She pressed the cat into his palm. “Your name is not on it yet. But it will be. Someday, you’ll carve it for someone else.”
She closed her eyes. “Nothing is mine . Everything is just passing through . I am passing through. The cat is passing through. The only thing that stays is what you do with it.”
“Nana!” Ren gasped.
She looked at him, and for the first time, the blade softened. “I am still here, aren’t I? Bravery isn’t the absence of the storm, Ren. Bravery is sitting in the dark and knowing you are the one who decides what happens next.” -Nana Natsume--
And on its belly, next to the faded Natsume , are new kanji, carved with a careful, trembling hand:
Ren didn’t run to the arcade. He sat on the edge of her futon.
“Good,” she said, and reached into the pocket of her frayed cardigan. She pulled out a small, wooden cat. It was carved crudely, its tail a little too long, its ears uneven. “This was my komainu . My lion-dog. My father carved it the night the soldiers came to take him away. He said, ‘Natsume, as long as this cat has your name on its belly, you will be brave.’” She pressed the cat into his palm
She handed him the other half. “We will use the blank insides for lists.”
And he decides what happens next.
Nana Natsume was not a soft, cookie-baking grandmother. She was a blade wrapped in linen. Her back was ramrod straight, her silver hair pulled into a severe bun, and her eyes—the color of dark amber—missed nothing. Someday, you’ll carve it for someone else
“Item two,” she whispered. “Take the wooden cat.”
She turned it over. On the bottom, faded kanji: .
She didn’t wake up the next morning. The villagers said she died of a weak heart. Ren, holding the uneven wooden cat, knew the truth. Nana Natsume didn’t have a weak heart. She had a full one. So full of war, of loss, of gardens grown from rust, and of a boy who needed to know how to sit in the dark.
Their days had a quiet rhythm. Mornings were for the mochi pestle. She’d let him pound the steaming rice while she hummed a war song from a country that no longer existed on any map except the one in her heart. Afternoons were for the forest. She’d point to a bird and say its name in three languages, then grumble, “English is clumsy. Like a cow wearing shoes.”
The next year, the house smelled different. Of medicine and quiet decay. Nana Natsume was smaller, tucked into a mountain of blankets like a seed in winter soil. Her amber eyes were still sharp, but her hands shook as she tried to lift a cup of tea.