Thereafter, the sight of Sensei's wife evoked my concern. I wondered if Sensei's demeanor toward her was always such, and if so, did it not upset her.
From appearances, I couldn't judge if she were troubled or not. Part of the problem was that I didn't often see her. And when I did see her, I detected nothing unusual. Finally, we rarely interacted if not in Sensei's presence.
My misgivings didn't end there. I wondered about Sensei's resignation toward humanity. Was it simply the consequence of rational introspection? A product of detached observation of the modern age? Sensei was wont to sit and think. With a mind like his, did such resignation arise as a matter of course in reaction to the world? I couldn't accept that this was wholly the case. Sensei's resignation seemed to harbor a passion. It wasn't the cooled remains of some burned-out stone structure. Sensei, in my eyes, was a thinking man. However, behind the doctrine this thinking man had arrived at, some powerful truth seemed to resonate. It didn't belong to the people he'd pushed away. It was a truth felt keenly and first hand, a truth that had made his blood race, a truth that had made his heart skip. Such a truth, it seemed, was layered throughout his thoughts.
This was more than gut instinct on my part. Sensei himself had confessed as much. His confession, though, was like a rampart in the sky. It hung above my head, and it frightened me, though I couldn't quite say why. Sensei's confession was murky at best. Perhaps for this reason it unsettled me so.