Convergence

Part 1 : chapter 4

At the announcement, the entire room fell silent.

Then, all at once, a storm of questions erupted.

Voices overlapped, pressing for details, for explanations - anything that might make sense of the tragedy.

Only Utahime remained silent.

She stood apart, unmoving, while the others crowded around the servant like bees drawn to honey.

Madame Gojo had been found dead in her chambers around noon.

No one had realised she was still inside.

At first, her attendants assumed she had wished to rest longer than usual. But when she still gave no sign of life by early afternoon, one of them finally dared to enter.

She had already been dead for hours.

Her skin was ashen, her cheeks hollow, her lips tinged blue.

Panic spread through the household at once. Other members of the family were immediately summoned.

Gojo Satoru's uncle went straight to her room, accompanied by the medical examiner, to confirm her death.

"What about Gojo Satoru? Has he been told?" someone asked.

"I believe he was the last to be informed," the servant replied. "All his scheduled activities were cancelled at once."

A faint ache stirred in Utahime's chest.

She thought of the young boy - of the sudden loss that must have swallowed him whole. The pain must have been unbearable. Now, he was truly alone.

A deep, suffocating loneliness must have taken hold of him.

She wanted to run to him - but what could she possibly say? She had never faced such loss herself.

...

For several weeks, the entire household remained in mourning.

All the women wore black kimonos; the men, black formal attire.

Silence was strictly enforced.

Anyone who laughed too loudly, spoke excessively, or ate with visible greed was severely punished.

On the day of the funeral, the cold was merciless.

Utahime had never felt such biting cold in her life. She found herself longing for the milder winters of southern Japan. Each breath she exhaled formed a pale cloud in the air.

The funeral procession gathered dozens of members of the Gojo clan from across the country.

Their expressions were uniformly sombre - much like Satoru's. It was impossible to tell whether their grief was genuine, or merely customary.

At the head of the procession stood Satoru, dressed entirely in black. Behind him followed his uncle, his aunt, and their extended relatives.

In his hands, he carried a large framed portrait of his late mother.

His features were drawn, dark circles shadowing his once radiant eyes.

It was painful to behold.

Utahime felt her chest tighten.

He looked unbearably alone.

And he was.

But when her gaze fell upon the portrait, her heart nearly stopped.

It was the very same woman she had seen that night.

A crushing weight of guilt settled upon her shoulders.