Ortus

The sky burned in shades of violet and crimson, fire spilling across the clouds. Dark trees stood like blackened spires against the glow, their shadows bending down into the mirror of still water below. The world looked doubled—half sky, half reflection—both drowning in color, both too vivid to feel real. Cicadas sang their last song as the day bled into night.

Through the thick forest moved a lone man, lantern swinging at his side. A boar was slung across his back, an axe in his other hand. His name was Genshiro, he was wearing a mask.
“I better hurry,” he muttered, quickening his pace. “Not tonight of all nights.”

The moon was already high, swollen and strange, as if watching. Something about it was wrong.

Genshiro burst from the forest and reached his home, a small wooden house, humble but warm—a place built for quiet living. He shoved the door open, chest heaving. Inside, muffled screams cut through the air.

Curtains enclosed a bed at the center of the room. Women crowded around it, all masked, all tense. From behind the veil of cloth came Ayaka’s voice—hoarse, ragged, a cry carved from pain. She too wore a mask, and tears streaked down from beneath it.
“Ayaka!” Genshiro shouted. “Hold on—you can do it!”

Her scream split the night. And then—silence. A new sound rose, sharp and thin: the cry of a newborn.

The midwife lifted the child in trembling hands. The women froze. Genshiro pushed through the curtains—then he saw.

The infant’s face was bare. No mask. wet with blood and life.

Shock drained the room. Genshiro’s eyes widened, his breath cut short. Ayaka stared, silent tears slipping through her mask. And outside, the moon bled red. An eclipse swallowed the sky.

Sunlight returned. Birds were chattering. The forest glowed with dew. Years had passed.

High in the trees, Genshiro was plucking berries and tossing them down into a basket woven from bamboo. On the ground stood a boy, ten years old, with laughing eyes and—most unsettling of all—a bare face. His name was Akito.

“Catch them all!” Genshiro called.
“I am!” Akito giggled, scrambling to gather the tumbling berries.

Father and son walked the forest path, shadows of leaves rippling over them. “Father,” Akito asked, “why do you and Mother always wear masks?”

Genshiro hesitated at first but, then sighed. “Everyone is born with one. Each mask is different, and each decides your role in life. Farmer, soldier, priest. None of us can refuse. Those who ever tried… were punished by god.”

Akito frowned. “Then where’s mine?”
“Uh… I lost it,” Genshiro said with a crooked smile.
“You lost it?!” Akito gasped. “Then how will I know what I’m supposed to be?”
“Maybe you’re free to choose,” Genshiro said softly. “Unlike us, you’re not bound.”
Akito puffed out his chest. “So that means I’m your superior!”
Genshiro burst into laughter, echoing through the trees.

When they reached home, Ayaka was at her workbench, carving a mask from wood. “It’s for you,” she said quietly, offering it to Akito. His eyes lit up, joy spilling from him. For a moment, even Ayaka’s mask couldn’t hide her smile.

Later, Genshiro packed crates of berries onto a cart. “I’m off to the market,” he said.
“Take me with you!” Akito begged.
“Not yet. Children aren’t allowed in town. When you’re older.”
Akito pouted, but Genshiro ruffled his hair. Ayaka watched them, eyes soft. “Take care,” she whispered as he left.

Inside, Ayaka comforted Akito with toys she had made—clay animals, little crafts of love. They played until they collapsed together, sleeping calmly in the moment , bathed in the golden light pouring through the window. For a moment, peace felt eternal.

Evening came. The sky blazed red and purple. Akito woke, stretching. Ayaka stirred at the fire, preparing food. “Has Father come back yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said gently. “But he will.”

Akito went outside. She warned him to stay near, and he promised. He stood by the road, eyes searching the path. A butterfly fluttered by, distracting him, and he chased it through the grass.

Then—hooves.

A carriage appeared. Genshiro reined the horse to a halt, smiling. “I’ve brought new  clothes… everything!”
“Father!” Akito cheered, running to him.

They returned together. That night, the family tried on their new clothes, teased, laughed. Ayaka blushed beneath her mask, Genshiro’s laughter filled the home, and Akito twirled with joy. Their house was small, but their hearts overflowed.

The moment they stole from time itself, night was theirs... For now.