One hundred and three. That is how many long, long years Isumi Shinichirou has lived on this earth. Despite being the eldest in his group of friends, he has outlived them all - even the tenacious Waya - by a good ten years.
Today is the day that he will die. Isumi doesn't know this so much as feels it in his bones - a wisdom that comes with age, perhaps. It is an otherwise uneventful day - he is sitting in his favorite armchair in his respectfully modest house, a game laid out before him as he toys idly with the stones in his goke. He is alone - and yet he's not, as he lays out the games of those long since past; of those he still holds most dear.
It is a beautifully clear day, the blue sky beckoning to those who would heed its call, stray rays of sun making the goban shine more than something so old ought to. The game calls to him, and he takes a moment to remember the day it was played. It is a fond memory, like so many of his memories are.
On an otherwise ordinary day, a game laid out on an old goban, Isumi sits, completely unafraid to die. It is almost uneventful; birds soaring through the light breeze, squirrels frolicking between the trees as wrinkled and weathered fingers place the final stone. Blue eyes crinkle at the edges as Isumi smiles one last time.
It is not the perfect game, nor even the best move, but it is his, and that is all that matters.
Isumi leans back in his chair and draws his last breath, regretting nothing.
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timeasmymeasure
At Peace
Date: 2012-04-11 02:22 am (UTC)Today is the day that he will die. Isumi doesn't know this so much as feels it in his bones - a wisdom that comes with age, perhaps. It is an otherwise uneventful day - he is sitting in his favorite armchair in his respectfully modest house, a game laid out before him as he toys idly with the stones in his goke. He is alone - and yet he's not, as he lays out the games of those long since past; of those he still holds most dear.
It is a beautifully clear day, the blue sky beckoning to those who would heed its call, stray rays of sun making the goban shine more than something so old ought to. The game calls to him, and he takes a moment to remember the day it was played. It is a fond memory, like so many of his memories are.
On an otherwise ordinary day, a game laid out on an old goban, Isumi sits, completely unafraid to die. It is almost uneventful; birds soaring through the light breeze, squirrels frolicking between the trees as wrinkled and weathered fingers place the final stone. Blue eyes crinkle at the edges as Isumi smiles one last time.
It is not the perfect game, nor even the best move, but it is his, and that is all that matters.
Isumi leans back in his chair and draws his last breath, regretting nothing.