In the small chamber that has been afforded to him--privacy is a luxury, of course, and honor due to the Family--Urusai sits at a low desk that has been provided for him. Ink, brushes, and paper are laid out on it, but Urusai merely sits and stares at the blank pages, their tyranny not the worst oppression he faces and feels in the moment.

No, that is the aching quiet of the space in which he finds himself.

It is tastefully decorated, of course. An empty daisho stand sits in a position of honor, a scroll of elegant calligraphy--"harmony"--hanging over it. A small bonsai sits beside, the trunk of the small tree bending out and back to offer shade to the center-point of the arrangement. An ikebana arrangement--bamboo for the Family, a blue iris, and orange sweet osmanthus--sits in the opposite corner. The tatami are smooth, and the futon, folded neatly, is comfortable, as Urusai knows from experience.

But all of it is empty.

At the hour, there are few servants in the halls, and those seem trained to step lightly. The neighboring chambers seem not to have their inhabitants in them yet, if they are hosting anyone at all; certainly, there are not the small noises that anybody makes in the course of moving and living, no clearing throat or creaking of floorboard, rustling of cloth or expression of wind, joints popping or a body turning over under its blankets.

"Come on, boy. Write."

The voice is a familiar one from years in the years before, but Urusai still starts to hear it. And why not? There is no mouth to speak the words, though he hears them clearly enough, as he ever does.

"The brush is right in front of you."

And it is, a fine thing, almost too delicate for his callused hands, one with a finger just out of line from when it was broken once by a classmate's enthusiasm.

"Even so small a story might be worth the recollection to somebody."

"Yes, Uncle."

But his hand does not move. Nor do his eyes.