Hatsumono

Fukuzawa has walked this path a thousand times before: he knows every little bump in the road, every tiny rock, the exact pitch of the rooster's crow as it greets the very first strip of orange on the horizon.The door to the dojo is open when he approaches it in a slow, even gait, lingering near the steps to remove his geta. Putting them aside, he steps on the tatami floor, the friction of its ribbed surface steadying against his bare feet. One step forward is all he manages before the familiar pressure of a fukuro shinai – a bamboo training sword – lands against his chest in a smooth strike."Got ya."