The stall grew warmer as evening deepened. Lantern light crept in slowly, replacing the last of the sunlight and gilding the rough wooden beams in soft gold. Someone tossed another log behind the counter; fresh smoke curled up, blending with the lingering scent of broth and mountain herbs.
Daichi lingered at the counter long after his bowl was empty. He turned the chipped cup slowly between his fingers, movements deliberate and unhurried. People spoke more easily to someone who didn't seem to be waiting for answers.
The old woman refilled his cup with tea without a word. Steam rose between them.
"You're walking late," she observed, voice low and matter-of-fact.
"Road looked shorter on the map," Daichi said, offering a small, easy grin.
She snorted softly. "Mountain always lies."
He laughed under his breath, the sound quiet enough not to carry far.
Behind him, two elderly men sat at a low table, arguing in murmurs—something about weather patterns or stubborn crops. Their words drifted in and out like wind through bamboo, familiar and unremarkable.
Daichi sipped the tea, letting the warmth settle. He didn't push. He simply stayed—patient, present—while the lantern swayed gently overhead and the night thickened outside.
The old woman watched him for a moment longer, then turned back to her pot. No questions yet. But the space between them had opened, just enough.
Daichi took a slow sip of tea. Warm. Good. The heat spread through his chest, loosening the last of the mountain chill.
He glanced outside casually, where dusk had thickened into deep indigo. "Does it get colder higher up?" he asked, voice light.
One of the elderly men answered without lifting his eyes from his bowl. "Depends how far you go."
The other added, gruff but matter-of-fact, "Nothing much past the cedar trees anyway."
Daichi nodded, as though filing away ordinary travel advice. He set the cup down gently. "I was thinking of finding a place to stay. Didn't see any inns."
The stall owner shook her head once, wiping her hands on her apron. "No inn."
A pause settled over the small space—long enough to notice, short enough to feel natural. The lantern swayed overhead, casting slow shadows across the counter. Outside, the wind brushed the prayer ribbons again, a faint, restless sound.
Daichi waited. The silence held its breath.
"Someone might rent a room… if they're willing," the stall owner said, wiping the counter in slow circles.
The second man scoffed. "Not these days."
Daichi tilted his head slightly. "Something happen?"
The two men exchanged a glance—the quick, silent kind that weighed whether a stranger merited truth. One shrugged.
"Just trouble."
"What kind?" Daichi asked, voice light, almost distracted, as though the question had slipped out by accident.
The first man hesitated, fingers tightening around his cup. "Child fell sick."
From the table behind, the other corrected him quietly. "Not sick. Strange."
Daichi made a low, thoughtful sound in his throat—acknowledgment without pressure. He took another sip of tea, letting the silence stretch. The lantern above swayed gently, shadows shifting across worn wood. Outside, the mountain night pressed closer, cool and waiting.
No one spoke for a long moment. The pot behind the counter simmered on, patient as the road itself.
Daichi turned back to his tea, cradling the cup without drinking. Silence stretched long enough that curiosity felt natural again, no longer forced.
Finally, the first man spoke unprompted. "She won't move her hands properly, they say."
The stall owner clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Told people long ago not to wander east at night."
Daichi lifted his eyes just enough. "Wild animals?"
The men laughed once—short, humorless. "Worse than animals."
"Flower bloomed again," one muttered, voice low as though naming it might summon it.
The words settled over the counter like frost.
Daichi frowned faintly, the expression of a traveler trying to parse local superstition without offense. "A flower?"
The stall owner wiped the counter in slow, deliberate arcs. "Children call it pretty," she said. "Old people call it unlucky."
No one elaborated. The lantern swayed above, throwing soft shadows across chipped bowls and worn wood. Outside, the mountain wind tugged at the prayer ribbons again—restless, persistent.
Daichi took a slow sip of tea, letting the warmth mask the slight tightening in his jaw. The conversation drifted back to safer ground—crops, weather—but the word lingered in the air between them.
Flower. Unlucky.
He set the cup down quietly.
Another villager leaned closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Glows at night. Like a lantern in the forest."
Someone else nodded grimly. "Every few years someone gets curious."
The first man shook his head slowly. "This time… a child brought it home."
Daichi's hand paused around his cup, fingers still. He did not press. He never did right away. Let them fill the silence themselves—they always would.
After a measured beat, he asked quietly, "Family?"
The men shrugged in unison. "Just the child living up there."
"Don't see them much."
"Quiet house."
