A young man knelt beside the small spring in his uncle’s garden. The spring was a constant song often accompanied by flute-like nightingales, the sawing violin chirp of crickets, kettle drums in the form of raucous laughter, and the paper-brush of whispered betrayals. It was an orchestra whose music changed with the seasons as much as company.

This place had long been his favorite part of the house when he visited. He had a garden at home but none could match the effortless majesty of this place. He shifted slightly and adjusted a stray fold of his outer kimono. The emerald green made him feel like he was a part of the garden rather than an observer.

The shoji door made a soft shushing noise as it opened.

“The deed is done. He died with honor.”

Only the smallest sigh escaped before he responded with the necessary orders. “Bury him quickly and pass the word to our men. We march to war.”

The door slid shut.

In the quiet harmony of the garden, butterflies and tears mingled into a new song.