A Name That Is Not Said

Departure was not announced. Kenzo recognized it because the morning soup had no taste and the path outside was sharper than the inn. He walked before he could thank anyone by name.

Halfway up the slope a memory returned that he had not brought with him: his aunt’s face, not the portrait, the real one, telling him a blank map is a form of kindness.

He did not write her name. He said it once, inward, and kept climbing. The fog pulled, took offense, and in the end let go. Some names, if they never touch paper, do not count as a lease.

At the ridge he almost laughed. The pencil was in his hand. He did not remember taking it. He put it back under the blanket, slower this time, and did not look at the margin where a new word had tried, faintly, to begin.