The samurai, keen-eyed and still, had noticed the glances long before Sora realized he'd been seen.
When the guard secured the latch on the carriage door and disappeared indoors—presumably to join the others for supper—Sora assumed he'd been left alone. Forgotten, at least for now.
But then he saw him.
The samurai.
Approaching from the corner of the clearing with the same quiet precision he had used in his drills. His steps were deliberate, but not loud. Confident, but unhurried. There was no need for haste when one already commanded the attention of the room by doing nothing at all.
Sora froze at first. Then moved—too fast—stumbling backward across the cramped floor, his shoulder catching the wall as he half-fell into a sitting position. The boards creaked beneath him, the same spot where Akiko had carved her message the night before. Her presence lingered there still, like breath on a mirror.
And then, silence.
For a moment, Sora thought he had imagined the approach. But then a shadow shifted outside.
A pair of eyes appeared at the narrow slit in the carriage wall—the same one Sora had peered through just moments earlier.
"You should know better," came the voice. Calm. Low. Disarmingly composed. "It's unwise for a prisoner to stare."
The words were not angry. Not even chastising. Just matter-of-fact, as if he were commenting on the weather.
But they landed with weight.
Sora's breath caught. That voice—
It rang a bell. Familiar, but not quite formed. Like a name stuck behind one's teeth, or the sharpness of a sour plum remembered only in the seconds before it hits the tongue.
The samurai didn't linger.
He shifted.
Sora could hear the soft crunch of his sandals on gravel as he moved to the other side of the cart. A pause. Then another glance through a different slit, as if inspecting him from multiple angles. Measuring him.
A thoughtful hum followed.
"Hmm… Lady Akiko?"
There was hesitation in his tone. Uncertainty, but not confusion.
Sora hesitated. His mouth felt dry.
"I… ehm… yes," he said softly. Barely a whisper. A thread of sound, fraying at the edges.
The silence that followed Sora's answer stretched long—long enough to turn oppressive.
He could feel the samurai still standing outside, watching. Listening. Thinking.
Inside the carriage, Sora's mind began to spin.
Wait… he knows Akiko.
He remembers her.
That changed everything.
This wasn't just another armed escort. Not just a nameless, duty-bound face hidden behind a jingasa helmet. This man knew her. Had met her. Spoken with her.
Then maybe…
A crack of possibility split the wall of despair.
If the samurai remembered Akiko—not as a criminal, but as a person—then maybe there was a way. A door not yet closed. He didn't know the man's rank, or his loyalties, but if there was even the chance of a bond…
Maybe he could use that. Not cruelly. Not with manipulation.
But out of necessity.
Maybe this man—this single figure among the faceless—could help him get her out. Out of this cart. Out of this fate. Out of the execution etched in placard glass and museum silence.
He didn't have a plan. Not yet.
But for the first time since the wheels had begun turning, he felt something like… direction.
Before the thought could settle, the samurai spoke again, voice softer this time. Uncertain.
"The same Akiko from… a week ago? At the inn down the hill?"
Sora blinked.
A week ago… the inn down the hill…
And then it hit him—sharp and sudden, like plunging bare feet into a mountain spring.
Of course.
The samurai who had staggered out of the inn that morning. Wounded. Disoriented. The man Akiko had helped the night before, quietly, without question. The one who had asked her name as she passed him, with blood on his lips and confusion in his eyes.
"That is me…" Sora said at last, his voice barely more than breath.
Soft. Careful.
A rustle of fabric outside. A shift of weight.
Sora heard the faint creak of leather and the soft brush of hakama moving with controlled precision. The samurai adjusted his stance—measured, intentional. Through the slit, Sora glimpsed the faint edge of his silhouette: the hem of dark hakama, lamellar plates laced in pale silk cord, and the tension in a bandaged torso rising with a slow breath. He stood near, just out of full view, his presence quiet but heavy—like a blade unsheathed and resting.
Then came the voice again—low, composed, but touched with something more fragile beneath.
"…What did you do?"
A pause.
"What could you have done to deserve this?"
Not accusatory.
Almost… disappointed.
The words lingered between them, untouched, as though afraid to settle.
Through the slit, Sora saw a hand—broad, calloused—briefly flex, then still. The man did not shift. He didn't move away. But something in his posture softened.
He wasn't here to intimidate her.
He was trying to understand.
