The long corridors were dark and threatening, and he was so small: the tall windows did not let any light in, the ancient floors creaked menacingly.
He clinched his fists, thought of his mother, of the sweetness of being close to her, and, now, of the pain of being so far away – for how long?
In the courtyard he was at first frightened by the other boys, so noisy, looking so much older than him, then he realised they were looking at him, respectfully.
He was one of the smaller boys, but also so fast, and then, his fists: he had to fight once, and then there was peace, although he was punished, for four Sundays, sweeping the floors, doing the chores, but left alone.
He was not lost there, he’d fight his way, the way of the Samurai. Alone.