Morning came softly.
Not with warmth, not with birdsong like the forest had once offered—but with the muted hum of a huge city waking up. Distant traffic murmured like a restless sea. Somewhere below the window, a vendor called out in a tired voice. Pipes rattled. Floorboards creaked.
Shujinko lay awake long before the sun reached the narrow window of the spare room. The bed was too big.
Not because it was large—but because the other side of it was empty.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes burning, hands clenched around nothing. For a moment, just a moment, he expected to hear boots at the door. A familiar voice asking if he was awake yet. A laugh. A hand ruffling his hair.
But surprisingly, nothing came. Absolutely nothing.
The house was old, but sturdy. Far different from the cabin.
They were in Tokyo after all.
This place smelled of metal polish and fabric starch instead of pine and smoke. It felt… lived in. Heavy with years. Legacy, though Shujinko didn't know the word yet.
A knock sounded at the door, partially startling Shujinko.
It wasn't a loud knock. Not gentle either. But precise.
"Shujinko," a deep voice called. "It is morning."
He sat up immediately, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I'm awake."
The door opened.
Grandpa Kyoto stood framed in the doorway like a monument carved from time itself—broad shoulders draped in layered, medieval-style robes, long red hair streaked thick with gray tied back neatly. His red eyes were sharp, but not unkind. Not now.
"Good," Kyoto said. "Come. Breakfasts' ready."
Shujinko nodded and slid off the bed, feet barely touching the floor as he followed.
The kitchen was immaculate.
Too immaculate, Shujinko decided.
Everything in Grandma Kaori's kitchen had a place—and worse, everything stayed there. The chairs were evenly spaced. The plates matched. Even the sunlight coming through the window felt like it knew exactly where to fall.
Shujinko didn't like it. It wasn't natural, at all.
At the cabin, things moved. Cups shifted. The floor creaked. Papa's boots were never where they were supposed to be. This kitchen felt like it would notice if something went missing.
Grandma Kaori stood at the counter, blue-and-gray hair tied neatly back, sleeves rolled just high enough to be practical without sacrificing style. A kettle hissed softly, sharp and insistent.
Shujinko shifted his weight.
His elbow brushed the counter.
A small ceramic container tipped—just a little—and clinked against the marble.
He froze.
Before it could wobble again, Kaori's hand was already there. She straightened it precisely, rotating it a fraction so the painted flower faced outward. She didn't look at him. Didn't sigh. Didn't scold.
She simply fixed it.
Kyoto noticed anyway regardless.
His eyes flicked to the container. Then to Shujinko. Then back to his plate.
Nothing was said.
The silence felt heavier than yelling would have.
Shujinko pulled his arms close to his body, suddenly very aware of how big his sleeves felt, how loud his breathing was. The kitchen hadn't rejected him—but it hadn't adjusted for him either.
Papa's cabin wasn't like this, he thought. Things moved there. Things broke.
Fire left marks.
Here, nothing did.
She glanced over her shoulder.
"You're late," she said lightly.
Kyoto frowned.
"He is not late. He arrived when he woke up."
Kaori smirked.
"Which is exactly late for a Ryomen."
Shujinko's shoulders pulled in on themselves.
"…Sorry," he said quietly.
Kaori turned at once. The sharpness vanished. She crossed the room and knelt, straightening his collar with quick, practiced fingers.
"No, no. Not you," she said gently. "You're exactly on time."
Then, without missing a beat, she added—still smiling—
"It is your grandfather who is exactly too late."
Kyoto exhaled through his nose.
"Do not joke with me, woman."
"Oh boy," Kaori replied, unfazed. "Why don't you go sit down and prepare yourself for breakfast, hm?"
Kyoto hesitated—just long enough for Shujinko to notice—then turned toward the table. Shujinko followed him, feet quiet against the floor.
Mama was already seated.
Shuza held a newspaper open wide, the pages trembling just a little in her hands. Too big. Too heavy. Shujinko felt like if it fell, it would make a loud noise—even though paper obviously wasn't supposed to.
He climbed into the chair beside her and leaned closer.
"What're you reading, huh, Mommy?" he asked.
She stiffened.
Just a little.
"Oh—nothing," she said too quickly, folding the paper inward and angling it away. "Just… adult stuff."
Shujinko nodded, but his eyes had already caught something.
Big letters. Black and angry.
TWO TAKAYAMA RESIDENTS FOUND UNCONSCIOUS INSIDE THEIR HOME—
ACCIDENT… OR MAYBE… DEATH BRINGERS?
His chest felt tight.
The floor vibrated.
Not enough to shake anything. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Shujinko did.
A faint hum pressed up through the soles of his feet, like the house had exhaled. His spoon rattled once against the bowl.
He froze.
Takayama…
A 'dangerous place,' Mama had called it once, her voice dropping like stone into a well. He didn't know why. He only knew he wished he'd never seen the name in print. But he did know the other words. That he wished he didn't.
"Didn't we live there?" He thought, maybe. He didn't know.
The room felt different after that.
Not colder. Not darker.
Just… heavier. Like the air had decided to sit down.
Kyoto noticed. Of course he did.