Sora drew a slow breath. His fingers curled tightly into the fabric of Akiko's robe, still stiff with dust and sweat. He adjusted his posture—knees stiff, thighs aching—and leaned against the wall with as much steadiness as the cramped space allowed.
He turned his face toward the slit and spoke, voice low and even.
"…I delivered a letter."
Silence answered.
Long. Listening.
Sora shifted forward slightly, just enough that a sliver of late-day light passed across Akiko's cheek—revealing the fine edge of her jaw, the grime clinging to her skin, the quiet fatigue hollowed beneath her eyes.
"That's all I did," he said again. "I carried my family's words to someone who needed to read them."
It came out sharper than he meant. Bitter.
But he didn't take it back.
Outside, the samurai remained still.
But Sora could sense it—that slight inhale. The tilt of a head he couldn't see. A breath held, as if waiting for something else.
He steadied his hands—one across Akiko's knees, the other pressed against the floor for balance. When he spoke again, it was quieter.
"And for that… I was put in chains."
Still no reply.
Only silence.
But it had changed.
It wasn't the silence of protocol anymore. It was human. Uncertain. Heavy with unspoken things.
And then—barely audible, like something fragile finally breaking free—Sora said:
"…The letter was forged."
His throat felt tight as he said it.
"It wasn't my family's words. It wasn't even ours. I didn't know… not at first. But I know now."
His breath caught. He pushed forward just a little more, close to the slit now.
"She would never—I would never—speak against the Emperor. I'm not a traitor."
And though he said it in a whisper, the words hit with more weight than any shout could carry.
The samurai didn't move.
But Sora no longer needed him to.
He could feel it—the fracture widening. Not in the armour.
But in the belief behind it.
The silence lingered.
No reply came from the samurai.
Only the faint whisper of wind across the clearing.
Then—
CAW.
A crow's cry pierced the quiet. Another followed—closer, louder, impatient. The kind of call that made the skin on Sora's arms prickle.
Then came laughter.
Heavy boots thudded against packed earth—three, maybe four sets. Sora shifted toward the slit and peered through.
Voices. Familiar.
The guards.
The same men who had been escorting him all day. He recognized their gait, their tone—their particular brand of arrogance, sharpened now by sake and full bellies.
One of them called out, voice thick with amusement. "Oi. You."
Through the narrow slats, Sora saw them now—Fujiwara men, lacquered sleeves, swords swaying at their hips. Their movements were loose, but not careless. They spotted the samurai by the carriage.
"You're not with us," one said, slowing.
The group stopped a few paces away, facing him.
The samurai didn't move.
Didn't answer.
One of the guards stepped forward, posture exaggerated—chin raised, hand resting on the pommel of his blade like he wanted it noticed.
"Bit strange, isn't it? Standing so close to a prisoner's cart."
His tone was playful, but there was steel beneath it.
"Out for a stroll, are you?" another chimed in, voice louder than it needed to be. "Or just curious what a condemned woman looks like before the blade drops?"
Laughter again. Ugly. Performative.
Sora felt his jaw tighten.
Through the slit, he caught a glimpse of the samurai's hakama—still. Unshaken. A pale strip of bandage showed faintly under the edge of his underlayer. One hand hung by his side. The other rested lightly on the scabbard at his hip.
He remained silent.
The guards waited a moment longer.
Then one scoffed. "Hmph. Another mute with a sword. Just what the world needs."
They moved to the horses.
One barked an order. Another unlatched the reins. Metal clinked as armour shifted. A different voice, more clipped now, muttered, "We ride."
They were getting ready to leave.
Sora felt the shift—urgency creeping back into their movements. Their purpose had returned. They needed to arrive by midnight. To deliver him.
To deliver her.
But the samurai didn't move.
He remained at the edge of the cart.
Still as stone.
Watching.
One of the guards noticed.
"What, you deaf too?" he snapped. "Move it."
The samurai didn't respond.
A second guard came up behind him and shoved his shoulder hard—right where the bandages crossed his back.
Sora saw the man flinch. Barely.
A breath drawn between teeth.
Another push came, this time lower—an elbow jabbing cruelly beneath the ribs. Targeted. Purposeful.
"Don't just stand there like some grave marker," the first guard muttered. "Go."
And then—so soft it barely reached through the slit in the wood—
"I'll follow," the samurai whispered.
