Episode 007: The Pass Inn

The footsteps vanished the moment the village came into view.

I’d been walking the mountain path at dusk when I first realized it: the sound of footsteps following me from behind had stopped. I turned around. No one was there. Then again, no one had been there the whole time.

This time, even that sound was gone. Only the whistle of the wind and the sound of my own breathing remained in my ears.

I looked ahead. Through the trees, I saw a glimmer of light. A house. No—several houses. Smoke curled from chimneys, and a warm glow spilled from the windows. It was a village.

“...People,” a voice whispered. It came from the drawstring bag at my waist—the voice of the God of the Vacant Lot.

“...So warm,” added the Shrine Deity.

A wooden gate stood at the entrance to the village, shaped somewhat like a torii. Beside it stood a sign: The Pass Inn.

If there was an inn, I could stay. I could sleep under a roof. My pace quickened instinctively.

A cobblestone path led into the village, lined on both sides by houses with thick thatched roofs. Light leaked through the windows, carrying with it the scent of the evening meal—miso, grilled fish, and the sweet steam of freshly cooked rice. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten anything since noon but a single piece of dried mochi.

I reached a small square with a well. A woman stood beside it. She looked to be in her fifties, small-statured, wearing an indigo-dyed apron and a tenugui hand-towel wrapped around her head.

The woman looked at me. For a heartbeat, her eyes lingered—a gaze that seemed to be searching for something, confirming something. But then, her face softened into a smile.

“A little traveler, are you?” Her voice was raspy, yet warm. “If you need a place to stay, come to my house. It’s the Pass Inn.”

The inn was an old two-story building. As I stepped up from the doma entryway, I saw the fire in the irori hearth glowing a deep, vibrant red. The landlady brewed some tea. It was hot; the chill seemed to melt away from my fingertips with every sip.

“Are you alone?”

“...Yes.”

“Where did you come from?”

“...Kirihara Town.”

The landlady’s hand paused for a fraction of a second. But she asked nothing more.

I ate dinner in the dining room. Miso soup, grilled fish, pickles, and warm rice. It was my first proper meal in a long time. There were no other guests, though a few villagers were eating there. They glanced at me occasionally, but no one spoke to me.

“Are you headed for the Boundary?”

An old man at the next table suddenly spoke up.

“...Yes.”

“I see,” the old man said simply, then returned to his food.

My room was a six-tatami room on the second floor. The mats were old but clean. I pulled the futon from the closet and laid it out. It was thin, but far better than the grass I’d slept on the night before. Through the window, I could see the lights of the village.

I placed the drawstring bag by my pillow.

“...We can rest,” I whispered.

“...Mm-hmm,” the gods replied softly.

I closed my eyes.

When I woke the next morning, the first thing I noticed was the silence.

It was too quiet. No roosters crowing. No voices drifting from outside. No footsteps.

I slid open the shoji screen. The morning sun was streaming in. It looked like any other morning. But something was wrong.

I stepped out into the hallway. No one was there.

“Excuse me?” I called out. No answer.

I hurried down the stairs. The front desk was empty. The fire in the hearth had gone out, leaving only cold, gray ash.

“...They’re gone.” The bag at my waist suddenly felt heavy.

“...Vanished,” the Shrine Deity’s voice was trembling.

I ran outside. The square was deserted. The bucket at the well was frozen halfway up, as if someone had been drawing water and simply stopped. A single straw sandal lay abandoned on the road. The doors to the houses stood wide open.

I ran back to the dining room and ducked under the noren curtain. Breakfast was laid out on the tables.

Bowls of rice sat half-eaten. Chopsticks remained resting on their holders. The miso soup was still steaming. The tea was still warm. A piece of pickle sat on a plate, a single bite taken out of it.

I looked at the stove. The fire was still burning; the wood had only just been added. The lid of the rice cooker was slightly ajar, letting out a plume of steam.

Someone had been here seconds ago. They had been eating their breakfast just moments before. And yet, there was no one.

No—there was a presence. A distortion in the air, as if someone were still sitting there. A sensation that something invisible was continuing its meal.

“...Run,” the God of the Vacant Lot whispered from the bag.

“...Hurry,” the Shrine Deity urged.

Something was there. I couldn't see it, but it was there. The air felt heavy, suffocating. I felt eyes on my back.

I bolted.

I sprinted through the square. I could see the western gate. If I could just pass through it, I’d be back on the mountain path. My feet tangled; I nearly tripped. I didn’t look back. I felt that if I did, I would see something I could never unsee.

I dove through the gate. The cobblestones ended, and the path turned back to dirt.

Uphill. My breath came in ragged gasps. My legs felt like lead. But I didn’t stop.

A hundred paces. Two hundred. Farther and farther from the village.

Finally, I stopped. Gasping for air, I turned around.

The village was sinking into the mist.

A white shroud was spreading from the center of the town. The thatched roofs were slowly swallowed by the white. The well vanished. The second floor of the inn disappeared into the fog.

The village that had welcomed me so warmly last night. The landlady’s voice. The old man’s words. The fire in the hearth. All of it was dissolving into the white.

Clang.

A metallic clang echoed in the distance. I knew that sound. It was the same sound I had heard when Kirihara Town went under.

“...It’s over,” the Shrine Deity whispered.

“...Again,” the God of the Vacant Lot followed.

“...It has been measured.”

Measured. The village had been surveyed, calculated, and fixed in place. Just like Kirihara Town.

The village would never move again. Beneath that white mist, they would continue eating their breakfast forever. Never finishing. Never standing up.

I looked forward. Tears were tracing paths down my cheeks. I didn't know when I had started crying.

“...I have to go,” my voice trembled.

“...Yes.”

“...We have to go.”

The gods answered in small, quiet voices.

I began to walk the mountain path. Behind me, the village submerged in mist glittered in the morning sun—a white, cold, motionless light.

I did not look back.