Inheritence

(This story features mentions and minor descriptions of abuse, death, wish of murder, and suicide.)

Kaito stepped off the evening train into the humid breath of Kyoto, the cicadas screaming from every tree and bush off the main path. The air was still as fresh as he remembered, save for the humidity and tints of smoke from bonfires in the distance.

After walking for some time down the dirt path, sandals creating scuff marks on the ground, he paused beside a large home.

The Nakamura estate crouched behind a tall wall of blackened cedar, its silence more imposing than any gate. From the street, it gave away nothing—no garden, no windows, no welcome—only the sloped edges of a tiled roof peeking over the boundary like a sentinel's brow. Ivy clung to the edges of the outer wall, the leaves brittle with the season’s dry wind, whispering in the hush surrounding the place. Kaito heaved a silent sigh only he could hear as he shuffled out of his sandals and stepped inside. The home was quiet, the only sounds being the soft pads of his socks against the wood floor. His eyes flashed with abhorrence. How dare the house be this free of sobs and cries after the death of his old man? How dare his Father's death be of something as simple as heart failure? Kaito's hands itched as the idea of strangling Haruki Nakamura in his sleep filled his mind's eye. The sight of terror in his Father's features and the way his skin would turn a shade of pale blue from lack of oxygen. It seemed all too good to be true. Nonetheless, that would never happen now that Haruki was dead and in the grave.

Fixing his dark suit, Kaito sat on the floor with his head in his hands. Haruki Nakamura was a cruel and manipulative man, having abused him and his Mother for years before his passing. His mother was safe and living in Osaka with his aunt, who sent him letters about the time she spent in joy and freedom from her husband’s corrupted hands. Kaito cringed as memories of his Mother filled his head. She had always protected him from the worst of the abuse, shielding him with her body and cradling him to her chest the way any loving mother would. But oh, how he wished he could have done the same for her when she needed it most. Haruki Nakamura deserved to be dead. To rot in the undermost pits of hell tormented profusely by demons. He taught him to bow, to smile, to lie—and then called it discipline. So Kaito buried love where he couldn’t reach it, and watered the roots of something colder.

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“Kaito Nakamura, a pleasure to meet you.”

Kaito ground his jaw behind closed lips as he shook hands with the man standing in front of him clad in a navy blue suit and tie. His thinning blonde gray hair swept sideways over his gaping forehead and his crooked teeth shone proudly as he grinned. It had been a week after they arrived in Kyoto, and now he met with an American man who had been Haruki’s greatest friend. Thomas Macoy, a businessman who looked over many assets and dealt with funding for the police, where Haruki worked as chief.

“It’s a real shame Haruki passed, he will be missed by the police department.” He commented, his lips thinning into a tight frown. “He was a great man.”

Kaito smiled, his cheeks burning as he fought back the urge to slap the man right across the face and give him a dull bruise. Did Thomas know what his father was like behind closed doors, shattering glass and screaming in his mother's face? “Yes, he was. He always believed in justice.”

“I can’t even imagine the grief you must be going through.” Thomas put his hands in his pockets, shaking his broad head from side to side.

The laugh that spilled from Kaito’s mouth was dull. “I’ll get over it.”

An hour passed, and now Kaito sat at a desk in his father's estate. He jammed a pen into the mahogany surface and shouted furiously into his hands. Beads of sweat formed on his temple as the air grew humid and dense. “Where is the damn justice in any of this!” He snarled, picking up the paperwork that littered the desk. “What good will any paperwork do for this estate? It should be burned!”

With a sudden movement, Kaito rose from his chair, looming over the desk as he glared at the stacks of papers before him—each one demanding his signature. “What good does owning this estate do?” he muttered, shutting his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. His mind drifted to his mother, who could have a life of luxury here, a life she truly deserved. But he quickly dismissed the notion. No, she was content living with his aunt, at peace in her chosen surroundings. The thought of igniting this place in flames crossed his mind, but he knew it would accomplish nothing more than clearing the remnants of his past. His gaze wandered, landing on a white sheet of paper that had slipped beneath the desk. Frowning, he bent down to retrieve it, his slender fingers brushing against the surface. Expecting yet another mundane document, he flipped it over, only to freeze at the sight of the handwriting. It was a diary entry by Haruki Nakamura—his father. Dated August 7, 1995, the day before his tragic death, the words were inscribed on delicate rice paper, each stroke resonating with raw emotion. A lump formed in Kaito's throat as he sank back into his chair, his heart racing as he began to skim the jagged lines of his father’s final thoughts.