Sora's breath caught.
He didn't respond.
He couldn't.
The moment was too small, too dangerous.
But it was there.
A promise folded into silence.
The guards shoved the samurai once more and marched him away from the cart—toward the back, toward the shadows where the pack animals and spare men rode.
The horses snorted. Wheels groaned.
The cart lurched forward.
The horses snorted. The wheels groaned.
Then came the jolt.
The carriage lurched forward, and the rocking began again—wooden wheels bumping over roots and stone, each sway jostling Akiko's bruised body against the hard walls.
The ache returned. Dull at first. Then sharper with every turn.
Sora grit his teeth, pressing his back into the splintered slats, trying not to move. Trying not to feel.
And still, even as the clearing faded behind them, even as the night began to close in—
He knew.
He was not alone anymore.
Not entirely.
✧ Across bodies, across time—Akiko
They walked side by side toward the station, their steps light against the fading buzz of the school day. The sidewalks had begun to empty, the chatter of students replaced by the distant clatter of bicycles and the soft chime of shop doors opening and closing. Akiko kept her eyes forward, trying not to overthink each movement of her limbs. Walking still felt strange—heavier, less graceful. She adjusted the strap of Sora's bag across her chest, shifting the unfamiliar weight.
Asuka, a few steps ahead, slowed without warning.
Akiko looked up, following her gaze. Across the narrow street stood a crepe stand—small, weathered, and utterly charming. A few paper lanterns bobbed in the wind above the counter, their orange glow just beginning to flicker in the dimming light. The menu was handwritten in looping marker, with faded pictures of crepes bursting with whipped cream, fruit, and syrup. A warm, buttery smell drifted over the road.
Asuka's voice broke the silence. "They're still open."
Akiko blinked. "Still…?"
"There used to be a line here after cram school," Asuka said, smiling faintly. "Before I stopped going." She paused. "Would you want one?"
Akiko felt her mouth water. Sweet things had always been her weakness. In court, they'd been a rare luxury—usually reserved for feast days or as subtle bribes among the nobility. But here, they were wrapped in paper and sold under lanterns. She nodded quickly. "Yes. I would."
They crossed at the light and stepped up to the stand. The smell grew stronger—sugar and warmth and something almost nostalgic. She scanned the menu, struggling to decipher the names at first, but her eyes settled on one that needed no translation: Triple Chocolate Strawberry. A towering swirl of cream, chocolate syrup, strawberries, and shavings all pressed into a folded golden crepe.
"That one," she said, pointing.
The vendor nodded. "2,450 yen."
Akiko didn't hesitate. She opened Sora's wallet, handed over a few bills without thinking, and accepted the crepe like a sacred offering. She didn't know if 2,450 yen was a little or a lot. It didn't matter. She took a bite, and the world narrowed to taste.
Soft, crisp, warm, cold. Sweet in three layers. The cream melted on her tongue like a dream.
Asuka raised a brow, amused. "Big appetite today?"
"I like sweet things," Akiko murmured through a mouthful of chocolate.
They started walking again, slower this time. Akiko could feel her body relaxing. Her shoulders, always tense from holding Sora's posture, lowered slightly. Her hands weren't clenched.
"You've really changed lately," Asuka said, licking a smear of cream from her thumb. "Like… in the last couple of days."
Akiko blinked. "I have?"
"Yeah," Asuka said, not quite looking at her. "It's hard to explain. You used to kind of… fade out. Like you didn't want to be seen. But now you're—well, not exactly outgoing—but more… here. Present."
Akiko looked down at the crepe in her hand, its paper wrapper now soft with heat. She took another bite to hide her silence.
"And you were never a sweet tooth before," Asuka added lightly. "I offered you a bite of mine once, and you said it was 'too sugary.' Now you're eating triple chocolate like it's water."
Akiko let out a quiet laugh, more nervous than amused.
More present… but in someone else's life. Someone else's skin.
Not more like herself.
More like a completely different person.
They walked on in silence for a time, finishing their crepes as the path narrowed toward the station entrance. Paper wrappers rustled in their hands, stained with cream and syrup. A breeze picked up—cooler now, brushing past the skin beneath Sora's uniform collar. Akiko pulled the fabric tighter around her throat, feeling the sweat drying at her back.
Asuka crumpled her wrapper and dropped it into a passing trash can, then slowed her pace again.
