The General
A guardian of balance.
Silent. Unshaken. Eternal.
Ink pools on wet paper as the General lifts his brush.
Rich black blooms to grey, then dissolves to nothing.
It reminds him of smoke, a distant memory of burning and destruction.
His hand finds the hilt of his blade.
The past, present, and future overlap, folding into one.
Somewhere beyond sight, embers glow and fade, their whispers linger.
He breathes in the cool air and sighs, quiet as wind through bamboo.
The paper is marked.
The ink is set.
The General lays down his brush
and pours himself another cup of tea.
The General doesn't command armies.
He guards harmony.