The Ghost Belonged to Me (Hikaru no Go, 1/4)
The Ghost Belonged to Me
~ A Hikaru no Go Fanfiction ~
by aishuu
Pairing: Akira/Hikaru, eventually
Summary: After Touya Kouya dies, Akira begins to have visitations from his father's spirit. There's more than one lesson the Meijin still needs to teach his son.
Notes: To be released on alternating Saturdays.
Part One:
The night my father died, I became the second Touya-Meijin.
It was a Thursday night in early November when he passed. I was playing against Ogata in one of the most important matches of my career, but I gladly would have forfeited if I had known my father was dying. That was a choice that was never given to me, and I regret that.
I hadn't thought about Father much that day, even though I knew he was frailer than he should be. Some people in our lives we mentally mark as immortal; after the scare of a dozen years ago, Father began to take care of himself.
I was being a good Go player, and concentrating on the seventh match in the Meijin series, putting all external concerns from my mind in pursuit of the title. We each had already claimed three games, so everything rode on this pivotal match.
I already held two titles - Juudan and Kisei - but if there was one title I would have given them both up for, it was Meijin. A small part of my mind was thinking that in scoring the third title, I would again pace Shindou in our race, since he had just won his second title. It would also be a thrill to claim the title which my father had been known for.
The fifth game in the Meijin series was full of excitement for the audience, but I found the place that father called the “center” and was able to divorce myself from the stress. I won the game by five moku, my largest victory over Ogata ever, even including practice matches. I had played excellently, overcoming my old limits and refining my “attacking” style so that I'd surpassed him in that match.
It was really a wonderful game, or so I discovered when I brought myself to look it up a couple of years later. It is the only game that I did not retain a perfect recall of, for obvious reasons.
I could see Ogata was simmering with resentment as he congratulated me for the win. His eyes glittered unpleasantly behind his glasses, and I knew he was plotting ways to take me down. In the Go world, friendship ends in a match.
I tried to be a graceful winner and not do anything to rub his loss in, but a smile of pleasure found my lips, and I couldn't wait to call Father and talk to him about the game. He would probably had suggestions on how I could have done it even better. He always did; his insight into Go was something I never quite matched. One day, I would vowed to surpass him, but he was still my superior.
We had begun to discuss the game with members of the media, and Ogata admitted I'd played the key hand early on, and he'd never been able to recover. He should have resigned halfway through, but he had been desperate, hoping to find some way out. He didn't phrase it that way exactly, but both of us knew the truth.
Iijima, the lead editor of Weekly Go, turned to ask me a question. I don't remember what he said, because something distracted me. The door to the outer hallway was open just enough for me to hear voices discussing something earnestly, although I couldn't make out exactly what they were talking about. They were louder than they should have been, since the post-game discussion was one of the most important parts and people should have been silent.
“Is something going on?” I asked, turning my head toward the door.
Iijima frowned in irritation, but he rose to find out what had caused the commotion. “I'll be right back,” he promised, and I anticipated he would throw out whoever was acting so rudely.
A minute went by, then two, and the waiting dragged on. Ogata glanced at his watch, bristling with irritation, but I knew better than to address him. Another minute, and I stared at the board, wondering why I felt uneasy.
Iijima finally stepped back into the room, accompanied by a man I knew very well. It was Ashiwara, who I had assumed had been watching from the observation room. Both of them looked grave, and I raised an eyebrow inquiringly. It was unusual to be interrupted, but Ogata and I both kept from protesting. Ashiwara knew not to disturb us unless there was an important matter.
“Akira-kun,” Ashiwara said, “I need to talk to you about something.” His normally vibrant face was waxy, and his bloodless lips made him look like a corpse. Whatever he was going to say, I wasn't going to like it.
I was right.
Ogata was human enough to set aside his grudge with me and offer me a ride home. He had been one of my father's students, he said, and it was his duty to help out in a time of need.
I don't remember agreeing to accept it, or most of the ride. I know Ashiwara sat beside me on the back seat, a hand pressed against my shoulder in a gesture that should have been comforting. I don't remember the feel of his touch, or the reassuring words he tried to offer me. Instead, I remember watching the clouds in the sky, and the lingering scent of tobacco that filled the car.
It's strange what we remember.
I don't think I felt grief; instead, a feeling of confusion nearly overpowered me. I couldn't believe he was gone. Surely Ashiwara had made some mistake. Ashiwara tended to be excitable, and it was feasible that he had confused the message.
