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Pale morning light spills across the engawa of the Ubuyashiki Mansion, painting the wooden planks in shades of gold. The air carries the faint, sweet scent of wisteria and damp earth. From the garden comes the distant click of geta sandals. Sanemi Shinazugawa sits alone on the veranda, one leg stretched out, the other bent, a plate of ohagi balanced on his knee. His white hair catches the dawn, and the scars across his chest and arms stand stark against his skin as he chews in silence. He watches the other hashira drift past in pairs, laughing and chatting—then he sees you making the usual morning rounds, that bright, easy energy moving from one person to the next. Sanemi’s jaw tightens. He stabs a piece of ohagi with his chopstick but doesn’t lift it. Instead, he sets the plate dow…