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The story arrived as many others do, cloaked in the smoky haze of memory and the eccentric cadence of a teller who half-believes the story they’re telling. Dim, my father’s driver, was the one who first mentioned Hachiman. I could hardly think of him as anything more than a driver, someone who provided a service in a limited capacity and nothing more. Yet, for me, as a little boy, he had become so much more than that. He would accompany and protect me, often guiding a life that had only just begun to unfold. His hands were sculpted by the weather, his eyes penetrating, and his smile ever mysterious and slightly wry. He possessed that delightful ability to weave humour into the most sombre of stories, effortlessly resurrecting the gloomiest of myths. It was many years ago, during a pause on a cloudy evening, when the car was humming along the cracked roads. He spoke…
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