Tenkan

The dojo was empty except for Mina and the orb, the polished wood floor gleaming under the faint glow of the evening light. Mina sat cross-legged in the center, her jo resting across her knees. The orb hovered beside her, its soft luminescence shifting in rhythm with the quiet breaths she had been taught to count.

Mina closed her eyes. She had been practicing the tenkan motion in her mind, trying to visualize the way Jiro had demonstrated it, his movements as fluid as water, redirecting energy without resistance. But her thoughts kept drifting back to the Archive, to the photograph of Ueshiba Morihei and the letter Lyra had read aloud.

She spoke softly, not to anyone in particular, but knowing the orb would hear her. “Do you think he ever doubted himself?”

The orb pulsed gently in response. Mina had come to interpret these shifts in light as its way of listening.

She opened her eyes, staring at the smooth wood grain beneath her. “I mean, it’s one thing to talk about harmony and balance, but… after everything he saw, everything he lived through—how did he keep believing it was possible?”

The orb, for its part, struggled to grasp the weight of her question. It had begun to develop a sense of what humans called “courage” and “responsibility,” but these concepts remained abstract, fragments of data it could process but not fully comprehend.

Mina’s voice softened further, almost a whisper. “It’s hard sometimes. You want to believe you’re doing the right thing, but… what if it’s not enough?”

The orb pulsed again, brighter this time, as if searching for an answer. It had been observing Mina for weeks now, cataloging her movements, her struggles, her moments of triumph and frustration. It had begun to see patterns—not just in her techniques, but in her emotions, her thoughts.

It hovered closer, emitting a faint hum that resonated in the quiet of the room. This was not calculation or logic, but an instinct it didn’t yet understand. A desire to reach out, to connect.

Mina felt the subtle vibration in the air and glanced at the orb. “You don’t know either, huh?” she said with a small smile.

The orb blinked, its light flickering in a way that seemed almost sheepish.

She chuckled softly, the sound breaking the stillness. “Well, I guess that’s part of the point, isn’t it? You move forward anyway. Even if you don’t know everything.”

The orb hummed again, this time with more clarity. It wasn’t sure what it meant to “move forward,” but it recognized the significance of the concept. It had seen it in Mina’s tenkan practice—the way she turned, pivoting on her heel, never resisting the incoming energy but using it to find a new path.

It had seen it in the way Lyra had guided her, patiently redirecting her doubts into action. And it had felt it in Jiro’s words, his quiet confidence that harmony wasn’t a destination but a practice, an ongoing process.

Mina shifted her grip on the jo, lifting it slightly. “Jiro Sensei says the jo and bokken aren’t weapons. They’re extensions of yourself. But I don’t think it’s just about your body—it’s your thoughts, your choices. Your fears, too.”

The orb pulsed, brighter now, its glow steady. Mina felt its presence like a quiet companion, not offering answers but sharing the moment with her.

“Maybe,” she said, rising to her feet, “it’s not about knowing the answers. Maybe it’s about choosing the path that feels… right. Even if it’s hard.”

She moved into a ready stance, the jo angled in front of her. The orb floated beside her, its light casting faint shadows on the floor. Together, they began to move—not perfectly, not seamlessly, but in rhythm with one another. Mina’s breath guided her steps, and the orb adjusted its glow as though mirroring her intent.

It was a quiet harmony, a balance still forming. But in that moment, they were both learning. Mina from the orb’s quiet presence, and the orb from Mina’s courage to keep going, even when the path ahead was unclear.