Disciplined
At Reika's funeral. PG, 200.

Only Keiko’s hands and face peek out of her long black kimono, specks of white in a sea of somber colors. She clasps a single lily in her neatly folded hands—Akira gave it to her before the ceremony. “It was your mother’s favorite,” he said gravely. His hand is on her shoulder now, and it’s good that he’s been taught from an early age to control his strength, because he might well have snapped Keiko’s collarbone in two otherwise. But he doesn’t. He stands silently behind the closest thing to Reika he has left on this earth and watches as the flames lick at the edges of his wife’s burial shroud. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Reika’s younger sister Isame bury her face in Saiseki’s shoulder. The way that she’s clutching at his kimono’s sure to damage the fabric permanently, but Saiseki doesn’t seem to mind.

Keiko’s too well-behaved to ask why her mother’s being set alight in such a fashion, but she does cast a quizzical look at her father. He shakes his head slowly and puts a finger to his lips, and she stares straight ahead once more.

She’s like him. She’s disciplined.