Knowing Ogata, he probably broke all kinds of laws to get back to my parents' home quickly, but the ride seemed to drag on forever. I just wanted to get home, find out what the truth was - another heart attack, maybe - and speak to my father.
Ogata pulled into the driveway just as the sunset was finishing. Ashiwara didn't wait for him to stop the car fully, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door while the vehicle was still rolling. I watched as he came around the other side, pulling the door open for me. He waited as I undid my seatbelt, but I brushed aside the hand he offered to help me rise.
The lights of the lower floor of the house were on, I noted absently. I walked over the stones that marked the entryway. Ashiwara had arrived sooner, and opened the door for me. I think he wanted to feel useful, instead of helpless. Some people are like that in a crisis, making work for themselves so they don't have to admit how powerless they are.
The house didn't look any different than it had before. There was nothing out of place to indicate stress or hurry, which made a lump form in the middle of my stomach. “I'm home,” I called softly, but no one answered me.
I removed my shoes in the genkan, setting them neatly on the top step before entering the living area. My mother sat inside, her eyes red from tears, but otherwise still her usual serene self.
She watched as I entered, but made no move to rise. “Hello, Akira-san,” she said, and she gestured for me to take a place next to her on the couch.
For as long as I can remember, I've been “Akira-san” to my mother. Ashiwara once pointed out that it wasn't usual for a child to be addressed so formally by his parent, but I had replied that it was just my family. Formality ran deep in us, and we were not demonstrative. It was good at that moment, because I could cling to the manners that I had been reared with.
“How are you, Mother?” I asked politely.
She didn't bother to force a smile. “Akira-san, I assume Ashiwara-san told you what happened. There is much to be done.”
“He didn't tell me,” Ogata said, cutting into the conversation. He leaned against the door's frame, his arms crossed in front of himself. Ashiwara stood next to him, shifting back and forth on his feet awkwardly. “What happened to sensei?”
For once I was grateful for his blunt manner. He was as good as any of my father's students at obeying the courtesies of a Go professional, but he had a way of cutting through the trivial matters. I wished I dared speak like him, but father's training was ingrained in me.
My mother showed her first outward sign of emotion. Her eyes lowered to her lap, and I noticed her hands had been clenched into fists. “He's recently started to take naps after lunch. I didn't think anything of it when he didn't wake up on time. It wasn't until he was an hour past due that I went to check on him...” She trailed off. “It looks like he had a heart attack while he was sleeping. The doctors say he never felt a thing.”
I stared down at my hands. Now that I was hearing it directly from my mother, I could not deny the truth. “Why didn't you call me?” I asked. I wanted to know why she had contacted Ashiwara, rather than me.
“Your father wouldn't have wanted to interfere with your game,” my mother told me. Her eyes were free of tears, but her voice trembled. “He was so proud of what you were doing. I know - I know that he would have wanted you to keep playing.”
I opened my mouth to object, but I couldn't form the words. I could not blame my mother for thinking like that, since she was correct about my father's preferences. After his first heart attack, he'd been annoyed at himself that his condition had interfered with my much-anticipated game with Shindou. If I had lost the Meijin match due to his death, he would have come back to haunt me.
Not that it was a comfort. My victory, which I had been so excited about an hour before, seemed hollow. I could not share it with him. He was - had been - my greatest supporter and greatest inspiration.
My mind was dancing with images of my father, and the time we had - and hadn't - spent together. I had known my father hadn't been feeling well, but I hadn't realized it was so serious. I hadn't seen him in two days, and had to struggle to remember what his final words to me had been.
The conversation was continuing without me. Ogata asked where my father's body was, and mother replied that the emergency crews had taken him to the morgue. Arrangements had been previously made with a funeral home, but there were still many unanswered questions. Notifying friends and family, writing the death notice, contacting my father's favorite temple and arranging the memorial, finding a picture of him, dealing with the media...
“I'll start making arrangements. There is a lot to be done,” I said, echoing my mother's words. My mother nodded, and I rose to my feet, pulling out my cell phone in preparation of a night of calling.
Then I started to arrange my father's funeral.
I didn't get to bed until late that night - perhaps it would be better to say early the next morning. There were truly an unbelievable amount of details that needed to be attended to. For every answer I decided, another ten questions popped up, and not everyone was available late Thursday night. Many of my messages were left on answering machines.
I did manage to get hold of the temple, which would take care of Father's body until the wake. They told me to come first thing in the morning to take care of the details.
