Prologue 1
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. 2 Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.
3 And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. 4 God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. 5 God called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.
God is Keiko.
She stood in the empty room and set a line no one could see. Day here. Night there. She pressed her hand down until land rose. She pulled her hand back until the water settled. She counted the breaths between waves. She named the tall hill that would hold the town. She drew the river in a clean bend and left a shelf of stones where people would stand and decide things.
She spoke, and it happened. "Be," and it was.
She fixed the stars in a pattern simple enough to read. She marked the months with rain and the years with a cold that made people store blankets. She planted cedar. She stacked houses along a narrow street. She placed a noodle shop with steam in the window at dusk. She left a hall where voices would carry.
She chose a house. Wood frame. Thin walls. A shelf for photos. A small table for tea. A shrine that would always be dusted. She set a matriarch at the head of that house and gave her a name. Keiko.
She wrote the first rule for this place and spoke it so softly the floor heard it. First sons go first.
She did not smile. She did not look away from what that rule would do. She repeated it, steady, until the town could repeat it without notes.
She placed a rope in a storeroom. She put a storm on a calendar. She placed a boy in a future that would arrive on time. She checked every latch.
She watched the river. The river did what rivers do. It rose when it rained. It lowered when the wind cleared the clouds. It carried branches and once had a hat. People built a mill, then a plant, and then left it to rust. Keiko saw the metal go dull and kept the town anyway.
On the first night the shrine stood, she lit incense. The smoke went straight up. She held the stick until it burned her fingers, but she did not drop it.
A voice, close to her own and not, came out of the quiet and asked a question that sounded like a list. Why this town? Why this line? Why that rope?
Keiko answered with the facts she could live with. "Work. Order. A story they can keep when the lights fail."
The voice asked for the cost.
Keiko did not stall. "The oldest boys," she said.
She heard doors open and close through years that had not happened yet. She heard a chair scrape. A laugh in a kitchen. The clatter of a ladder. The sharp breath people take when a siren starts. She did not flinch. She moved the coin in her palm from one finger to another and put it away.
On a wet night with red traffic lights, a woman in uniform pulled her car to the side and stepped out to fix a line of fallen cones. The wind was rough. Water ran off the bridge in sheets. The road smelled like rain and oil.
"Hey—" she said to no one, talking to keep herself steady. "Okay. Almost done."
A cry cut through the noise. Not loud. Thin. The woman, Aiko, turned and stood still for a second. "No, that's not—" She shook her head and approached the sound. She found the space beneath the overpass, the plastic bag caught on a bolt, and the bundle under it—a wet white undershirt. A newborn inside it, still pink, fists curled.
"Oh my God," she said, quieter than, "Okay. Okay, I've got you."
She held the child against her chest and spoke into his hair. "You're cold. I'm sorry. It's okay. You're okay." Her voice stuttered once. She adjusted her grip. "Aiko. That's me. We're going to the hospital now."
She ran for the car. The rain hit her face hard. Her shoes slipped. She kept her feet under her. She set the child on the passenger seat, buckled him in with one hand, braced the bundle with the other, and drove. Her breath was uneven. She talked to fill it. "I'm bad at singing. You don't care. Right. Right."
Keiko watched, marking the minute. She placed a bent coin in the undershirt's hem to ensure it did not fall out in the car.
At the hospital, the lights were bright and the air was dry. A nurse took the child. "Vitals look fine," she said. "Lucky."
Aiko stood there, hands empty, and shook once. Then, she put her hands in her pockets so no one would see them. "He was under the bridge," she said. "No parents. Nothing."
The doctor nodded. "We'll run the tests." He paused, looked at the child, and lowered his voice. "He looks... normal."
"Normal is good," Aiko said. She looked again at the small face. "He needs a name later."
Keiko wrote one in the air over the crib. Hajime.
She returned to the house with the shrine, set two pairs of slippers by the door, put a kettle on the stove, and turned the knob.
Morning came again. The town woke up. People swept the steps. A truck rattled past the noodle shop. Kids ran to school with bags, hitting their hips. Aya Sudo, hair still damp from a quick wash, walked fast and organized her day in her head in small boxes. She carried a pen and a card with a list.
Keiko watched her too. She placed steady parents for Aya, a house that smelled like cleaner and paper, a fridge that held report cards with clips. She noted how Aya stopped at crosswalks with her feet exactly on the line. She put that away for later.
At lunch, a boy with a quiet face and careful hands sat alone for a minute and joined the loud table because someone waved. His name would be Hajime. For now, he was a cry in a hospital room. Keiko could see both at once and kept her hand still.
In the evening, Keiko stood at the shrine in the house and lit incense again. The smoke went up, straight and thin.
She spoke with no one in the room to hear. I created the laws of the world. I let everything fall into place and give them free will... I'm the main villain.""
She did not dress the words up or try to make them easier. She said them once and let them sit.
She opened the drawer under the shrine and took out a paper on which she had written the rules. She read them in a flat voice: Day and night, flood and dry, work and rest, first sons go first. She set the paper back in the drawer and closed it.
