First Impression Matters

The days passed like gentle rain—gentle, but strange. The trees were still green. The shrine still stood. Kaede still barked orders like a general possessed. But beneath the surface, something was undeniably disturbing.

Yuna had changed.

Not all at once. Not in a way you could point to with certainty. But in patterns. In moments caught between blinks.

She stopped humming when she cleaned.

She stared too long at nothing.

Sometimes her eyes didn’t blink at all—just wide and still like she was listening to someone no one else could hear.

“Yuna,” Kaede said one morning, stirring miso with the patience of someone who wanted to throw it at a wall, “you’re spacing out again. If I catch you pouring soy sauce into the tea again, I’m banning you from the kitchen.”

“Sorry,” Yuna muttered, eyes distant. “I was just… thinking.”

“About?”

“The color of stone. When it’s breathing.”

Kaede dropped the ladle.

Even Haru noticed. Which meant it had gotten very weird.

“She’s acting like Ren when he starts his ‘moon-haiku-hunger’ episodes,” Haru whispered to Kaede behind the rice barn.

“She’s not skipping meals,” Kaede muttered back. “She’s just...”

“Possessed?”

“She’s still polite. Possessed people don’t do the dishes without being asked.”

“Maybe she’s possessed politely.

Ren, passing by with a bucket of well water, added solemnly, “If she starts reciting poetry in reverse, we flee.”

But no one was more concerned than Airi.

The mother of four, the silent heart of the shrine, who once sealed spirits with a needle and a smile—watched her youngest daughter with a quiet, blooming dread.

Yuna’s footsteps had changed. Lighter. But somehow louder.

She no longer played. She meditated too long. Spoke less. Dreamed too much. And when she did speak of dreams, it was in half-phrases:

“There are faces now.

One of them keeps trying to pull off my skin.

I think she hates me.”

So that night, as moonlight trickled across the tatami floor, Airi entered Yuna’s room with something cradled in her arms.

A doll.

She was elegant and serene—a woman dressed in heavenly robes, her painted smile so soft it looked almost alive. Her eyes were closed, hands pressed in prayer, hair the color of sunrise, and in her chest, a tiny carved symbol hidden beneath the fabric.

Airi placed her beside Yuna’s futon.

“I made her,” she whispered gently, “when I was pregnant with you. A guardian goddess. A mother’s prayer in porcelain.”

Yuna blinked slowly, as if waking from a fog. She reached out with delicate fingers and cradled the doll.

“She’s beautiful,” she said. “What’s her name?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Yuna stared at her for a long moment, then whispered,

“Sayomi”

Airi flinched slightly. She hadn’t expected that name.

It meant: night-born beauty. It was also the name of an ancient mountain goddess who once bound a thousand demons in a single hairpin.

Airi didn’t say a word. Just kissed her daughter’s forehead and left the room.

What Yuna didn’t know was this:

Sayomi was no ordinary doll.

In the depths of Airi’s own blood lay a faint trace of Maerachi. A distant cousin of the cursed lineage. She had sealed a demon into Sayomi—not a cruel one, not violent. But a Watcher. A spirit bound by honor and shaped to protect.

Because Airi had seen the signs. The dreams. The cold breath in the room.

The calling.

And she knew: Something was trying to reach her daughter.

Something old. Something angry.

That night, Yuna fell asleep holding Sayomi to her chest.

And the dream came again.

But this time, it was different.

She wasn’t standing anymore. She was kneeling in a circle of chains—glowing red, bound to the floor like a ritual prison. The stone chamber was darker now. The demons stood farther back, as if something else had entered. Something worse.

And then she saw her.

The girl.

She looked about Yuna’s age. Pale skin. Jet black hair in two sharp braids. Wearing a white kimono stained with something too red to be wine. Her eyes were wrong. One glowed green. The other dripped black ink down her cheek.

And she was smiling. The kind of smile knives wear.

“There you are,” the girl cooed. “You’ve been hiding.”

“I’m not hiding,” Yuna replied calmly.

“Oh? Then why do you cling to that doll like a baby clutching her prayer beads?”

