Chapter 1 Part 5
✦ Part 5: Dinner with a Stranger Who Knows
By the time Yuriko descended to the dining room, the manor felt darker than it should have. Not dim, not merely candlelit—but somehow sunk into the hour, like it had no need for clocks. The chandelier overhead flickered with warm oil light. Shadows moved politely along the walls.
Maboroshi stood at the far end of the long table, rolling up the sleeves of his black dress shirt as if preparing for performance, not dinner. On the table: two places set with fine porcelain, napkins of deep wine red folded into tight spirals.
He looked up when she entered—not startled, not smiling, but with that same unreadable calm. "You came," he said, as if this were the fulfillment of a promise. He gestured to the seat opposite him. "Please."
She sat without speaking. Her hands rested quietly in her lap, fingers tangled like roots. The silverware caught the light strangely—as though slightly too sharp, slightly too new.
"I hope you're not too hungry," he said, turning toward a sideboard. "I wasn't sure how far your appetite traveled."
"I don't eat much," she replied. "Not lately."
"I remember."
The words hung. She blinked. "We… met before?"
He nodded. "In the summer. Long ago. You wore a white dress with plum blossoms." His back was to her, but she could hear the faint scrape of a knife on wood. "You insisted on climbing the fence to the grave orchard. I had to pull you down when your foot caught."
Yuriko didn't remember any of that. She wanted to say so. Instead, her mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Her tongue felt dry.
He returned with two plates. Soft white rice topped with simmered mushrooms, thin slices of sweet tofu, delicately pickled vegetables curled like petals. It was the kind of meal no one cooked for her anymore—too thoughtful, too personal.
"Have I… have I been here before?" she asked, finally.
Maboroshi tilted his head slightly. "That depends on what you mean by here." He picked up his wine glass. "The house? The village? This room?"
"This table."
He looked at her, long enough that she almost looked away. Then he said, "Yes. Often."
She touched her fork. It was heavy, well-balanced, slightly colder than the room.
"How do you remember all this?" she asked.
"I preserve," he said, simply.
Dinner unfolded slowly. Every movement was choreographed, as if he'd prepared for a ritual rather than a meal. Yuriko found herself watching his hands—the way he broke the tofu, not with the fork, but gently along the grain, like silk. She couldn't shake the feeling that everything he touched remembered him.
"You haven't touched your wine," he said.
She lifted it, hesitated. The smell was rich, full of something spicy and unfamiliar.
He watched her closely, but not with hunger—something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or reverence.
She took a sip. It was colder than expected, almost floral, and left a warmth in her throat that bloomed out slowly.
"You said we were children here," she said.
He nodded once.
"I don't remember you."
He leaned forward, elbows delicately resting on the table, like a man holding a secret between his palms. "That's all right," he said. "Not all memories return as thoughts. Some come back as… sensations. Shadows. Poses."
She tilted her head. "Poses?"
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small photograph. He didn't hand it to her. He placed it face-down on the table between them.
Yuriko stared at it. "What is that?"
"Only what you choose to see." He smiled—not kindly, but not unkindly either. Just deeply certain. "But if you turn it over, it won't go back to sleep."
She didn't move.
"I've been waiting for you," he said after a moment. "This village… holds things for people. But only if they come back." He sipped his wine. "Not everyone does."
Yuriko felt heat rising in her chest—not anger, not desire, something in between. "Why me?"
"You asked," he said.
"I don't remember asking."
He set his glass down. "You didn't ask with words."
The room seemed to thicken.
Somewhere behind her, a clock ticked. It hadn't been ticking before.
"Where are the others?" she asked. "You said we ate here often. Was it just us?"
He tilted his head, as if listening to something. "You asked not to be photographed with them."
"Why?"
"You said you wanted to be remembered alone."
She stood abruptly. The chair scraped the wood.
"I don't remember any of this," she snapped, not quite shouting. "I came here for work. I was invited to document something. Not to play someone else's dream."
He looked up at her, his gaze unwavering. "But Yuriko," he said softly, "how can you photograph death if you don't understand what it means to be forgotten?"
The words dropped between them like ash.
She stared at him, breath uneven. Her fainting spell hovered just behind her eyes, the edges of her vision pulsing slightly. She clutched the back of the chair to ground herself.
Maboroshi stood, slow and measured. He came around the table, but not too close—just near enough that she could smell his skin, faintly of cedar and some faint cologne that made her want to close her eyes.
"I'm not here to trap you," he said. "I'm here to remind you."
She looked up at him. "Of what?"
His hand rose. Not to touch her, but to point behind her.
She turned.
On the sideboard was a small mirror.
It hadn't been there before.
In its glass, the table was reflected. The wine, the candles, the plates.
And two chairs.
Both empty.