Finally Ogata ordered me to bed, pointing out I would be next to useless if I didn't have any rest. He was gentler than usual, adding that he planned to stay in the guest room so he could be available to help in the morning. I was grateful, because I had never undertaken such arrangements before and needed guidance. Even though I had just taken a title from Ogata he cherished, I trusted him.
I still maintained the bedroom of my youth, although I had moved out after turning twenty. My apartment was the place I stayed, but it had never become home. I still spent a day or two a month at my parents' home, usually after lingering too long in post game discussions with my father. That would not be happening anymore, I forced myself to admit. I would never sit over a goban with my father again.
I wondered why I was not crying at that realization.
I didn't bother to change, although I kept clothes there. Instead, I removed my jacket, socks, belt and tie, undid the topmost buttons on my shirt, went to the bathroom to wash my face, and retrieve a certain bottle. Since I suffered from irregular bouts of insomnia, my doctor had given me a prescription to help on sleepless nights.
I popped a pill, and settled under my blankets, hoping for a dreamless sleep. I didn't get it, but I wasn't surprised. It was natural for me to dream of my father.
There's times when you realize you are dreaming, but are unable - and unwilling - to wake up. The dream was as real to me as reality itself, although the back of my mind was detached, recognizing that I was asleep.
I was walking through my parents' house, feeling divorced from my surroundings. My mother was not present, I knew instinctively, but that didn't feel strange. The person I was looking for was seated in the Go room.
The door was half-closed, and I had to push it open. My father was in seiza, staring at the board in front of him. It was - had been - his habit to contemplate past games in such a fashion, and was so natural that I found nothing wrong with it.
“Hello, father,” I said.
He nodded, indicating that I was to come in. There were times when he preferred to be alone in his meditations, so we'd learned to communicate that. I entered the room, then shut the door behind me.
He was not the man he'd been when he'd died - instead, he wore the form of the strong Meijin I remembered from my youth, the man who had yet to be afflicted with illness, in the prime of his career. There was a game set out on the board in front of him; it was not one that we had played together, but I recognized it instantly.
It was the game my father had played against Tsuda-meijin to secure his title. I had replayed the game over and over throughout my childhood, admiring the depth of thinking my father had reached to overcome a man who had successfully defended the Meijin title for six years.
“How was your day, Akira?” Father asked.
“Not good. You died today,” I replied calmly, sinking into my customary position on the pillow across from him. It should have seemed like a ridiculous thing to say, but it seemed right. Dreams are like that.
“All men must pass,” he said. His expression remained impassive.
“I never really believed you would.”
“I was mortal, just like anyone,” he said. “This was one of the best games I ever played.”
“But not the best.”
“No, that was the game I played against that person,” Father replied. “I thought I saw the shadow of the Hand of God in him.”
“I always saw that in you,” I replied.
He shook his head. “You need to look to the future of Go, rather than the past. The Hand of God has yet to be played.”
“I know.” We had discussed it many times, theorizing what it would be like to play that ultimate move. “It's weird to be talking about this with you since you died today.”
“Do you think death would stop me from seeking the Hand of God?” he asked, and I detected a faint smile on his lips. He was teasing me in his subtle fashion.
“No.” I paused, then asked the question I needed an answer to. “Did it hurt, dying?”
For the first time, I had his entire attention. The Go game sat forgotten between us. “I didn't realize I was dying,” he said. “When a man has to die, there's no better way than in his sleep.”
“I wish you weren't dead.”
“I wish I hadn't left you without saying goodbye,” Father said. “Are you doing okay, Akira?”
“I don't know how I feel,” I confessed. “I don't feel devastated. I'm not upset. I'm sorry,” I told him, because he deserved better.
“It's probably shock,” he told me. “You'll get over it. You'll miss me every day for the rest of your life. I missed my father like that.”
I had been a late-life baby for my father. My father had been an only child, and his parents died before I was born. He talked about his parents rarely, and I wish I had known them because they sounded like wonderful people. If I ever had children - which was looking more and more unlikely as time passed - they would never know my father.
“I'm sure I will,” I said.
“It's the way it's supposed to be. There is no father who does not want his son to miss him. Fathers may prepare their children for life, but they never want to stop being a part of it.”
I nodded. There was nothing more to say, so I turned my head to the game. “Why did you decide to play tenuki there?” I asked. “I've always wondered how hard it was to ignore the battle for the upper right corner...”
My father gave me a smile, then set about explaining his reasoning. It was just like so many times before, and it didn't matter to me that he was dead, and I was just dreaming.
