Years 58 - Rika Nishimura Six

Before her, on a black lacquered stand, rested the number 58.

Rika looked at the token. In the grain of the wood, she saw her mother’s tired smile, her father’s empty chair at dinner, the mean boys on the bridge who threw her shoe into the river. Rika nishimura six years 58

But she didn't stop. Mid-roll, her right leg shot out, sweeping the leg of an invisible opponent. She landed on one knee, one fist pressed to the floor, the other cocked back. Her ponytail, tied with a red ribbon, dusted the mat. Before her, on a black lacquered stand, rested the number 58

She looked down at the token. Her chin trembled once, then stopped. But she didn't stop

“Again, Rika-chan,” Master Hiroshi said, his voice like gravel rolling downhill.

“What is the meaning of the number?” he asked, for the hundredth time.

She rose. Her bare feet whispered across the tatami. Then she moved.