Yuna looked down. Sayomi was glowing faintly in her arms. A warmth that pulsed through her chest.

The girl’s smile twitched. She stepped closer.

“I hate you, you know,” she whispered sweetly. “You're pathetic. You walk like you’re carrying something sacred. But you don’t even know what it is.”

Yuna rose to her feet, even though the chains resisted. “Who are you?”

The girl tilted her head. “No one. Everyone. I’m the part of you that remembers. The part that you try to forget.”

She snapped her fingers.

The chamber shifted.

Yuna gasped. The walls began melting—revealing visions. Glimpses. A battle under the moons. A dying woman covered in blood. A crying child in the forest. A symbol—Maerachi—burning on someone’s skin.

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “You are her. But you're also not. You carry the blood, but you have no claws, no hunger. Just little games and sleepy eyes ”

“Pure shame. Accept it with grace. It is the only thing you were ever fit to inherit”

She raised her hand. Dark energy burst from her palm—a jagged bolt of red-black flame.

Yuna screamed—raising Sayomi like a shield.

And the doll… moved.

In the dream, Sayomi stepped forward, no longer porcelain but flesh and power. Her arms spread like a goddess, and the blast shattered against her barrier.

The girl hissed, retreating. “You brought a cheat with you. Clever little meat.”

Sayomi turned her head slightly and spoke, her voice like bell chimes in a storm.

“This child is not yet yours.

Back, tethered soul.

Return to the pit from which you rose.”

The chains on the floor glowed brighter.

The girl snarled, teeth like obsidian. “Fine. But I’ll keep waiting. And when your guardian cracks—when the blood opens again—you’re mine, Yuna.”

And with a screech of bending dream-light, she vanished.

Yuna awoke choking on her breath.

Sayomi lay still in her arms. Her painted eyes still closed. Her smile gentle.

But her hand was warm.

Yuna didn’t tell anyone about the girl.

But that day, she cleaned the shrine steps with more focus. She smiled a little more. She stopped spacing out mid-breakfast. And when Kaede complained about Yuna spending too much time with the doll, Yuna just smiled and whispered,

“She listens better than all of you.”

Because deep inside, she knew now:

The dreams weren’t dreams anymore.

They were memories.

And the blood was waking

Morning light had barely kissed the mountaintops when Airi made her announcement. She’d stirred the pot of rice porridge with her usual serene grace, but her tone—sing-song and edged with excitement—made everyone freeze mid-sip.

“Your cousins would be arriving tomorrow,” she said. “All three of them.”

Ren choked on his tofu. Haru dropped his chopsticks. Kaede narrowed her eyes like a war strategist evaluating a sudden enemy incursion.

“Which ones?” Kaede asked cautiously.

Airi gave a soft smile. “Ayaka and Ayame. And little Toshiro.”

Ren wiped his mouth and muttered, “They're not little, Kaede nearly broke her toe kicking Toshiro last year.”

“I thought he was a tanuki,” Kaede grumbled.

“He bit you on purpose.”

“He barked first!”

But Yuna said nothing.

She sat, quiet as snowfall, spoon paused in her bowl. Her fingers gently stroked Sayomi’s smooth porcelain hair, eyes lost in thought.

The day was a whirlwind.

Kaede immediately roped everyone into cleaning duty like a general possessed.

“If they’re coming from the city, they’re expecting tea that doesn’t taste like moss,” she snapped, dragging Haru out of bed. “And bedsheets that don’t smell like your socks, Ren!”

Ren rolled over. “I’ll just sleep with the goats. They have less judgment.”

Kaede threw a futon at him.

Yuna helped where she could—sweeping the shrine steps, fluffing the guest futons, polishing the lacquer trays. But her mind was far away. Back in the dream. Back to her. The girl with twin braids and eyes that glowed like lanterns drenched in ink.

Airi noticed. As always.

“You’re quiet,” she said gently as they trimmed plum blossoms for the table vase.

Yuna looked up. Her smile was soft, but small. “I’m just tired. That’s all.”

Airi didn’t push. She simply placed a hand on Yuna’s head, smoothing her hair back.