"I meant it earlier," she said, softly this time. "About you being different. But I also wanted to say thank you."
Akiko glanced at her. "For what?"
"For today," Asuka replied. "For listening. For not trying to fix anything. That's… rare."
Akiko didn't know what to say. Listening had been instinct. Not strategy. When Asuka had spoken, she'd felt her own loneliness reflected back in fragments. Different lives, different burdens—but the ache, the need to be heard, was the same.
"You make it easy to listen," Akiko said.
Asuka smiled—small, but real. "That's the kindest thing anyone's said to me in weeks."
They reached the station entrance just as a new wave of commuters passed by in a rush of dark suits and clacking shoes. The hum of overhead announcements echoed through the corridor as they stepped inside. Tile and steel replaced sunlight and wind. The scent of sakura vanished, replaced by electric lights and faint metallic cold.
Akiko flinched at the sudden press of people. She stuck close to Asuka's shoulder.
The ticket gates blinked with green lights and robotic beeps. Asuka tapped her pass card, waited for Akiko to do the same, then pointed toward a stairwell.
"My train's that way," she said, nodding to the right. "I can't take the Ueno loop. Gotta hop on the Marunouchi."
Something clicked in Akiko's memory. Ueno. That was the one.
She gave a small nod. "Then I take the Ueno."
They stood there a moment longer, just off the main current of foot traffic. People flowed past like water.
"See you tomorrow?" Asuka asked.
"Yes. Tomorrow."
Asuka shifted on her feet, like she might leave—but didn't.
Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Akiko.
Akiko froze.
The contact—unexpected, warm, firm—rooted her to the spot. For a moment she didn't know how to respond, the shape of Sora's body all wrong for receiving kindness. But then her arms rose. Slow. Careful. She returned the embrace.
It wasn't a quick hug. Asuka held on.
Akiko's breath caught.
This girl—this near-stranger—was holding her like someone who mattered.
Not like Sora.
Not like Akiko.
Just her.
When they finally pulled apart, Asuka smiled, almost shy. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"
Akiko nodded, lips parted but speechless.
Then Asuka turned, disappearing down the stairs toward her line.
And Akiko was left standing in the crowd, her arms still tingling from the warmth.
The crowd swallowed Asuka like fog.
Akiko stood still for a few seconds longer, watching the empty stairway where her friend had vanished. Friend. Yes… that word felt right now. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed having one.
She turned, gripping the strap of Sora's bag tighter across her chest, and followed the signs toward the Ueno line. Her steps felt deliberate. Slow. As if her legs weren't quite hers—which, of course, they weren't. The awareness never left her, even now. The press of fabric against unfamiliar shoulders. The subtle sway of mass distributed differently. The height, the stride, the stiffness in the hips when she walked too quickly.
It was like wearing armor that wasn't made for her.
The metro platform was already packed by the time she arrived. Students, office workers, a man in a business suit scrolling his phone with bleary eyes. Akiko hovered near the edge, careful not to stand too close. She remembered warnings about yellow lines and accidents. Even in this life, the abyss could have sharp edges.
When the train arrived, the doors opened with a chime, and the crowd flowed inward. Akiko followed, mimicking the body language of those around her. One hand gripped the strap above her head. The other kept close to her side.
No one looked at her. No one spoke.
But she didn't feel alone—not entirely.
She could still feel the echo of Asuka's hug, the gentle weight of arms that didn't see her as strange or broken. Just… human.
The train rocked softly as it moved. Outside the window, Tokyo blurred into streaks of neon and concrete. Akiko stared out, watching the lights bleed together.
What a strange world this is, she thought. So loud, so fast. So full of possibility.
She remembered the canal path, the warmth of the crepe in her hands. The weight of silence that didn't have to be filled. The way Asuka had looked at her—not as Sora, not as anyone in particular, but as someone who listened. Someone who stayed.
When she stepped off the train and onto the evening streets, everything looked slightly different. The apartment block she'd come to once already—Sora's place—loomed just ahead, its facade grey and practical. She let herself in with the key tucked in the side pocket of his bag, remembering the subtle twist it needed in the lock.
The light flicked on with a click.
Still neat. Still quiet. A pair of sneakers by the door. One umbrella leaning in the corner. No dishes in the sink.
Akiko slipped off her shoes, set the bag down, and padded into the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled.