~ A Hikaru no Go Fanfiction ~
by aishuu
Pairing: Akira/Hikaru, eventually
Summary: After Touya Kouya dies, Akira begins to have visitations from his father's spirit. There's more than one lesson the Meijin still needs to teach his son.
Notes: To be released on alternating Saturdays.
Part One:
The night my father died, I became the second Touya-Meijin.
It was a Thursday night in early November when he passed. I was playing against Ogata in one of the most important matches of my career, but I gladly would have forfeited if I had known my father was dying. That was a choice that was never given to me, and I regret that.
I hadn't thought about Father much that day, even though I knew he was frailer than he should be. Some people in our lives we mentally mark as immortal; after the scare of a dozen years ago, Father began to take care of himself.
I was being a good Go player, and concentrating on the seventh match in the Meijin series, putting all external concerns from my mind in pursuit of the title. We each had already claimed three games, so everything rode on this pivotal match.
I already held two titles - Juudan and Kisei - but if there was one title I would have given them both up for, it was Meijin. A small part of my mind was thinking that in scoring the third title, I would again pace Shindou in our race, since he had just won his second title. It would also be a thrill to claim the title which my father had been known for.
The fifth game in the Meijin series was full of excitement for the audience, but I found the place that father called the “center” and was able to divorce myself from the stress. I won the game by five moku, my largest victory over Ogata ever, even including practice matches. I had played excellently, overcoming my old limits and refining my “attacking” style so that I'd surpassed him in that match.
It was really a wonderful game, or so I discovered when I brought myself to look it up a couple of years later. It is the only game that I did not retain a perfect recall of, for obvious reasons.
I could see Ogata was simmering with resentment as he congratulated me for the win. His eyes glittered unpleasantly behind his glasses, and I knew he was plotting ways to take me down. In the Go world, friendship ends in a match.
I tried to be a graceful winner and not do anything to rub his loss in, but a smile of pleasure found my lips, and I couldn't wait to call Father and talk to him about the game. He would probably had suggestions on how I could have done it even better. He always did; his insight into Go was something I never quite matched. One day, I would vowed to surpass him, but he was still my superior.
We had begun to discuss the game with members of the media, and Ogata admitted I'd played the key hand early on, and he'd never been able to recover. He should have resigned halfway through, but he had been desperate, hoping to find some way out. He didn't phrase it that way exactly, but both of us knew the truth.
Iijima, the lead editor of Weekly Go, turned to ask me a question. I don't remember what he said, because something distracted me. The door to the outer hallway was open just enough for me to hear voices discussing something earnestly, although I couldn't make out exactly what they were talking about. They were louder than they should have been, since the post-game discussion was one of the most important parts and people should have been silent.
“Is something going on?” I asked, turning my head toward the door.
Iijima frowned in irritation, but he rose to find out what had caused the commotion. “I'll be right back,” he promised, and I anticipated he would throw out whoever was acting so rudely.
A minute went by, then two, and the waiting dragged on. Ogata glanced at his watch, bristling with irritation, but I knew better than to address him. Another minute, and I stared at the board, wondering why I felt uneasy.
Iijima finally stepped back into the room, accompanied by a man I knew very well. It was Ashiwara, who I had assumed had been watching from the observation room. Both of them looked grave, and I raised an eyebrow inquiringly. It was unusual to be interrupted, but Ogata and I both kept from protesting. Ashiwara knew not to disturb us unless there was an important matter.
“Akira-kun,” Ashiwara said, “I need to talk to you about something.” His normally vibrant face was waxy, and his bloodless lips made him look like a corpse. Whatever he was going to say, I wasn't going to like it.
I was right.
Ogata was human enough to set aside his grudge with me and offer me a ride home. He had been one of my father's students, he said, and it was his duty to help out in a time of need.
I don't remember agreeing to accept it, or most of the ride. I know Ashiwara sat beside me on the back seat, a hand pressed against my shoulder in a gesture that should have been comforting. I don't remember the feel of his touch, or the reassuring words he tried to offer me. Instead, I remember watching the clouds in the sky, and the lingering scent of tobacco that filled the car.
It's strange what we remember.
I don't think I felt grief; instead, a feeling of confusion nearly overpowered me. I couldn't believe he was gone. Surely Ashiwara had made some mistake. Ashiwara tended to be excitable, and it was feasible that he had confused the message.