“Tomorrow, you’ll see. It’ll be a good day.”

It was not a good day.

It was a chaotic, glitter-drenched hurricane wearing expensive uwabakis and silk kimonos.

 

The cousins arrived just after breakfast, delivered like a noble caravan in a lacquered cart drawn by two pristine white horses. An elderly driver in golden robes handled the reins like a reluctant priest ferrying spoiled deities.

And then—

They stepped out.

Ayaka and Ayame. Identical twins. Same height. Same sharp twin braid of deep midnight hair. Their skin was perfect porcelain, not unlike Yuna’s own, but theirs looked powdered, practiced, painted. Like doll faces that had learned to frown in unison.

 

Their outfits shimmered in soft peach and teal layers, embroidered with faint phoenixes and lined with gold-thread dragons. Tiny bells hung from their sleeves and chimed with every synchronized step.

One had green eyes.

The other had pink eyes.

But otherwise, they were mirrors.

Behind them emerged Toshiro—taller than Haru now, lean, chin high with princely smugness. He wore a dark vest embroidered with plum blossoms and carried a folding fan he didn’t need but flicked dramatically anyway.

“Hello, peasants,” he greeted with a smile that could sell tea and betrayal in equal measure.

Kaede shoved Haru aside, smoothed her hair, and bowed so fast she nearly hit her head on the porch.

“Toshiro-sama. What a surprise. You’ve grown taller than your intelligence.”

Toshiro grinned. “And you’ve grown sharper than your manners.”

Haru muttered, “Kill me,” and promptly retreated inside.

Yuna stood frozen in the doorway.

When her eyes met Ayaka’s—the one with green eyes—a violent, sudden shiver ran through her spine.

The dream.

The chains.

The laughter.

The smile.

It was her. Or someone too close to be unrelated.

That same gaze—curious and cruel, amused like a cat watching a beetle.

Yuna’s knees trembled. Her mouth dried. Her fingers clutched Sayomi so tightly she thought the porcelain might crack.

“Yuna?” her mother’s voice was soft. “Are you alright?”

“I… I don’t… know,” she whispered.

But Ayaka just smiled. No malice. No recognition. Just polite interest.

“You must be Yuna,” she said sweetly. “I’ve heard you’re… special.”

Yuna blinked rapidly.

Ayame echoed her sister perfectly: “Special. Special. Like something borrowed and buried.”

Their voices together were melodic and eerie, like a lullaby sung in a tomb.

Kaede burst between them with a tray of tea. “Tea!” she announced. “Let’s all get caffeinated and pretend this is normal!”

The rest of the day blurred.

Toshiro dueled Haru with wooden swords and only cheated a little by flipping Haru over with his fan. Ren faked illness to avoid board games with the twins, who kept winning and chanting, “We always win. We always win.” in perfect sync. Kaede made war with the dessert tray, nearly losing an eye to a fork jab from Ayame.

Yuna stayed silent.

She followed, like a shadow, always within reach of Sayomi. Her eyes rarely left Ayaka. Every laugh that twin made sent tiny spikes down her spine. And yet—there was no proof. Nothing to point to.

Ayaka was charming. Graceful. Laughing when Toshiro teased her, folding paper cranes faster than anyone. Her green eyes glinted in the sun, not in menace.

And yet.

Yuna remembered that dream girl. Her words.

“You are her. But you're also not. You carry the blood…”

And she wondered—what if Ayaka was one of them too?

What if she knew?

That night, while the twins slept in the guest room and Toshiro snored like a smug mountain bear, Yuna crept to the shrine.

She knelt, Sayomi resting in her lap.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why does she look like her? Why does my heart feel like it’s being choked when she smiles at me?”

The moon above was thin, a slit of silver. The incense drifted faintly in the air.

 

And then Sayomi’s head tilted in Yuna’s lap.

Not much. Just a fraction. A gesture that said: “You’re right to fear.”

Yuna trembled.

From somewhere in the wind, a voice—soft and identical to Ayaka’s—whispered,

“Sleep tight, little chain-bearer.

You’re not the only one dreaming anymore.”