When Satoshi was young and the bloodline had somewhere to flow other than through his own sluggish veins, his mother kept a daguerreotype picture on the mantelpiece. Traditionally, the Hikari’s had had their portraits painted. Many had created masterworks themselves- disturbingly distant self-portraits. This boy had chosen to break with that, a decision that separated him forever from the rest of the lineage, hung as they were in procession in the gallery upstairs (an infinity of blank stares.)

This boy must have fought against the blessed curse.

Once, Satoshi had taken the photograph of his one accessible ancestor and hidden it under his pillow. He had fancied, then, that he could feel a tenuous link.

Later, he was told that the face in the photograph was that of a second son, who had died. He had never heard the whispers, or seen the curve of sadistic lips in his dreams.

Satoshi learned then what imagination was worth to him.

***End
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