She opened the small fridge. Inside stood a meal, the one from the marketplace called 7-11. The package was named curry rice.
She peeled back the plastic wrap awkwardly, fumbled with the buttons on the strange little microwave, and after two failed attempts, got it started. The hum filled the space.
While it warmed, she stood at the counter, arms folded. She could still taste chocolate on her tongue.
The microwave dinged.
Akiko opened it, the heat spilling out against her face. The curry rice smelled sharper than she remembered—spices, onions, something vaguely sweet underneath. She carried it to the table, sat down, and took a bite. It burned her tongue slightly, but she didn't mind. The warmth was comforting. Heavy. Familiar in a way nothing else in this world had been.
She ate slowly, savouring each spoonful. Her thoughts drifted—not just to the day, but to the strange rhythm of this life. It was starting to settle around her like borrowed robes. Still not hers, not truly. But manageable. Wearable. And at times… even comforting.
When she finished, she washed the plastic container and left it to dry beside the sink, just as she'd seen it the first time. Then she made her way to the bathroom, pausing in the hallway as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Not herself.
Sora.
Still strange. Still jarring.
She studied the face reflected back. The jawline. The collarbones. The way the neck curved toward shoulders that weren't hers. The bathroom light was dim, casting a pale yellow glow over skin that felt too broad in some places, too lean in others. She turned away.
The bath took time to run. The apartment's water heater let out a quiet hum, and steam began to rise slowly in the small room. She peeled off the layers of Sora's uniform carefully, folding each piece with practiced hands. Then came the underclothes.
She hesitated.
Even now, after days in this body, she hadn't looked—truly looked. She'd avoided mirrors, changed quickly, closed her eyes in the shower.
But in this moment, as she stood in the fogged mirror's fading outline, she couldn't ignore the shape of him anymore. Of herself, now.
The body was not grotesque. It was simply foreign. A different type of vulnerability. A different kind of privacy.
She stepped into the bath.
The heat hit her like a sigh. It pulled the tension from her shoulders, loosening the tight grip she hadn't even noticed she'd been holding in her neck, her back. She sank slowly into the water, arms folded over Sora's chest, knees bent awkwardly against the curve of the tub.
It was quiet. Just the gentle hum of the pipes, the faint plink of water settling.
But her mind wouldn't still.
She thought of him.
Of Sora.
Of her own face—gaunt, tired—rocking inside a wooden cart under a sky she couldn't see.
He's probably still in that carriage, she thought. Or maybe… maybe they've already arrived.
Heian-kyō.
The thought pressed against her ribs like something sharp. She didn't know what awaited him there—only that it must be worse than the road.
No food. No water. No rest. Just dust and suspicion and silence.
Her fingers curled against the porcelain edge of the bath.
She had carved it into the wood. Just one word.
Sorry.
She'd scratched it in the space between floorboards and bindings, while the guards weren't watching. Just in case he saw it. Just in case they passed each other in the dark.
I hope he saw it.
She hadn't known what else to write. There were too many things she couldn't say—too many regrets, too much shame. But maybe, just maybe, that one word had reached him.
She blinked down at the water. The surface rippled softly where her elbows touched. She could feel the shape of this body around her—Sora's chest, Sora's shoulders, Sora's thighs folded beneath her—and yet all she could think of was the body he was in now. The burden he was carrying.
Her burden.
I wonder if he's cold.
I wonder if his wrists hurt.
She pressed her forehead to her knees.
He shouldn't be the one suffering.
I should've fought harder.
I should've found another way.
The steam curled around her like smoke from a quiet fire, warming everything but that single ache in her chest.
Please be okay, she thought.
She didn't know where he was.
But she knew exactly what she had left him in.
And it made the silence hurt more.
When her fingers began to wrinkle, she rose, dried herself with one of Sora's towels, and dressed in a plain T-shirt and shorts she found in a drawer. They hung awkwardly on her—too loose in some places, too tight in others. But they were clean. Soft. Safe.
In the dim of the bedroom, she plugged in Sora's phone on the nightstand, where its little red charging light blinked like a distant star. Then she laid down, drawing the blanket over her legs, resting one hand against the pillow.
She didn't think.
She didn't worry.
She just breathed.
And somewhere between one blink and the next, she fell asleep—quiet, warm, and not quite alone.