Knowing Ogata, he probably broke all kinds of laws to get back to my parents' home quickly, but the ride seemed to drag on forever. I just wanted to get home, find out what the truth was - another heart attack, maybe - and speak to my father.
Ogata pulled into the driveway just as the sunset was finishing. Ashiwara didn't wait for him to stop the car fully, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door while the vehicle was still rolling. I watched as he came around the other side, pulling the door open for me. He waited as I undid my seatbelt, but I brushed aside the hand he offered to help me rise.
The lights of the lower floor of the house were on, I noted absently. I walked over the stones that marked the entryway. Ashiwara had arrived sooner, and opened the door for me. I think he wanted to feel useful, instead of helpless. Some people are like that in a crisis, making work for themselves so they don't have to admit how powerless they are.
The house didn't look any different than it had before. There was nothing out of place to indicate stress or hurry, which made a lump form in the middle of my stomach. “I'm home,” I called softly, but no one answered me.
I removed my shoes in the genkan, setting them neatly on the top step before entering the living area. My mother sat inside, her eyes red from tears, but otherwise still her usual serene self.
She watched as I entered, but made no move to rise. “Hello, Akira-san,” she said, and she gestured for me to take a place next to her on the couch.
For as long as I can remember, I've been “Akira-san” to my mother. Ashiwara once pointed out that it wasn't usual for a child to be addressed so formally by his parent, but I had replied that it was just my family. Formality ran deep in us, and we were not demonstrative. It was good at that moment, because I could cling to the manners that I had been reared with.
“How are you, Mother?” I asked politely.
She didn't bother to force a smile. “Akira-san, I assume Ashiwara-san told you what happened. There is much to be done.”
“He didn't tell me,” Ogata said, cutting into the conversation. He leaned against the door's frame, his arms crossed in front of himself. Ashiwara stood next to him, shifting back and forth on his feet awkwardly. “What happened to sensei?”
For once I was grateful for his blunt manner. He was as good as any of my father's students at obeying the courtesies of a Go professional, but he had a way of cutting through the trivial matters. I wished I dared speak like him, but father's training was ingrained in me.
My mother showed her first outward sign of emotion. Her eyes lowered to her lap, and I noticed her hands had been clenched into fists. “He's recently started to take naps after lunch. I didn't think anything of it when he didn't wake up on time. It wasn't until he was an hour past due that I went to check on him...” She trailed off. “It looks like he had a heart attack while he was sleeping. The doctors say he never felt a thing.”
I stared down at my hands. Now that I was hearing it directly from my mother, I could not deny the truth. “Why didn't you call me?” I asked. I wanted to know why she had contacted Ashiwara, rather than me.
“Your father wouldn't have wanted to interfere with your game,” my mother told me. Her eyes were free of tears, but her voice trembled. “He was so proud of what you were doing. I know - I know that he would have wanted you to keep playing.”
I opened my mouth to object, but I couldn't form the words. I could not blame my mother for thinking like that, since she was correct about my father's preferences. After his first heart attack, he'd been annoyed at himself that his condition had interfered with my much-anticipated game with Shindou. If I had lost the Meijin match due to his death, he would have come back to haunt me.
Not that it was a comfort. My victory, which I had been so excited about an hour before, seemed hollow. I could not share it with him. He was - had been - my greatest supporter and greatest inspiration.
My mind was dancing with images of my father, and the time we had - and hadn't - spent together. I had known my father hadn't been feeling well, but I hadn't realized it was so serious. I hadn't seen him in two days, and had to struggle to remember what his final words to me had been.
The conversation was continuing without me. Ogata asked where my father's body was, and mother replied that the emergency crews had taken him to the morgue. Arrangements had been previously made with a funeral home, but there were still many unanswered questions. Notifying friends and family, writing the death notice, contacting my father's favorite temple and arranging the memorial, finding a picture of him, dealing with the media...
“I'll start making arrangements. There is a lot to be done,” I said, echoing my mother's words. My mother nodded, and I rose to my feet, pulling out my cell phone in preparation of a night of calling.
Then I started to arrange my father's funeral.
I didn't get to bed until late that night - perhaps it would be better to say early the next morning. There were truly an unbelievable amount of details that needed to be attended to. For every answer I decided, another ten questions popped up, and not everyone was available late Thursday night. Many of my messages were left on answering machines.
I did manage to get hold of the temple, which would take care of Father's body until the wake. They told me to come first thing in the morning to take care of the details.
