Only Kira's mother ever described him as his father's son, only she seemed to know Daichi well enough to see his roots under Kira's leaves, which reflected so much of her to the world. It was rare for him to bunker down in his father's silence, when it was easier to put on his mother's smile, enigmatic and terrible--he even cants his head as if he had her long hair to let gravity pull from his face, years of studying her in her readings, or her maddening persuasions beating the rocky shore of his father's will.

"What does a shore tell you about the sea," he asks, so close to something she would say that he aches for her, and hides it behind another sip of his tea. "What does a bank tell you about a river, or a canyon about the wind?"

As he sets his cup down though, he's back to himself, shrugging off her flamboyance with one shoulder. "You find shapes in what's left. You can do it with coffee or wine, if it leaves anything in the cup; then you interpret them."