Years like Blossoms on the Wind

Twelve summers had passed like sakura petals in the breeze—swift, soft, and almost imperceptible until one stopped to count them. And when one did, oh how much had changed. Yuna was twelve now—no longer a fledgling girl afraid of her dreams, but a blooming priestess whose aura stirred whispers even among the shrine spirits. Her once-ivory hair had grown down to her lower back, now often tied with a blood-red ribbon Airi had woven for her eighth birthday. Her eyes, once innocent pools, had sharpened like polished obsidian—watchful, weary, wise. She still rose before dawn, still meditated before the shrine, still read by moonlight—only now the books were written in old dialects and demon-scribed script. She spoke of things children weren’t meant to know. Sometimes in her sleep, her lips murmured the names of forgotten yokai. Sayomi, the goddess-faced doll still bound to a demon, never left her side. But another one walked beside her now too—Kurayami, whose cold smile had a thousand shades of protection. Despite the age difference, Yuna often lectured her siblings as though she were the oldest. She quoted dead monks, scolded Haru for overfeeding his spirits, and once threw a rice ball at Kaede’s husband for swearing in front of the twins. Her presence had grown so strong that even shrine visitors mistook her for a high priestess. Once, a wandering noble dropped to his knees and called her "the Silent Lily." She rolled her eyes and told him to stop breathing like a dying horse. Haru, now a sprightly fifteen-year-old, had matured into a true conjurer of spirits—though “matured” might be generous. Their shared home had a new feature now: The Great Shelf of Summoned Mayhem—three rows stacked with jars, talismans, and origami animals, each humming with gentle power. Haru had begun mixing methods—some shikigami were sealed with his blood, others folded from paper and blown to life with a whisper. There were paper cranes that acted as scouts, a grumpy tanuki spirit that slept in a jar labeled “DO NOT FEED”, and even a walking broomstick that swept the floors while singing off-key lullabies. His most prized creation was Midori, a snake spirit of jade flame coiled permanently around his arm like a living bracelet. “Why do all your spirits talk more than you?” Yuna once asked. “Because they’re smarter,” Haru replied with a grin. Kaede had moved into a larger home just across the shrine’s bamboo grove. At twenty-five, she had become both beautiful and tired, thanks to two small forces of chaos she had birthed: her twin sons, Shouta and Seiji. Shouta, the older twin by four whole minutes, had inherited Takeshi’s charm and his mother’s tongue. He talked—a lot. To birds, to insects, to strangers, to food, and occasionally, to doors. Seiji, the younger twin, had not spoken a word since he was born figuratively. His eyes, eerie and silver like moonlight on steel, spoke in a language of stares. But when he looked at someone, they felt it—deep in their bones. Takeshi once claimed that Seiji had convinced a wild boar to go back to the forest with a single stare. Shouta loved Yuna like a sister, always clinging to her sleeve and asking endless questions. “Auntie Yuna, what’s a yokai?” “A monster.” “Do you eat them?” “No.” “Can I?” “…Ask your mother.” Seiji, on the other hand, merely followed Yuna in silence, mimicking her steps like a shadow. She never acknowledged it, but one time, when he copied her sealing chant perfectly under his breath, her hands trembled for a moment. No one had seen Ren in three years. Letters came—always short, always folded with care—bearing only a few brushstrokes: “Training proceeds. Father healthy. Moon-Sword Form VIII complete.” But rumors drifted in from travelers and monks. They spoke of a tall youth with silver-bladed reflexes, who could cut wind from sky and silence a battlefield with a single strike. They called him “The Crescent Wolf.” Some even whispered that Tsukimori Daijirō was no longer the strongest swordsman in the eastern provinces. The Tsukimori home was larger now—not physically, but spiritually. It breathed with life and energy. Lanterns glowed even in daylight, fed by the magic Haru couldn’t contain. The walls whispered prayers written by Yuna in forgotten tongues. The air was thick with incense, laughter, secrets, and the rare but thunderous sound of Kaede chasing Shouta with a broom. Airi, ever graceful, had silver threading her hair now, but her hands still moved with the precision of a weaver and the