Torii Hearts Community

Once the mystery surrounding the secretive shrine school on the top of the hill faded, good things kept coming.

They were finally invited out.

A small neighborhood cultural hall asked if the children could attend a local music event, mostly because Mutsuki had once mentioned that his class liked to sing. That and some younger people still recognize him as Japan’s idol.

He had expected a polite change of mind after the rupture incident. Maybe a nervous comment about “special children” and liability forms. Instead, the invitation kept coming enthusiastically. So Mutsuki eventually accepted.

They arrived in human form, hand in hand, walking in a loose, uneven line that looked less like a school group and more like a traveling family. They sat on the floor among folding chairs and elderly couples. They lined their shoes neatly by the wall but still traded snacks under the table.

The music began. A shamisen. A piano. Then a children’s choir from another school.

The Torii Hearts listened silently for a while, until they decided they couldn’t be silenced anymore. Without cue or command, they joined in.

Their voices layered naturally, instinctively, like they’d always known how to harmonize. Gon led without trying. Mon improvised. Sumire kept the rhythm sharp and elegant. Meow sang carefully, like she was afraid her voice might break something. Akashi’s was surprisingly gentle. Kojiro’s steady and clear. Honey’s warm and round, filling the room. Kishin’s quiet but pure, slipping through the harmony like a bell.

Mutsuki froze halfway through clapping. Youchan turned her face to side to hide her tears. By the time the song ended, the room went silent to take it all in. Then everyone applauded.

They were invited back. Again and again. To festivals, small concerts, even outdoor street performances. The children began to treat it like a game, singing wherever they went, holding hands in a crooked line, voices carrying down streets and through parks.

People started recognizing them.

Around the same time, the community began asking for help for small things. Cleaning after festivals. Sorting recycling. Carrying supplies. Helping set up chairs. Sweeping leaves after storms. The children went gladly, armed with gloves and an alarming amount of enthusiasm to have Mutsuki buy them snacks later.

Slowly but surely, people stopped seeing ‘strange children from the shrine’ and started just kids. Each child found their place.

Mon became beloved by shop owners after he fixed a broken sign with clever, nonmagical ingenuity and then explained it with dramatic flair. People humored him. They listened, laughed, and eventually trusted him with small problems they didn’t quite understand themselves. He also became a popular addition to events. He used his hat to perform magic tricks and nobody ever seem to understand where he’s pulling all those things from.

Gon charmed entire streets without even trying. He helped run booths, advertised events, convinced people to stay longer, donate more, smile more. He gradually learned through practice that charm could be kindness instead of manipulation.

Sumire earned the respect of local elders. She bowed properly, spoke formally, remembered names, corrected mistakes with dignity instead of disdain. Old men nodded at her approvingly. Old women patted her head and called her a “proper young lady” which she pretended not to enjoy. She was also crowned the prettiest kid of community. She doesn’t hide her absolute agreement to the one.

Meow found herself drawn to unlucky places, broken things, sick pets and failed projects. People noticed that when she helped, things seemed to settle. The luck negates any pre-existing bad luck. Stuff became more manageable. They began asking for her by name.

Akashi volunteered for anything physical. Lifting, carrying, fixing, protecting. Name it. Children followed him like ducklings. Adults trusted him with heavy things. He was able to use his strength in human form and not transform out of emotion anymore. He learned restraint not because he was told to, but because people depended on it.

Honey became the community’s quiet comfort. Crying children calmed faster when he sat beside them. Arguments softened when he offered snacks. Exhausted shopkeepers found themselves laughing when he showed up with an armful of trash to help clean. Adults trusted him instinctively. They let him hold babies. They let him watch stalls for a moment. He learned how to hug without breaking chairs, how to carry and give warmth instead of weight.

Kojiro, with his knack for observing and telling people what to do, directed traffic during festivals. Watched over tinier children. Stood guard during events without being asked. Despite developing some decent human connections, he still kept a safe distance and not allowed anyone to touch him. People thanked him regardless and gave him tiny gifts. He thought this is how humans should interact with Tengu anyways.

Rei became popular that summer. Wherever she went, the heat softened to a gentler cool that made people linger instead of retreat. Vendors worked longer in peace. Elderly neighbors rested outside without strain. Children ran without wilting. 

Being the only spirit yokai in the class, she learned restraint the others never had to think about. She walked instead of floated. She stayed solid instead of slipping through walls. She listened closely to humans, corrected herself quickly, and accepted thanks with small, careful bows. She helped at shelters during heatwaves. She cooled community spaces.

Mutsuki understood her in a way that unsettled them both. They shared the same quiet danger, the same knowledge of what it meant to have power strong enough to lose control. He never told her to suppress it, only to choose how she used it, and Rei took that lesson to heart. By the end of summer, she was no longer the girl who froze others by accident, but someone people sought out on the hottest days.

From standing beside Mutsuki during community work, Rei realized her most important lesson. Power did not make her belong. Control and mastery did. 

And lastly, Kishin. He became inexplicably, overwhelmingly popular.

Young children adored him. He listened to them seriously, knelt to their level, answered questions without laughing. They clung to him during games and called for him during events.

Older girls found him gentle and comforting. Older women, however, were unstoppable. They fed him constantly. Praised him endlessly. Pulled him aside to ask about his health, his future, whether he was eating enough, whether he was happy. Kishin blushed so often his human disguise became useless when he’s just as red as his Oni form.

‘I think they think I’m safe,’ he whispered to Mutsuki.

Mutsuki smiled softly. ‘You are. All of you.’

The children they had helped before began inviting them to play. To birthday parties. To after-school games. To ordinary human afternoons filled with scraped knees and shared snacks.

They learned that kindness worked best when it did not announce itself, and with that, their understanding of the world shifted. They were no longer simply learning how to exist among humans. They were being welcomed into it, as neighbors, as companions, as fellow living beings.

The children sang again with their tiny voices drifting into the dusk. Mutsuki walked behind them with Youchan at his side.

So… this was what success looked like. Not the impeccable music I made, nor the perfect image I chased, but the quiet, lasting connections I had built with others.