Night in Kinoko was never truly silent.
The waves rolled endlessly against the distant shore, a low hum beneath the forest's chorus of insects and owls. Yet tonight, Yoshiki Takahiro swore he heard something else—a faint thrum beneath it all, like the beating of a distant drum.
He sat on the wooden steps outside his family's home, elbows on his knees, staring up at the glittering spread of stars. The fire from the hearth flickered faintly through the shutters, but Yoshiki preferred the night air. Out here, the world felt larger, closer to the edge of truth.
His grandfather's words came unbidden, echoing in his mind. "They will come for us, boy. Not to save us… but to chain us again. You must be ready when no one else is."
That had been four years ago, only days before the old man passed.
Yoshiki had been eight then, still young enough to hope for childish things, but old enough to remember every detail of that warning. Since that day, the words had carved themselves into him like scripture.
The village had dismissed it, of course. "Ramblings of an old man." "Peace has lasted this long, it will last forever." But Yoshiki knew better.
"Still brooding?"
The voice startled him slightly. He turned to see Yuzuriha Mori approaching, a lantern dangling from her hand. Its warm glow outlined her figure in the cool darkness, casting her calm face into shifting shadows.
"You're up late," Yoshiki muttered, turning back to the stars.
"So are you," Yuzuriha replied, settling beside him without waiting for an invitation. She placed the lantern between them, the light catching the thin ribbon in her hair. For a while, neither spoke.
Finally, Yuzuriha broke the silence. "You've been training harder than ever. Hikaru says you nearly broke his arm today."
Yoshiki gave a short snort. "He'll survive. He needs to toughen up."
Yuzuriha's gaze softened, though her tone stayed flat. "Not everyone carries your grandfather's warnings like a sword."
At that, Yoshiki's shoulders stiffened. "Maybe they should. He wasn't wrong, Yuzuriha. We were put here. Trapped. That means someone—somewhere—still watches us. And someday…" He clenched his fists, eyes burning with conviction. "…they'll come back."
Yuzuriha studied him, her sharp eyes catching the way his jaw tightened, the faint tremble in his hand. To the villagers, Yoshiki looked reckless, obsessed. But she saw more than that. Beneath his stubbornness was fear—raw and desperate—that he could never put into words.
"You've held onto his words for four years," she said quietly. "Don't you ever get tired?"
Yoshiki's lips curved into a humorless smile. "I can't afford to."
For a moment, silence fell again, broken only by the buzz of cicadas. Then, faintly, carried by the night wind, Yuzuriha thought she heard something else—like a soft hum. Not insects. Not waves. Something deeper, almost like… a voice.
She turned toward the forest, eyes narrowing, but the sound faded as quickly as it came.
"…Do you hear that?" she asked suddenly.
"Hear what?" Yoshiki frowned.
"Nothing," Yuzuriha said quickly, shaking her head. "Probably nothing."
But she didn't believe her own words.
The lantern between them flickered, its flame bending as if swayed by an unseen current. Yoshiki glanced at it, then back to the stars.
"I don't care if no one believes me," he said, his voice low and steady. "When the time comes, I'll be ready. And so will you. And Hikaru, even if he kicks and screams the whole way."
For a rare moment, Yuzuriha smiled. "That does sound like him."
Their quiet laughter drifted into the night, mingling with the forest sounds. But the faint hum that Yuzuriha thought she'd heard lingered at the edge of her mind, like a note of a forgotten song.
The island was whispering. And soon, it would no longer be ignored.