The old house stood in a remote part of the countryside, far removed from the bustle of the village. Normally it was nothing more than a dust-covered relic, devoid of life, but today the stillness was broken. The moving company's truck was parked out front, and its manager approached Kohei Kuryu.
"All set. Everything's in place. We'll be heading out now," the man reported.
"Thank you for your hard work. I've already transferred the balance," Kohei replied.
The manager glanced at his phone and broke into a satisfied smile. He cast a look around the area. There were only a few abandoned houses scattered across the barren stretch, with the nearest occupied home at least a ten-minute drive away. He gave a skeptical shake of his head.
"Not sure how city folk like you are going to manage out here…"
"The air's clean. Will make it work," Kohei answered politely, flashing the kind of smile that could almost fool him into believing things would turn out fine.
The manager chuckled, tipped his cap, and headed for his truck. "Well then, thank you for choosing our company."
"Safe travels," Kohei said, watching the truck roll away before turning back to the house. He pulled out his phone to check his notes. The moving checklist was complete. His stomach growled.
Time to eat.
Inside, his mother was already lying in bed. Cancer had weakened her so much that even sitting up for long was impossible. His father, sitting at her side and gently holding her hand, turned his head when Kohei entered.
"Otsukare (Good job)."
"Yes. How about Yakiudon for lunch?" Kohei suggested.
His father gave a weary smile. "There aren't any restaurants around here. We'll have to cook for ourselves. Let's keep it simple."
Finding a diner in town was out of the question, not with his mother's condition. Thankfully, they had stocked an icebox with tofu, vegetables, and other essentials.
"Yakiudon won't take long," Kohei said, moving toward the kitchen. "Mom, would that be all right with you?"
Her voice was faint but steady. "I'd be grateful." She forced a smile, and it tugged painfully at her son's heart.
Heaven is unfair, Kohei thought. She's lived such an honest, gentle life, only to be struck with a cruel disease. If the clean air here helps even a little, maybe we can hope for some change.
Not long ago, his father, Kuryu Jun, had been forced to resign. Too many days away from the office, spent caring for his ailing wife, had soured his superiors' opinion of him. In the end, he faced a choice: abandon his wife to cling to his career, or walk away from the company to stay by her side. The decision had not been a long one. Family outweighed everything else. With the small severance offered, Jun chose to spend whatever time remained at his wife's side, and so they had come here, clinging to stories of patients who found new strength in the countryside air.
The sound of udon washing—chareuk, chareuk—echoed faintly through the quiet house. Jun stroked his wife's hand.
"Once he finishes lunch, Kohei should head back to the city," he murmured.
"He should," she agreed.
"I feel guilty, letting him do all this for us," he said with a sigh. "It should be my job."
Her husband's chest suddenly tightened, and he drew a long pull from his asthma inhaler. The day's work had exhausted him.
When Kohei returned, he moved to help his mother sit up. She felt lighter than ever in his arms, and the realization filled him with dread.
She has to get better. Please, just let it stop spreading.
"I'm sorry, son," she whispered.
"If you can enjoy this meal, that's all I need," he said gently.
Soon, a steaming plate of yakiudon, thick udon noodles stir-fried with pork, cabbage, and onions in a savory soy-based sauce, was set on the table. Jun blinked in surprise as he lifted his chopstick.
"You made all this already?"
"Please, eat while it's hot."
The first bite of noodles slid down warmly, the thick udon coated in a savory soy-sauce glaze, with tender pork and cabbage adding richness that lingered on the tongue. A sigh escaped him. "Ah, this is good. You've become quite the cook."
"It's thanks to the noodles, not me," Kohei answered, before glancing at his mother. "How is it, Mom?"
She nodded. "Delicious." Slowly, she lifted a few strands of udon with her chopsticks and brought them to her lips. Food had lost its flavor months ago, but at least today she could keep it down.
When the meal ended, Jun placed his chopstick aside. "Kohei, you've done enough. Time to head back now."
"What are you talking about? I brought everything here already."
"There's no need for you to suffer with us. You should be finding your own path."
"I'll stay until I find another job."
Fate had struck cruelly: not long after his father's resignation, Kohei's company had collapsed. His wages went unpaid for months before the doors finally shut. For now, unemployment benefits gave him breathing room, but he couldn't abandon his parents until they were settled. Still, he hadn't expected the countryside to be this desolate.
The house itself had once belonged to his grandparents. Back then, the area had been dotted with homes. Now, nearly all stood empty, rotting into shells that gave rise to ghost-stories. Their own home had nearly become one of them, but days of scrubbing and repairs had restored it to something livable.
"This place is too remote," Kohei said quietly. "Wouldn't somewhere closer to a hospital be safer?"
Jun shook his head. "Do you know how powerful that mountain is?"
His son frowned. "Powerful?"
"When I was young, people said the stone cairn there could grant miracles. The lame walked, the blind saw. If you prayed there, your wish would come true."
Kohei laughed under his breath. "That sounds a little far-fetched."
But his father's expression remained solemn. "I saw it with my own eyes. An old man in the village twisted his leg, and the doctors said he'd never recover. After praying at the cairn, he found a wild ginseng root on the way down and healed completely."
"I hope it works for you and Mom too," Kohei said softly.
"That's why we came here, son. Don't worry about us. You should go back and live your life."
He looked at his boy—the only child, who had grown strong despite a modest upbringing—and pride mingled with guilt in his chest.
Kohei didn't argue further, only said, "Then I should at least visit the cairn before I go."
