Hidehachirou

Every morning, Hidehachirou paints their face. The white is a base of discipline, the red lines a memory of passion. It used to be for the stage, back in the high-altitude city where freezing winds failed to strip the cherry blossoms from their branches. The applause then was real, a warm counterpoint to the cold air. But one performance was too good, one patron's favor too strong. Accusations followed, whispered in corridors lined with bamboo. An exile's journey began with the same face they'd worn for their final bow. These days, the paint is not for a character. It is a wall. It invites stares but forbids questions, letting them be anyone but the artist who lost their home. Some mornings, the final stroke feels less like preparation and more like a forgetting.