If someone is reading this, I am already dead. This was never meant for eyes—not even yours, Kaito.

I was a man who did what was necessary. I believed in order, in tradition, in the silence that keeps a family from falling apart. They said I was strict. That I had no heart. They said it when they whispered about me in hallways when they bowed but wouldn’t meet my eyes. Maybe they were right.

You were a quiet child. Always watching, always too soft. I saw in you something dangerous—a softness the world would punish. I thought I could train it out of you. Make you a man. Make you into me.

But you watched your mother fade. I saw it, too. I just didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. There were things she knew—things she was not supposed to carry. And I needed her to carry them anyway. Maybe that was my failure.

There is no forgiveness in this house. Not for me. Not from you. I shaped this place like a blade and taught you how to survive inside it. I realize now that it was not love, but cruelty wearing a father’s face.

I didn’t write this to ask for your forgiveness, Kaito. I don’t expect it. I write because the silence has finally begun to feel like drowning. And maybe, just maybe, if I put these words somewhere, I can die with a little less weight pressing on my chest.

But if you do read this...

I hope you remember something of me besides the sound of your mother crying behind a closed door.

—Haruki Nakamura

Kaito lowered the page, his chest rising as he drew in a deep breath. Rising to his feet, he stepped outside, gripping the old letter so tightly that it left an imprint on his skin. The spacious living room loomed around him, weighed down by an oppressive silence that only this letter could encapsulate; the fireplace stood as its silent executioner. He reached for a flint stone resting in a bowl and struck a spark against the dry wood, watching the flames eagerly leap to life.

With a steady resolve, Kaito tossed the letter into the crackling fire, observing as it disintegrated, fragment by fragment. His father never sought forgiveness, so Kaito knew he had nothing to offer in return. The world didn’t need to know of Haruki’s cruel deeds, nor the hidden regrets that haunted him. If, in time, the darkness of Haruki’s heart emerged from the shadows, it would be too late for understanding. He would be remembered solely as a tyrant—a fitting legacy for a man as wretched as he.

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Mother was dead.

Kaito knew that from the beginning when he arrived in Kyoto on that bus when he stepped into his father's estate and remembered his Mother in such harsh lighting. He remembered the day when he was about thirteen years of age when his Father ordered him to take down the hanging body of his mother, who was attached to a rope by the neck. Father said she had most likely done it while they were away visiting Reverend Tomoya, and it was her mistake for committing such a sin. Kaito had pulled her body down and held her in his arms, dark eyes wide with hidden terror and grief. The world was cruel, and that’s all there was to it. She didn’t die all at once. She disappeared in pieces—first her laughter, then her voice, then the light in her eyes. By the time her body followed, there was nothing left to mourn.

Haruki didn’t help in her burial, Kaito did it on his own. He dug the grave and lowered her body into the dirt. It seemed terrible, to shovel the ground over his mother until her features were hidden from the world. Would God remember her? Kaito didn’t believe in such an entity, but he thought that for a moment if there was a God, his mother should be the first to enter the gates of Heaven.

That night, Kaito lit a match and watched the flame spark onto the wooden beam of Reverend Tomoya’s home. The man, whom Kaito had researched by reading all of his father's journal entries, knew about Haruki’s abuse towards his family and kept it a secret for his reputation. This man must burn. He could have done something, anything, to help Kaito’s Mother be free of the torment. Instead, he kept quiet. Did he support his Father’s actions?

Walking away from the house that was bursting into flames by the second, Kaito sneered and fumbled into his car. “Rot like you deserve.”

None of his father’s friend’s deserved to live. How many of which knew about the corrupt living of his so-called father and didn’t bat an eye?

Kaito sat in his car, pressing his temple to the wheel with a permanent frown etched into his features. The AC fanned his face but did nothing to console the lingering hatred that burnt a hole through his heart and soul.

“Life is a battlefield. You live to fight. You fight to hate. And hate… is all that’s real.”