[Fitting, then. Perfectly so. His memories of his mother are fleeting and vague at best. Fragments of a lullaby, hands in his hair, holding him to comfort him from his brother's occasional bullying before everything fell apart. The most vivid memory that remains is her in bed under that ratty blanket, skin pale and sunken. Her coughing had kept them up at night for a little while.

Somehow, it's still better than thinking about his last memories of his father. He shakes his head as if to drive those thoughts away and focuses instead on his breathing and the tang of smoke from the cigarette in his teeth. He's ever thankful Sengoku taught him basic meditation to pull him out of those thoughts, even if adulthood and addiction had altered his practice of the techniques.]

Galateion, then. It's interesting, what translates here and what just doesn't. Strange anything translates at all, I guess. I'm just glad that we all mostly understand each other.