Finally Ogata ordered me to bed, pointing out I would be next to useless if I didn't have any rest. He was gentler than usual, adding that he planned to stay in the guest room so he could be available to help in the morning. I was grateful, because I had never undertaken such arrangements before and needed guidance. Even though I had just taken a title from Ogata he cherished, I trusted him.
I still maintained the bedroom of my youth, although I had moved out after turning twenty. My apartment was the place I stayed, but it had never become home. I still spent a day or two a month at my parents' home, usually after lingering too long in post game discussions with my father. That would not be happening anymore, I forced myself to admit. I would never sit over a goban with my father again.
I wondered why I was not crying at that realization.
I didn't bother to change, although I kept clothes there. Instead, I removed my jacket, socks, belt and tie, undid the topmost buttons on my shirt, went to the bathroom to wash my face, and retrieve a certain bottle. Since I suffered from irregular bouts of insomnia, my doctor had given me a prescription to help on sleepless nights.
I popped a pill, and settled under my blankets, hoping for a dreamless sleep. I didn't get it, but I wasn't surprised. It was natural for me to dream of my father.
There's times when you realize you are dreaming, but are unable - and unwilling - to wake up. The dream was as real to me as reality itself, although the back of my mind was detached, recognizing that I was asleep.
I was walking through my parents' house, feeling divorced from my surroundings. My mother was not present, I knew instinctively, but that didn't feel strange. The person I was looking for was seated in the Go room.
The door was half-closed, and I had to push it open. My father was in seiza, staring at the board in front of him. It was - had been - his habit to contemplate past games in such a fashion, and was so natural that I found nothing wrong with it.
“Hello, father,” I said.
He nodded, indicating that I was to come in. There were times when he preferred to be alone in his meditations, so we'd learned to communicate that. I entered the room, then shut the door behind me.
He was not the man he'd been when he'd died - instead, he wore the form of the strong Meijin I remembered from my youth, the man who had yet to be afflicted with illness, in the prime of his career. There was a game set out on the board in front of him; it was not one that we had played together, but I recognized it instantly.
It was the game my father had played against Tsuda-meijin to secure his title. I had replayed the game over and over throughout my childhood, admiring the depth of thinking my father had reached to overcome a man who had successfully defended the Meijin title for six years.
“How was your day, Akira?” Father asked.
“Not good. You died today,” I replied calmly, sinking into my customary position on the pillow across from him. It should have seemed like a ridiculous thing to say, but it seemed right. Dreams are like that.
“All men must pass,” he said. His expression remained impassive.
“I never really believed you would.”
“I was mortal, just like anyone,” he said. “This was one of the best games I ever played.”
“But not the best.”
“No, that was the game I played against that person,” Father replied. “I thought I saw the shadow of the Hand of God in him.”
“I always saw that in you,” I replied.
He shook his head. “You need to look to the future of Go, rather than the past. The Hand of God has yet to be played.”
“I know.” We had discussed it many times, theorizing what it would be like to play that ultimate move. “It's weird to be talking about this with you since you died today.”
“Do you think death would stop me from seeking the Hand of God?” he asked, and I detected a faint smile on his lips. He was teasing me in his subtle fashion.
“No.” I paused, then asked the question I needed an answer to. “Did it hurt, dying?”
For the first time, I had his entire attention. The Go game sat forgotten between us. “I didn't realize I was dying,” he said. “When a man has to die, there's no better way than in his sleep.”
“I wish you weren't dead.”
“I wish I hadn't left you without saying goodbye,” Father said. “Are you doing okay, Akira?”
“I don't know how I feel,” I confessed. “I don't feel devastated. I'm not upset. I'm sorry,” I told him, because he deserved better.
“It's probably shock,” he told me. “You'll get over it. You'll miss me every day for the rest of your life. I missed my father like that.”
I had been a late-life baby for my father. My father had been an only child, and his parents died before I was born. He talked about his parents rarely, and I wish I had known them because they sounded like wonderful people. If I ever had children - which was looking more and more unlikely as time passed - they would never know my father.
“I'm sure I will,” I said.
“It's the way it's supposed to be. There is no father who does not want his son to miss him. Fathers may prepare their children for life, but they never want to stop being a part of it.”
I nodded. There was nothing more to say, so I turned my head to the game. “Why did you decide to play tenuki there?” I asked. “I've always wondered how hard it was to ignore the battle for the upper right corner...”
My father gave me a smile, then set about explaining his reasoning. It was just like so many times before, and it didn't matter to me that he was dead, and I was just dreaming.