She went to the window and looked at the river. No trick. Just water moving along the bed she had cut. She lifted her hand one finger's width. The current sped up for a moment and then returned to its pace. She let it be.
She walked to the kitchen. Aiko came in from her shift, her hair damp and her jacket leaking rain. "Tea?" Aiko asked, already taking down cups.
Keiko nodded. "Tea."
They stood by the counter. The kettle hissed. Aiko rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I found a baby tonight."
Keiko looked at her. "Alive," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah." Aiko poured water. "He cried the whole drive. Then he didn't. I thought I broke him. I didn't." She stopped, frowned. "That sounds stupid."
"It sounds exact," Keiko said.
"I can't stop... thinking about it," Aiko said. "He didn't have anything. Not even a name."
Keiko wiped a drop of water off the counter with her thumb. "You can bring him here," she said. "If that is what happens."
Aiko looked up, quickly. "You mean that?"
"Yes."
"Okay." Aiko let out a breath. "Okay."
They drank tea. The house was quiet. The clock on the wall ticked. The rope in the storeroom lay where Keiko had left it, coiled and heavy.
The next day, Aya's class sat in a circle at the school while the teacher taped a map to the board. The door slid open. A new boy stepped in, uniform a little too big, hair combed flat.
"This is Hajime," the teacher said.
The class said hello in a single sound. Aya watched the new boy take the empty chair. He sat with his hands on his knees. He looked at the floor, then at the map, and then back at the floor.
At lunch, on the sun-warmed asphalt, Aya stood with three other kids and spoke fast, assigning tasks for a project that had not been assigned yet. The new boy walked by. Aya saw him and did not soften. "You," she said. "What are you good at?"
He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "Running," he said. "And... helping. I don't know. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Aya said. "Pick one."
"Helping," he said.
"Fine," Aya said. "You're with me."
The bell rang. Someone shouted for no reason. A teacher clapped. A crow landed on the fence and watched everything.
That night, Keiko unlocked the storeroom and looked at the rope. She set her fingers on it and felt the weight through the fibers. She set it back, closed the door, and turned the key.
She sat at the shrine and read names out loud. Some were already written. Some only existed on her paper. She did not skip any. When she was done, she pressed the paper flat with her palm.
Aiko came home late again. She stood in the entry and took off her shoes. "They're going to ask me if I want to foster," she called.
Keiko answered from the kitchen. "Say yes."
Aiko laughed once, a slight sound. "You are very sure."
"Yes," Keiko said.
Aiko came in and leaned on the counter. "I'm scared," she said. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't even cook well. He'll hate my eggs."
"He will eat your eggs," Keiko said. "He will not hate them."
Aiko nodded, then shook her head. "I'm talking too much."
"You are talking the right amount," Keiko said.
A car went by outside. The house settled. The kettle clicked off.
Keiko set two bowls on the table. She did not look at the shrine. She knew the paper inside the drawer word for word. She knew the rule she had set. She could feel it in the bones of the house.
She went to the window and watched the street. A teenager skated past, board rattling on a crack. Two men in volunteer jackets intentionally walked by so people would see them. The noodle shop sign blinked on. Steam fogged the glass.
Keiko spoke to the empty room. "I will not move the river. I will not touch the stars." She paused. "I will watch."
The next storm lined itself up on the edge of the map. The rope stayed in the storeroom. The town calendar is filled with meetings. Someone reserved the municipal hall. Someone called for a drill. Someone forgot the date and then remembered it late.
A siren made one clean sound, then stopped. In the hospital nursery, a baby stirred. In a classroom, a girl wrote a rule on a small card and underlined it. A young woman taped the second rung on a ladder so her friend would not miss her footing. On a bridge, the river moved along its bed and did not care who watched it.
Keiko waited for the door to open. It did. Aiko stood there with a carrier in her hands and a look of worry and resolve. "He's here," she said. "If that's okay."
"Yes," Keiko said.
Aiko set the carrier down. The baby woke and hiccuped. Keiko bent, slow, careful, and looked at him. No mark. No sign. Just a face not yet decided.
"His name is Hajime," Aiko said, voice small, as if she might be wrong.
"It is," Keiko said.
Aiko touched the undershirt. "There was a coin in the hem," she said. "We kept it. I don't know why."
Keiko did not answer that. She reached out. The baby gripped her finger with all his strength. His hand was warm. He held on. Keiko did not pull away.
"Hi," Aiko said to him. "Welcome home."
Keiko kept her voice even. "Welcome," she said.
The kettle clicked on again without anyone touching it. The clock ticked. The rope stayed behind a locked door.
The baby let go of Keiko's finger and yawned. The sound was slight. Keiko stood straight and looked at the shrine. She closed her eyes once, opened them, and did not change the paper in the drawer.
Outside, rain started in a thin line. Under a streetlight, Aya lifted her face to it and made a plan. The siren, somewhere, tested itself again and cut off mid-note. Aiko adjusted the carrier strap and cleared her throat.
Keiko did not move. She watched the first drop hit the window and break. She waited.