eventually; but right up until his death, on cold days his joints would whisper in a murmuration of pain. He never dropped his limp.
   Otoha was nowhere to be found. He left the workshop spotless, all equipment cleaned and placed so meticulously that Miyamoto might not even have noticed had it not been for the single sheathed sword his pupil had left behind. Placed next to it was an envelope, inside which was a letter.
   "Dear Mr Miyamoto..." the letter began.
   As he read the letter, there was, perhaps, a brief flash of regret across his face, although not of surprise. Once he finished, he folded the letter up, replaced it back into the envelope, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. And, slowly, as carefully as one handles a holy relic, or an infant, he drew the blade from its sheath. The workmanship was, of course, perfect. The boy was talented, after all. And Miyamoto taught him well.
   At that stage of the year, the cherry blossoms had already fallen. The trees now took their turn, shedding their leaves like dandruff. They twisted and tumbled on their way down; meeting, separating, bound for the same destination. The ground was covered in a thick blanket the colour of sunset, that, when stepped on, crunched with a sound like cicada shells.
   "I'm going to plant a garden here," Miyamoto mumbled to himself. "I'm going to plant a garden so that this time next year this workshop will be surrounded with flowers and the smell of herbs."
   After a while he sheathed the sword again, and placed it aside. Then, with great difficulty on account of his hip, he edged himself back into his usual seat at the anvil. Just like that, he was hammering away again, pounding steel against steel as if nothing had ever happened. It comes back to him easily. Of course it does. He's one of the last great masters of his craft.