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Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: Characters based on "Inuyasha" copyright 1997 by Rumiko Takahashi/Shogakukan, Inc. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.  The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise.  No copyright infringement is intended.

The snow is falling. Winter came early this year. We buried Sango today.

The shrine is silent. The crowds are gone. Everyone said it was a lovely funeral. Of course, half our village descends from Sango, our six children, thirty grand-children, and many great-grandchildren.

All Sango’s friends came to say goodbye. Kagome stayed with us the last week of Sango’s life; I did not ask how she knew when we needed her. She left after the funeral with Sesshoumaru and their two sons, who came to pay their last respects to their “Aunt Sango”. Shippou, Rin, her kitsune mate, and all the rest of the kitsune clan made the long trek from the south. They’ll stay here in our village at the foot of the hill for a few days. Even Inuyasha made the trip through the well. His visits have become much less frequent over the years. He watched us grow old and frail, while he did not change. Kikyo remained behind. Inuyasha said it was too near the time for their daughter to be born for her to travel. It was just as well; Sango never liked the once undead miko anyway.

At last, the mud and snow are swept out the door. I peer outside to see that there are no onlookers. I gather up the fruit offerings from the shrine to take to the forest’s edge. It is hard for the birds and small animals to find food in the winter. Buddha won’t care; we have a deal. He will keep the flower offerings and let the animals have the food that remains at sundown each day. Kagome saw me once; she laughed and said that I looked like St. Francis of Assisi, the Catholic patron saint of animals. Since I never met the man, I wouldn’t know. I wonder if he was a better monk than I am. That would not be too difficult, I never was a very good monk.

The shrine is dark and empty now. The air is chill as the snow drifts softly down. The gray sky darkens; under the trees, night has already fallen. I trudge back down the empty path. I am empty, but not the peaceful emptiness of meditation. I am hollow, carved out with a sharp knife. The hole in my side, in my heart, is where Sango should be.

As a monk, I am supposed to always be at peace. Sango’s illness was cruel and draining and her passing, with our family gathered around, was a relief to all. Her life was long; she saw her first two great-great-grandchildren, the fourth generation born to the restored taijiya village.

I am empty now, but not at peace. I rage and want to pour out my grief to the heavens. Why did I have to be left behind alone? I drop to the shrine steps and weep.

The cold seeps into my bones and I reluctantly emerge from my miasma of grief. I am not alone. Our grandchildren wait below in the house that our children built, where I now live.

The sky darkens. I light my lantern to illuminate the path down the hill. These old bones creak as I rise from my crumpled heap and wipe the water from my eyes. The snow must have melted when it fell on my face.

Winter is a comfort, the grayness, and darkness. The trees stark, ice sheathed, brittle like my soul. The ache in my heart mirrors the pain in my joints. Buddha has sent me a comforting thought at last; I shall not live through this winter to see the spring. “Wait for me, my Sango. I will join you soon!” I whisper joyfully.

I continue down the path. In the small sphere of light, I can see that the snow is falling.

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