After descending the mountain and walking the highway for half a day, the next post town finally came into view.
“Yamabuki-juku.”
It was a town built upon the banks of a great river, a place said to be so lush that the surrounding hills were perpetually ablaze with the golden-yellow yamabuki blossoms for which it was named.
Yet, the moment Koyoi stepped into the town, a chill ran down her spine. It wasn’t that the temperature had dropped; rather, the presence of the people felt cold. Even though the yamabuki flowers were in full bloom, their colors looked washed out. When the wind stirred the petals, not a single soul paused to look.
The people in the streets kept their heads bowed, rarely exchanging a word. There was no sign of children playing, and even the shopkeepers lacked the energy to call out to customers. A stagnant heaviness hung over the town, as if the entire place were trapped in a thick fog. Even the water barrels lining the road sat perfectly still; despite being full, there wasn't a single ripple on the surface. It felt as though time itself had ground to a halt—an illusion that made the hair on the back of Koyoi’s neck stand up.
“...Something’s wrong,” Asahi whispered, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. “There’s no life here. No... it’s more like the life has been stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“It’s proof an Observer is nearby. They suppress human emotion and fluctuation, treating both as noise.”
Asahi’s voice was low, lost to the wind. Koyoi nodded, taking a breath of the town’s air. It felt tight and heavy in her chest. She tightened her grip on the drawstring pouch at her waist. Inside, the Wind God shifted uncomfortably.
‘...It is... hard to breathe...’
Even for a god, this atmosphere was suffocating. The fabric of the pouch trembled slightly, and a faint, cold breeze brushed against Koyoi’s palm.
Near the edge of town, the river came into view. The water should have been clear, but the light reflecting off it was dull. Even the sound of the current seemed thin and weak. Old ropes were wound around the stones along the bank—traces of someone’s attempt to seal something away. Koyoi paused to look, but Asahi gave her shoulder a light nudge, prompting her to keep moving. A small boat was moored beneath the bridge, but it was empty. Its wood was bone-dry, swaying listlessly in the current.
“Anyway, let's find an inn for today. It’s better than forcing ourselves along the road at night.”
Asahi led her down a back alley to a small traveler’s inn called Tsubame-ya—the Swallow Inn. It was an old building, but well-maintained. A small lantern hung from the eaves of the entrance, but its glow was dimmer than those in other towns.
A middle-aged proprietress sat alone at the reception desk. Her features were soft, but there was a profound weariness deep in her eyes. When Asahi offered a brief greeting, she merely nodded without a word. Though the floorboards were polished to a shine, they felt strangely cold and creaked faintly, making their footsteps echo with unnatural clarity. The woman slid the ledger toward them and silently handed over a key. Her movements were deliberate, the mark of someone who had protected this inn for a long time. Koyoi bowed her head slightly and took the key.
Their room was at the end of the second floor, offering a panoramic view of the town. As twilight deepened, lanterns began to flicker to life throughout the streets, but their light was fragile. When Koyoi rested her hand on the window frame, the wood felt cold. The wind outside let out a thin whistle, mingling with the flickering shadows. Though the tatami mats in the room seemed new, they carried a faint, damp scent. As she shed her travel-worn clothes, some of the tension left her shoulders, but the fluttering unease in her heart remained.
Just then, the sound of light footsteps came from the hallway. People were moving about, yet there were no voices. It was as if the entire inn were holding its breath. Through the gap in the sliding door, a shadow cast by the lantern light passed by. Koyoi couldn't see a face, but the gait was heavy and slow. Instinctively, she pulled the pouch close to her chest and held her breath.
“Dinner’s here. Eat while it’s hot.”
Asahi brought in a tray set with warm barley rice, salt-grilled river fish, and a side of simmered wild plants. The scent of the steam tickled Koyoi’s nose, and her stomach gave an audible growl. She moved her chopsticks in silence.
The warmth of the food spread through her chilled body, and the saltiness brought a small measure of peace to her mind. Her fingertips trembled slightly as she picked the bones from the fish; the exhaustion had yet to fully leave her. She let out a deep breath and allowed her shoulders to drop. A tiny breeze leaked from the pouch, mingling with the steam and tickling her palm. Perhaps the Wind God had also found a moment of comfort in the scent of the meal.
“Asahi... how far are we going?”
The anxiety slipped out before she could stop it. They had left Kirihara-cho and crossed so many borders. They had delivered gods and picked up new ones. How long would this journey last?
Asahi sipped his tea, his gaze fixed on something far away. “To the place of Kamiatsume.”
“Kamiatsume...”
“The Gathering of the Gods. It is said that once we reach it, the distortions of this world—and the reign of the Observers—will end.”
Asahi’s voice sounded as though he were recounting a legend from a distant land. Even he might not be certain where it was, or if it even truly existed. Yet his eyes did not waver. He possessed the resolve of a man who knew he had a destination he must reach.
“But we have to keep going. If we stop... we’ll lose our color, just like the people in this town.”
Asahi’s words were heavy, but Koyoi nodded. Her intuition told her he was right—if they stayed here, they would be swallowed by the town’s cold emptiness. Outside, another lantern flickered out, and the shadows in the room deepened. Koyoi stared into the darkness and whispered a single vow to herself: I won’t lose.
She looked out the window again. The town was sinking into the gloom as one by one, the lights vanished. With every flame that died, the anxiety in her chest grew, but the faint breeze from the pouch pushed that fear back.
(I don’t want to fade away.)
She made the wish with all her heart. Her promise to Shiori-san. Her promise to her mother. She would see them through to the end. Inside the pouch, the Wind God sent a tiny gust against her palm, as if to say, ‘I am here too.’
Koyoi pressed her ear to the pouch and whispered a soft “thank you.” There was no verbal reply, but the warmth she felt was real.
“...Yeah. Let’s go. All the way to Kamiatsume.”
That night, Koyoi fell into a fitful sleep, haunted by the rhythmic sound of cold iron stakes being driven into the earth. Outside, the town’s presence seemed to thin and vanish as the lights grew distant and the night deepened into a profound silence. Yet, the steady pulse of the wind inside her pouch remained her anchor, its soft sound unraveling her fears like a quiet lullaby. Wrapped in that small comfort, the light within her chest burning steady against the dark, Koyoi finally drifted into a peaceful slumber.