The memory of the mountain weighed heavily as he glanced through the window. Once lush and green, the slopes now looked patchy and dull.
"It used to be thicker with trees," he murmured.
"People cut them down to sell the timber," his father replied. "They don't think of the future."
"True enough."
"Go before it gets dark. Mountains aren't safe at night."
"Yes, Father."
After gathering a small snack, Kohei set out. The mountain wasn't tall, but the trail was overgrown, weeds brushing against his legs as he pushed his way upward. After half an hour, he reached a small clearing where stone cairns still stood, many of them toppled and half-buried in grass that reached his waist.
So this is it. The wishing cairn.
He crouched down, picked up a stone, and began to rebuild what time had torn apart.
With every stone he placed, Kohei whispered a prayer. "Please, let my parents recover." "Please, let me find a job." He didn't even realize how much time had passed as he worked, the simple rhythm of stacking stones oddly suited to him. By the time he looked up, the sun had already dipped low, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
I should head down now.
Even a small mountain could become dangerous at night. There might not be tigers anymore, but he had heard stories of wild dogs roaming the countryside. Besides, he still had dinner to prepare for his parents.
He began his descent, but then froze. At the edge of a cliff stood a figure.
Someone's there?
It was a girl, dressed in a kimono, sitting casually on a rock with her legs dangling. Before he could call out, she leapt to her feet and began walking along the very edge, her slender form swaying precariously in the wind.
Alarm jolted through him. Kohei threw his bag aside and sprinted up the slope. "Hey!"
The girl's eyes went wide as he reached her. He grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the cliffside. "That's dangerous!"
She stared at him with round, startled eyes, her body stiff as stone. He crouched, brushing a hand gently over her hair and cheek. "Are you okay?"
The girl clasped his hand with both of hers. Her palms were warm, the heat seeping into his skin in a way that almost melted something inside him. It had been a long time since he'd felt such warmth.
"Your hands are cold," he said softly. "Where are your parents?"
Her lips parted. "You can see me? You can touch me?"
Kohei blinked.
What kind of strange answer is that? Is she sick?
A suspicion struck him—had her family abandoned her here because of an illness? Why else would she be wandering alone, dressed in traditional kimono when winter was approaching, without even a coat? The thought made his chest tighten with anger.
No matter how ill a child might be, who leaves her in the middle of the mountains?
He sighed.
I'll have to take her to the police station.
It would be dark soon, and they couldn't linger. He took her hand. "Let's head down before it gets late. Come with me."
The girl clung tightly to his hand, her grip desperate, as if she never wanted to let go.
I can't lose this man!
For she was no ordinary girl. She was the guardian spirit of this mountain, the Yamagami. Decades ago, when the woods were lush and her strength plentiful, she had helped villagers who came to the cairn with their wishes. She had even had attendants then—spirits of the forest who served her. But those days were long gone. Her power had faded until she was nearly invisible, her voice unheard, her hands unable even to lift a stone.
She had tried speaking to supplicants before, but after being ignored again and again, she had given up. Now, with her strength so depleted, she could no longer rebuild the cairns or even gather the energy she once commanded.
Kohei was different. He had seen her, heard her, touched her. He was her only chance. Clinging to him with all the strength she had left, she whispered, "Please, help me."
"Of course I'll help you," he said quickly. "But first, we need to get down."
"I can't leave. I'm the guardian spirit of this mountain," she replied.
Kohei studied her carefully. Her kimono was pristine, without a wrinkle. Even her rubber shoes were spotless, as though untouched by dirt. A chill pricked the back of his neck.
Don't tell me… a ghost?
The thought didn't scare him. He had never been one to believe in ghosts, and even if they did exist, he knew enough old tales to think they could be appeased if one simply helped them. Besides, if she wasn't a spirit, she was just a child abandoned in the mountains, which was no less tragic.
Either way, he couldn't leave her here. "Come on, let's get you down before dark."
"I told you, I can't leave the mountain!" she protested, her face creasing with worry as she allowed herself to be half-dragged along.
"Then Ojisan (Uncle) will carry you," Kohei said with a sigh, crouching down and offering his back.
The girl's lips twitched. The young man before her was handsome enough, and yet he had just called himself Ojisan. The absurdity made her laugh despite herself. "Ojisan? I've lived hundreds of years longer than you!"
"Whatever you say. Just get on."
She hesitated, then clambered onto his back. His shoulders were broad, his gait steady.
"Hold on tight," he told her as he started down the path more carefully than before.
Her voice was soft by his ear. "If I really am the mountain spirit, won't you help me regain my power?"
"If you're a mountain spirit, shouldn't you be helping me?" he countered lightly.
Her arms tightened around his neck. "I can't. My strength is gone. Please, just help me recover. Then I'll be able to help you."
"And how would you help me?" he asked.
She thought of all the faces she had seen over the years—men and women who came to the cairn with fervent prayers. Wishes spoken through trembling lips. She remembered their desperation, their tears.
"What is it you want most?" she asked.
Kohei was quiet for a moment. "My parents' health. I want them to get better."
"Are they sick?"
His throat tightened. "That's… not something I should be telling a kid."
"Kid? I told you—I'm a mountain spirit!" she huffed, puffing her cheeks in indignation. She wished she could show him some miracle, anything to prove her claim. But she had no strength left, no power for displays of the divine.
There was only one thing she could still offer. "I'll find you ginseng," she said suddenly. "Wild ginseng from these mountains. If I do that, will you believe me?"