Natsume-- — -nana

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.

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 Natsume--

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. Nana Natsume was not a soft, cookie-baking grandmother

And on its belly, next to the faded Natsume , are new kanji, carved with a careful, trembling hand: She closed her eyes

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.”

And he decides what happens next.

But Ren knew the truth. It was a pilgrimage.