That morning, Koyoi did not dream.
When she drifted up from the depths of a heavy sleep, the room was awash in morning light, yet her senses still lagged in the night’s darkness.
As she woke, only the weight of the drawstring pouch remained vivid. The texture of the fabric, the tightness of the knot, and the undeniable mass pressing against her hip. The "presence" of what lay inside. More than anything, it was proof that the distortion she had seen in the sky yesterday was no dream.
The bell did not ring. No voice spoke. Only the silent movement of dust motes dancing in the light from the window.
Her mother was the same as always. Steam rising from the kitchen. The scent of miso. The rhythmic tapping of the knife against the cutting board. She said nothing about Koyoi carrying the pouch. It wasn't that she was staying quiet; she simply didn't seem to notice.
"And today?"
Her mother’s voice was less a question and more a confirmation.
"...I'm staying home."
"I see."
That was all. In this town, there were children who fell ill on days when the mist failed to appear. That was simply the way of things here.
Koyoi walked the opposite way from yesterday. Crossing the river and passing the edge of the fields, she took a narrow trail toward the mountains. An overgrown trail no one used, where no one would see her. The soil was damp, slightly sticky with each step. Her shoes made a wet, squelching sound, leaving tracks behind.
Beyond the bamboo grass, the path grew dark. A cedar grove. The straight trunks stood in orderly rows—a plantation, once, though no one looked after it anymore. Undergrowth ran wild, fallen logs blocked the way, and moss crept up the bark. Hardly any light reached the floor. Though it was midday, it was as dim as twilight. The sound of her own footsteps echoed with startling clarity.
Up ahead sat a dilapidated shrine. In her memory, the hokora had been larger, more grand. But the structure before her was far smaller and more fragile than she had imagined. The roof had caved in, the pillars leaned, and the stone steps were crumbling. Verdigris bloomed across the copper roof, one side of which had collapsed entirely. It didn't look broken out of malice; it seemed to have buckled under the weight of time because no one had bothered to fix it. The shimenawa was gone, rotted away by years of wind and rain. Only the rusted metal hooks remained. There were no traces of offerings, not even a shard of a broken plate. A moss-covered pedestal sat empty. Only the bare shape of what had once been a shrine remained.
Koyoi came to a halt.
"...Here."
The pouch grew slightly heavier, as if a stone had been added to it.
"...Where I was."
A small voice echoed from within. Not in her ears, but reaching directly into her chest. Koyoi wasn't surprised; she had felt it coming.
"...Is it you?" she whispered to the pouch.
"...No."
It was a new voice. It sounded exhausted, like the weariness at the end of a very long journey.
"...But... similar."
"...A friend?"
"...I don't know. But the same."
Koyoi knelt before the shrine, heedless of the dirt staining her knees.
"...Did you have a name?" she asked the shrine.
"...I did. I was called. But at some point, they stopped calling."
A gust of wind blew. The wreckage of the roof let out a dry creak—the sound of parched wood rubbing together, like a stifled scream. That sound tightened around Koyoi’s heart.
"...Why did it break?"
"...Not broken. Left behind."
Koyoi drew a breath. The back of her lungs felt cold.
Behind the shrine, she found a small stone. Its surface was worn, its corners rounded like a river pebble. It was a stone that had been touched many times, human oils giving it a dark, dull luster. Koyoi picked it up. It was cold, but not an unpleasant cold. It was the quiet chill of something that had endured a vast stretch of time.
"...This?"
"...That is a sign."
"...Of what?"
"...A sign that someone used to come here."
A trace of prayer. Evidence that someone, nameless, had once left their thoughts here.
"...Do you want to come with me?" Koyoi asked.
The voice fell silent for a moment.
"...Is it okay? It’s cramped."
Koyoi loosened the drawstring just a little.
"...There’s already one other in here. But I still have room."
"..."
"...I told you, you’re the same."
The voice went quiet again. Then, in a tiny whisper, it spoke.
"...Thank you."
Koyoi placed the stone into the pouch. As it slid gently inside, the pouch’s center of gravity shifted. A new weight was added. Not the weight of an object, but of a presence.
"...It’s okay now. You don't have to stay here."
"...Truly?"
"...Yes."
"...Because you... looked at me."
Those words pierced deep into her chest. An invisible thread seemed to extend from the needle that had pricked her, its end tied tightly around her own wrist—a heavy, foreboding sensation.
Koyoi stood up to head home. She brushed the dirt from her knees and looked back the way she had come.
The path was gone.
Her breath caught. The cedar grove that had been there moments ago was now shrouded in a wall of white. Mist. But the morning had been clear; there hadn’t been any fog at all. The mist stood like a solid wall twenty meters ahead. She couldn't see the way back. The shadows of the cedar grove, the thicket, the bamboo grass—everything was dissolving into the white.
"...What is this?" Koyoi’s voice trembled.
A voice answered from inside the pouch.
"...It’s come."
"What has?"
"...I don't know. But it’s come."
The mist wasn't moving. It wasn't getting closer or drifting away; it was simply there. As if a door had been shut, blocking the way she had come.
Slowly, Koyoi looked the other way, toward the north. Deeper into the mountains. There was still a path that way—a thin trail like a deer track, looking as though no human had ever set foot on it. But there was no mist.
"...Can we go that way?"
"...We can. But it’s far."
"What is?"
"...The town."
Koyoi bit her lip. Even when she turned back, the mist did not vanish. The white wall remained there, silent and certain.
"I can’t go back."
Saying it aloud made the words feel real. The pouch swung heavily at her hip. Two presences were breathing quietly within.
Koyoi began to walk north. Behind her, the roof of the shrine let out one last creak. A cry, or a farewell. She didn't look back. She knew that even if she did, she would see nothing at all.