The Memory of a Firefly

A warm ray of sunlight brushed Yuki’s cheek.
She opened her eyes suddenly, heart racing — the futon beside her was empty, the blankets pushed aside in disarray.

Silence.
Then, outside, she heard a rustle — the sound of leaves… and a faint laugh.

Yuki slid the door open and followed the sound to the back garden.

Akari was there, kneeling by the patch of white lilies, the talisman hanging loosely from her forehead. Between her fingers, she held a flower, gazing at it with that strange, fragile expression — part wonder, part sorrow.

“Akari-san?” Yuki called softly.

Akari barely flinched, then turned. When she saw Yuki, her face lit up.
“Ah! Good morning! You’re…” She frowned, searching, then smiled in relief. “Yuki-san?”

Something tightened in Yuki’s chest. “Yes. That’s me. You remember?”

“I…” Akari tilted her head, her fox ears twitching faintly. “I don’t think I remember. Your name just… came to me.”
Her eyes dropped to the white lily in her hand. “It’s silly, but I feel like I’ve forgotten something important.”

Yuki crouched beside her. “Do you like these flowers?”

“Yes.” Akari brushed a petal with her fingertip. “They’re beautiful. And sad.”
She looked up at Yuki, her golden eyes shimmering with honest confusion.
“Why would a flower make someone sad? That’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Yuki said softly.

Akari placed the flower gently back among the others and stood, brushing the dirt from her kimono.
“Well, at least they smell nice. They remind me of…” She hesitated, frowning.
“No, it’s not a memory. It’s… nostalgia for something I’ve never lived.”

She waved the thought away with a light gesture, and soon the morning began to flow — brooms sweeping, doors sliding open, sunlight chasing away the dust.
Akari cleaned with a clumsy joy, spilling boxes, tangling herself in a bell rope, laughing at her own missteps.
Yuki followed behind, tidying, ordering, trying — and failing — to hide her smile.

By noon, they sat together on the wooden veranda.
Akari had drawn up a jar of cold water from the old well; the ladle gleamed like a mirror of the pale sky.
They drank in turn, bamboo shadows weaving gentle patterns across their faces.

“It’s peaceful here,” Akari murmured, closing her eyes and turning her face toward the sun.
“I like it. How did I end up here?” She thought for a moment. “I suppose… I’ve always been here, haven’t I?”

“You don’t remember anything… from before?”

“Before what?” Akari tilted her head. “Before this morning? No. Nothing.”
Her hand went instinctively to the talisman. “Because of this thing, I think.”

Yuki froze. “You… you know what it does?”

“Not really.” Akari shrugged. “But I can feel it. When it sticks properly, I disappear. Like I don’t exist at all. When it falls, I come back. And every time… it’s the first time.”
She smiled faintly. “It’s exhausting, being reborn all the time.”

Yuki didn’t know what to say.
She had been taught to see yōkai as dangerous — unpredictable, heartless.
But Akari… Akari was simply tired. Lost. Alone.

“Hey, Yuki,” Akari said suddenly. “You smell like the flowers.”

She’d said Yuki without honorifics, with the gentle familiarity of someone who’s known you forever.

Yuki blushed slightly. “That’s… probably just the incense.”

Akari leaned in ever so slightly. “It’s nice. It makes me feel safe.”

They stayed like that for a while, side by side, wrapped in the lazy warmth of afternoon — the murmur of cicadas, the whisper of wind through the bamboo.

When evening came, Yuki lit the small stove and prepared a modest meal: rice, light miso soup, and pickled vegetables.
Akari sat beside her, watching with fascination, like a child witnessing a miracle.

They ate together on the veranda, watching the sky fade from blue to rose, then to amber.
Akari devoured her bowl in a few eager bites.

“This is delicious!” she exclaimed, beaming. “Thank you, Yuki.”

She set her bowl down and looked at her hands.
“I don’t remember ever eating with someone before. Well… I don’t remember anything, but this moment — right now, with you…” She searched for words. “It has a special taste.”

Yuki’s throat tightened. “For me too.”

Night fell — and with it, the fireflies.

Akari noticed them first. She jumped to her feet. “Look, Yuki! They’re here!”

Tiny green lights danced among the trees, growing more and more numerous until the whole forest shimmered like an ocean of stars.
Akari stepped barefoot into the grass. Yuki followed, mesmerized.

“It’s beautiful,” Yuki whispered.

“Yes.” Akari reached out her hand, and a firefly landed gently on her finger.
She watched it, head tilted, as if listening to a secret.
“They’re born, they shine, and they disappear. But while they shine, they’re the most beautiful things in the world.”

She blew softly, and the little light rose into the dark.

“Do you think they know they only live for a summer?”

“I… don’t know.”

“I think they do,” Akari said quietly. Her smile trembled.
“That’s why they shine so brightly. They don’t have time to waste.”

In the flickering glow of fireflies, her face carried a melancholy without a name.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Shining as long as we can, even knowing it won’t last.”

Then she wavered.

The talisman.

Yuki saw the yellowed paper lift, as if pulled by something inside, then snap back against Akari’s forehead with cruel precision.
A red stroke flared beneath the ink.

“No,” Yuki breathed. “Not now.”

Akari’s hand rose weakly to her head. “Yuki… I…”

The paper sealed itself.

Akari’s eyes went empty.
She collapsed.

Yuki caught her, held her close — that body too light, that warmth without presence.
Akari’s eyes stared at nothing. Her breathing was steady but hollow, like a clock still ticking after its owner is gone.

Yuki carried her inside, laid her gently on the futon, straightened her kimono, brushed the hair from her face.

Why? something inside her screamed.
Why must she suffer like this? What did she do to deserve it?

Outside, the fireflies continued to dance.
Bright. Fleeting. Free.

The following days ebbed and flowed like waves.
Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the dead of night, the talisman would fall — and Akari would be reborn.
Always without memory.
Always with the same pure curiosity, the same rootless wonder.

But something had changed.

Each time she awoke, Yuki returned to her lips faster.
Sometimes after a few minutes.
Sometimes at first sight.
Sometimes even before she spoke.

The talisman erased the conscious mind — Yuki realized that now.
But not the heart.

The heart remembers what the mind forgets.

Each day, Yuki felt herself drawn deeper into that invisible thread that bound them.

On the sixth day, the wave rose too high.

Akari had just finished laughing, mimicking Yuki’s stern expressions, when she suddenly fell silent.
Yuki, unable to hold it back any longer, felt tears spill down her cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” Akari asked, tilting her head.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Akari’s hand brushed Yuki’s cheek, catching a tear like a falling petal. “Why?”

Because in eight days, I’ll have to seal you. Or erase you. Because this is my trial. Because if I fail, everything I am might vanish. Because I don’t want to lose you.

“Because…” Yuki searched for words. “Because I wish you could remember. Everything. Us.”

Akari smiled faintly. “Me too. But it’s all right, you know. As long as I can see you, talk to you, be with you… even if it’s just for a few hours… it’s enough.”

The talisman stirred.

Akari felt the moment slip away.

“Thank you, Yuki. For today.”

“Akari—”

The paper sealed.

Akari went still.

Yuki remained frozen, holding a lifeless hand, surrounded by the faint fragrance of white lilies — sweet as a half-kept promise.

I have to know, she thought. What they did to you. Why this talisman exists. Whether I can set you free.

The answers had to be somewhere.
In the dust.
In the ink of forgotten archives.