The old swordsman's hand paused mid-reach for his tea. His gaze flicked to the folded newspaper, then to Shuza's face. The room seemed to draw in on itself—just a little
Mama's hand slipped under the table and wrapped around Shujinko's. Her fingers were warm—but tight. Like she was holding something in place.
Kyoto's hands folded together slowly. His face didn't change, but Shujinko thought of the way Papa used to go quiet before a storm.
Grandma Kaori set plates down with deliberate care, humming softly as if nothing in the world had changed.
Shujinko swallowed.
"What's a Takayama?" he asked.
Kaori didn't look up.
"A place far away." She gently said. "Nothing more than that."
Kyoto answered at the same time.
"Not far enough."
The hum stopped.
Outside, a siren wailed. Distant—but not distant enough. Shujinko flinched before he could stop himself.
The lights flickered once.
Just once.
The air pressed in on his ears, the way it had in the cabin before the fire had failed.
"It feels…" Shujinko whispered, voice small. He looked at Mama. "It feels like the cabin."
Shuza's grip tightened.
Kyoto stood.
"Stay seated," he said calmly.
Kaori was already moving to the window. Her expression didn't change, but her eyes sharpened.
Outside, the street was no longer quiet.
Police cordons. Flashing lights. A stretcher being lifted carefully, like whatever was on it might break if handled wrong.
Kaori closed the curtain.
Kyoto turned back to them.
"Do not panic," he said evenly. "Panic feeds the wrong things."
Shujinko didn't know what that meant.
But he believed him.
Everyone started moving—not fast, not loud. Just… doing things.
Mama rose to pack a small bag. Grandma Kaori checked the doors. Kyoto watched the room like it was a battlefield only he could see.
Shujinko slid out of his chair.
He gathered plates. One by one. His hands shook a little, but he didn't drop any.
Kaori noticed.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know," Shujinko said. "But it helps."
She paused. Then nodded once.
The newspaper lay folded on the table.
Shujinko glanced at it again—and noticed something he hadn't before.
A dark shape in the photo.
Too dark.
"Mom…?" he asked softly. "Were they asleep? Like Papa?"
Shuza didn't answer.
Kyoto's belt buzzed—quiet, sharp.
He silenced it instantly.
Kaori looked at him.
"So it's started," she said.
Kyoto met her gaze.
"It hadn't ever stopped."
Shujinko didn't understand the words.
But he felt their weight settle somewhere deep inside his chest—quiet, heavy, and waiting.
Kyoto finished issuing instructions without raising his voice.
Kaori moved with purpose, closing shutters one by one. Each thud sounded too loud to Shujinko, like the house was sealing itself shut. Mama returned from the bedroom with a small bag—clothes folded tightly, essentials only. No toys. No extras.
Shujinko noticed that.
Papa always said you only take what you can carry, he thought. And only what you'd fight to keep.
Kyoto crouched in front of him. The movement alone made Shujinko straighten instinctively.
"Listen to me," his grandfather said. His voice was deep, formal, and steady—like stone that had never cracked. "Today, you stay close. You do not wander. You do not try to be brave in foolish ways. Do you understand?"
Shujinko nodded quickly.
"Yes, sir."
Kyoto studied him for a moment longer than necessary. Then, softer—almost imperceptibly—
"Great."
Breakfast was eaten in fragments. No one finished anything. Shujinko chewed slowly, his stomach twisting even though the food was warm. Outside, voices rose and fell. Boots passed. Radios crackled.
Every sound felt important.
When they finally moved away from the table, Shujinko lingered, staring at the chair Papa should have been sitting in. For a moment, he imagined red hair there. Broad shoulders. A voice telling him to eat faster before it got cold.
The chair stayed empty.
Mama touched his shoulder.
"We're going to rest for a bit," she said. "You can sit by the window if you want."
Shujinko nodded and padded across the room.
The window faced east.
Mountains rose in the distance, their silhouettes dark against the pale morning sky. They looked calm. Unmoving. Like they didn't know anything bad had ever happened.
As Shujinko stared, something strange happened.
The warmth of the house faded.
Not everywhere—just inside him.
His fingers tingled. His breath fogged faintly, even though the room wasn't cold. He rubbed his arms, confused.
Why am I cold?
A sound brushed against his ears.
Not a voice. Not really.
More like… a feeling trying to remember words.
Shujinko leaned closer to the glass.
The mountains didn't move.
But his chest hurt.
A dull ache, right behind his ribs, pulling—tugging—like someone had tied a string there and was gently, insistently drawing it tight.
"Toko…" he whispered before he could stop himself.
The ache flared.
Images flickered in his mind—white hair catching sunlight, a quiet nod, a wooden sword held just a little too seriously for an eight-year-old. A promise never spoken but always understood.
Wait for me.
Shujinko pressed his forehead to the glass.
The cold deepened.
For just a heartbeat, he thought he heard footsteps crunching on snow—far away, beneath stone and shadow. He thought he felt something looking back at him.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Just… there.
Mama called his name.
The sensation vanished.
Shujinko turned, heart pounding, and ran back to her side. She pulled him close without asking why, one hand resting protectively on his head.
Outside, the mountains stood silent.
Unaware that two brothers—separated by fire, blood, and fate—had just felt each other for the first time since the night everything broke.
And far beneath the place their father had tried to flee…
Something waited.