fierceness of a guardian. She watched over her children like the moon watches the tide—silent, constant, unmovable. Sometimes, she would stop at the shrine’s entrance and whisper, “Not yet… but soon.” No one asked what she meant. Beneath all the joy, however… something stirred. Yuna had begun to dream again. In these dreams, the same strange girl appeared, now older, her eyes red like boiling ink. But this time she didn’t insult Yuna. This time she just stood there, watching. Silent. Waiting. And once—just once—Yuna dreamt of a moon with cracks in it, bleeding silver into a dark sea. But for now, laughter reigned in the Tsukimori household. Kaede braided her sons' hair while scolding Takeshi for spoiling them. Haru tried to ride Midori like a horse. Yuna secretly studied forbidden seals behind shrine pillars. And high in the trees, a certain wise crow watched everything with knowing eyes—silent, patient, and perched between past and future. Because the petals of peace were beautiful, yes… …but they always fell before the storm. The day had begun too quietly. The sort of stillness that wasn’t peace, but the pause before something in the world remembered how to scream. Takeshi and Seiji had gone ahead to the small stream near the fields, their laughter echoing faintly in the air. Kaede and little Shouta had decided to visit the shrine early that morning, carrying a small bundle of rice and incense to offer. The sun was a pale disk above, veiled in thin clouds, the air strangely heavy. By the time Kaede and Shouta began their walk back, they could already see their house in the distance… and then they stopped. Takeshi was there, lying in the dirt path. But he wasn’t lying in the way the living rest — he was sprawled, twisted, his body unnaturally bent, eyes wide as if he’d seen something so terrible his soul had shattered before his flesh gave way. His hands were curled tightly, nails digging deep into his palms as though he had tried to hold onto something — or fight something off. Seiji was beside him, his face pale and slack, but his neck… his neck was at an angle no living thing should be. A dark stain spread from beneath him, slowly seeping into the dry earth, feeding it like a sick offering. Kaede’s breath caught in her throat. “T–Takeshi…?” she whispered, as if saying his name might wake him, might fix this nightmare. But before she could take a step toward them, a shadow fell across her path. The air grew colder. From behind, something tall, slender, and utterly wrong loomed — the Kōgō-shiki. It didn’t walk so much as glide, its limbs impossibly long, its head cocked at an unnatural angle as though amused. Before Kaede could even scream, it snatched Shouta. Her baby’s startled cry cut into the air — short, sharp — then silenced in an instant. His head struck against the Kōgō-shiki’s grasp like a ripe gourd crushed between hands that were not human. The sound was haunting. Kaede’s scream tore through the air, ragged and feral, her vision blurring with tears. But instinct told her to run — to the shrine, the only place she thought could protect her. Her sandals slapped against the dirt as she ran, her lungs burning, every step haunted by the echo of her family’s silence. The shrine’s red gates came into view. Salvation. She reached the stone steps, gasping — and froze. The bell tolled. It was not the monks ringing it. Something was waiting. From the shadows beneath the gate, they came — her husband, her children — or what wore their shapes now. Pale, bloodless skin. Eyes clouded but glinting faintly as they smiled at her. Their voices were low and accusing. “Why did you leave us, Kaede…?” “You ran… you didn’t even look back…” “Was your life worth more than ours…?” Their words dripped into her bones, turning her knees weak. She wanted to scream that she hadn’t abandoned them, that she loved them — but the shapes moved closer, arms reaching for her. She stepped back — straight into the Kōgō-shiki. Its touch was cold enough to burn. One clawed hand rested on her shoulder, the other coiling lazily around her neck. It did not rush. It wanted her to feel. Kaede’s last breath left her in a shuddering gasp as the world narrowed to black. When the morning wind finally came, it found her at the entrance to the shrine, her body crumpled, her hands stretched toward the bell rope she never reached. The red of her blood soaked the old stone, a fresh offering to something that should never have been worshipped.

The bell swayed in the wind, tolling once more — a hollow, final note.