The rain over Karakura Town was a lie. Isshin Kurosaki had told Ichigo it was a natural front moving in from the coast, but Rukia Kuchiki, standing atop the abandoned hospital, knew better. It was a Getsuga Tenshō of grief—slow, cold, and unwashable.
“I know.”
“You’re late,” he said without turning. “Thought Soul Society forgot about me.”
That half-second was enough.
Ichigo stared at it. “Why?”
Rukia reached into her shihakushō and pulled out a small, wrapped bundle. She placed it between them. Inside was a black ceramic sake cup, chipped on the rim—the same cup Kaien Shiba had once used in the Thirteenth Division’s mess hall.
Ichigo stood there, mop handle still raised, breathing hard. Then he lowered it and laughed—a real laugh this time, wet and tired and warm.
The rain over Karakura Town was a lie. Isshin Kurosaki had told Ichigo it was a natural front moving in from the coast, but Rukia Kuchiki, standing atop the abandoned hospital, knew better. It was a Getsuga Tenshō of grief—slow, cold, and unwashable.
“I know.”
“You’re late,” he said without turning. “Thought Soul Society forgot about me.”
That half-second was enough.
Ichigo stared at it. “Why?”
Rukia reached into her shihakushō and pulled out a small, wrapped bundle. She placed it between them. Inside was a black ceramic sake cup, chipped on the rim—the same cup Kaien Shiba had once used in the Thirteenth Division’s mess hall.
Ichigo stood there, mop handle still raised, breathing hard. Then he lowered it and laughed—a real laugh this time, wet and tired and warm.
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