Fragments drifted across the counter like ash—enough to sketch a shape without revealing the whole. The lantern overhead swayed, throwing faint light across their faces. Outside, the mountain night pressed thicker, colder.
Daichi set his cup down without sound. The tea had gone lukewarm.
He glanced once toward Shiori, still seated at the table. Her eyes were already fixed on the dark road beyond the awning.
Nothing complete. Only fragments.
One man waved his hand dismissively. "Doesn't matter now. Elders told them to stay inside."
"Why?" Daichi asked, voice still easy.
The stall owner answered this time, wiping her hands on her apron. "People are afraid."
That was all. No explanation. No details. Only fear, plain and heavy in the lantern light.
Daichi nodded slowly, accepting the unspoken boundary. He reached into his pocket, placed a small stack of coins on the counter—enough for the meal and a little more.
"Well," he said gently, "hope the kid gets better."
No one answered. Hope was not currency here; it had long since worn thin.
He picked up his half-finished tea and returned to Shiori's table. She looked up as he sat across from her, eyes calm and waiting.
"They don't know much," he murmured, low enough for only her. "Only pieces."
Shiori listened without interrupting. Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of her empty bowl. The lantern above swayed, casting slow shadows across their faces. Outside, the mountain night had fully settled—cold, quiet, and waiting.
Neither spoke for a moment. The road upward still called, unfinished.
"Child living near the cedar side. Hands stiff. People blaming some glowing flower."
Daichi exhaled lightly through his nose. "Half superstition. Half fear."
Shiori's gaze dropped to the scarred wooden table, fingers resting still beside her empty bowl. She was thinking—quietly, deeply.
"The grove?" she asked, voice barely above a murmur.
"East side," he confirmed.
A small silence settled between them, thick with the weight of unspoken decisions. The lantern above swayed once, casting their shadows long across the floorboards.
Then she said softly, "Let's go see."
Daichi's mouth curved into the faintest smile—resigned, fond, unsurprised. "Figured you'd say that."
They rose together. Daichi offered the stall owner a small, respectful bow; Shiori mirrored it. The elderly woman nodded once, already turning back to her simmering pot as though the moment had never interrupted her rhythm.
They stepped outside. The evening air met them cool and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and distant frost. Behind them, village conversation picked up immediately—low voices, familiar complaints—sliding back into place as if the travelers had been no more than passing wind.
Ahead, the road sloped upward again, darker now, lined by the first tall cedars. Toward the grove. Toward a child with stiff hands and a flower no one dared name fully.
They walked on, side by side, footsteps quiet against the gravel.
The mountain waited.
The path narrowed sharply once they left the stall behind. Village sounds—low voices, the clatter of shutters, the distant ring of a bell—faded within moments, swallowed by the steady hush of wind moving through cedar branches. Lantern lights vanished one by one behind them until only the pale afterglow of evening clung to the sky, turning the world soft gray and silver.
Daichi glanced around at the thickening trees. "…He said cedar trees, right?"
Shiori nodded once. Cedars stood everywhere—tall, dark, patient. The mountain offered no easy markers. They passed fenced gardens gone dormant for winter, neat stacks of firewood under eaves, empty washing lines swaying like thin ghosts in the cold air. Somewhere far off a dog barked twice, sharp and lonely, then fell silent.
Daichi scratched the back of his neck. "Not exactly clear directions."
Silence answered him. A few more steps on packed earth and loose needles.
Then, casually, he asked, "So… what do you think about what they said?"
Shiori walked beside him, her gaze drifting slowly across the ground rather than the scattered houses. "I don't know yet."
Daichi's mouth curved faintly. "Meaning you already suspect something."
She shook her head lightly. "Without seeing… nothing is certain."
He nodded. Fair enough.
After another stretch of quiet he added, "If it really is a poisonous plant, villagers reacting like this makes sense."
Another pause. "Fear spreads faster than illness."
Shiori did not respond. Her attention had shifted to the soil near the roadside. Pale dust clung unevenly to the path—almost chalk-like, fine and dry. She slowed her steps without realizing it.
The faint mineral heaviness returned to the air. Not strong. But unmistakable. Present.
"…Something changed here," she murmured.
Daichi looked at her sidelong. "You felt it earlier too?"
She didn't answer directly. Instead she said, "Let's find the house first."
They continued upward. The cedars closed in tighter, branches knitting overhead until the last of the evening light filtered through in thin, pale threads. The path grew steeper, quieter. Somewhere ahead waited a quiet house, a child with stiff hands, and a flower the village feared enough to name unlucky.
The mountain offered no promises. Only the next step.