Morning light spilled into the room in soft, dappled threads—slipping between the seams of the shōji like a shy guest. The hush of pre-dawn had given way to the rustle of the inn coming to life. The rhythmic thud of a wooden pestle echoed faintly from the courtyard, where the innkeeper and his wife were already grinding rice, their practiced motions part of a world that never truly slept.
Outside, the trill of uguisu—the Japanese bush warbler—rose from the eaves, followed by the higher-pitched chirps of sparrows fluttering about the tiled roofs. The sky had barely begun to shift from indigo to pale pearl, yet the scent of roasting meat already lingered in the air, mingling with the steam of morning miso and the earthy sting of burning charcoal.
In the common room near the hearth, Yasuhiro and Tsukasa sat in silence, their silhouettes drawn in charcoal hues by the flickering fire. Neither man had slept more than a breath's worth of rest. The events of the previous day clung to them like soot—impossible to scrub clean.
Yasuhiro turned the arrow slowly between his fingers. "How would you explain this?" he asked, his voice low, as if afraid the very walls might overhear.
Tsukasa leaned forward, arms resting heavily on his knees. His eyes lingered on the shaft, the intricate featherwork, the iron head still stained faintly with dried blood. He did not answer immediately.
"I see only two possibilities," he said at last, voice measured. "Either the Fujiwara clan truly does not wish the message Lady Akiko carries to be delivered—"
"Or someone has stolen their arrows," Yasuhiro finished for him. "And used them to disguise the attempt as something else."
Tsukasa nodded grimly. "But who in their right mind would steal from the Fujiwara?"
"No one," Yasuhiro grunted. He stabbed the arrow into the packed earth beside the fire, not with anger, but as punctuation—final, resolute. "Which means this isn't just a matter of bandits or coincidence. We're being hunted. And the sender of that message knew it might happen."
Silence followed, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint sizzle of fat dripping into flame. Outside, the warblers continued their song, as if unaware of the tightening noose.
"We mustn't let Lady Akiko learn of this," Yasuhiro said at length, his voice barely above a whisper. "If the message is of such importance, then we must deliver it swiftly… and we must keep her safe at all costs."
Tsukasa's jaw tightened. He nodded once, then slowly reached out and retrieved the arrow from the earth. "Agreed."
But something in him shifted. He stared into the fire for a long while, the flames casting uneasy shadows across his weathered features.
"We cannot continue as we are," he said finally. "It's too dangerous."
Yasuhiro arched an eyebrow.
"We stand out too much," Tsukasa continued. "Two armed men guarding a noble lady—it marks us like banners in a parade. If they know who they're after, then staying in our roles only makes us easier to find."
Yasuhiro's face darkened, lips pressing into a thin line. "You're not wrong," he admitted, though the words tasted bitter.
"I know it goes against everything we've been taught," Tsukasa said, the pain in his voice unmistakable. "But if we want her to survive this journey, we can't act like her retainers. We must become something else."
He looked Yasuhiro directly in the eye.
"I suggest we travel not as guards, but as family."
Yasuhiro's brow furrowed, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "Family?"
Tsukasa gave a reluctant nod. "You… appear old enough to pass as her grandfather. And I, perhaps… as her father. If we dress accordingly and abandon our retainer mannerisms, no one would suspect the truth."
The silence that followed was not indecision—it was mourning. Mourning the roles they had dedicated their lives to. To step away from that, even in pretense, was to give up a part of themselves.
Yasuhiro stared down at the arrow again, the fletching now scorched at the edge from the fire. His hands were steady, but his expression was taut.
At last, he exhaled through his nose. "For her safety, I'll wear the lie."
His gaze lifted, meeting Tsukasa's. "But we do this properly. No more armor, no more swords unless hidden. If we're to vanish into the common folk, then we vanish."
Tsukasa allowed himself a rare, small smile. "Agreed."
From somewhere behind the inn, a rooster cried—announcing the arrival of dawn. Soon, Lady Akiko would awaken. And when she did, the world around her would have changed once again.
But this time… they would be ready.
Akiko blinked slowly, grounding herself.
The reed screen. The bedding. The soreness in her legs. The heaviness in her shoulders.
This was her body.
There was no mistaking it—the way the silk hugged her skin, the familiar stretch of her muscles, the quiet, measured rhythm of her breath. But it felt… used. Her legs ached in a way she hadn't earned. Her calves throbbed with the unmistakable fatigue of long-distance walking—uneven terrain, not the manicured gardens of a palace road. Her feet were sore in the arches. Her back stiffened as she stretched.
These were not her movements.
Not from yesterday.
Because yesterday…
Her breath hitched.
Yesterday, I was him.
The boy.
Sora.
The one from the future. The one with the strange, unclean, room. With shoes made of strange materials. The one who had stared into the mirror and seen her face and screamed.
She remembered it all—the awkward way his limbs moved under her control, how the city roared like a hundred rivers, the bitter scent of smoke and strange metal. That distant hum beneath the floor.
He hadn't understood anything.
And now…? Akiko looked around the chamber again with new eyes.
Different inn. Different bedding. Different air.
The scent of pine, and varnished wood.
She had not been here.
She had not worn this robe before.
She had not laid down in this bed.
But someone had.
She turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
Her hand drifted over the robe she was wearing, these were not sleeping robes. The futon, the smooth imprint in the pillow beside her. Her mind traced the shape of her fatigue—not the graceful weariness of courtly duties, but the raw exhaustion of a body pushed too far by someone unfamiliar with its limits.
There was only one conclusion.
He was here.
He was me.
Her pulse steadied as she knelt beside her futon. A clean yogi laid next to it, perfectly folded, the one her retainers prepared for her, she guessed. But he never changed into. If her retainers knew this, they would have probably forced her to change into it, what happened yesterday?
Where were they, anyway?
She rose with quiet purpose, moving to the door, sliding it open no more than an inch.
Tsukasa's voice murmured something to Yasuhiro. She caught only fragments.
"—oddest thing I've ever seen her do—"
"—hugged us both—"
"She thanked us."
Akiko froze.
She did not hug them, he did.
Her lips parted in silent disbelief.
He embraced them?
He spoke in my voice?
And they had believed it was her.
The screen clicked shut. She leaned against it, a long breath leaving her body.
It was absurd.
It was horrifying.
It was… real.
Sora, the boy from the other world, had walked in her skin. Spoken with her mouth. Stared through her eyes.
And they hadn't noticed.
Not Tsukasa. Not Yasuhiro. Not the inn staff. Not a single soul.
She pressed her palms together to still the trembling.
He had survived.
Whatever happened yesterday—wherever he went—he hadn't shamed her. That, at least, was something. And yet...
A hot flush rose to her cheeks.
He hugged them. Like a child. Like a fool. No wonder they were whispering outside like gossiping maids.
Akiko swallowed hard and straightened her spine.
No more guessing.
It had happened. It was happening.
And she needed answers.
She moved carefully now, each motion deliberate, each breath measured. The shoji clicked shut behind her as she turned back toward her belongings, kneeling before her satchel.
The lacquered wood box rested atop her folded travel cloak, undisturbed. She unlatched it, fingers steady despite the churn beneath her ribs.
The imperial missive was still there.
Wrapped in brocade. Seal unbroken.
Untouched.
Akiko let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her thumb lingered over the crimson wax, tracing the imperial crest embossed into its surface. He hadn't opened it.
That was… good.
He knew better.
Or maybe he simply hadn't known what it was.
She replaced it gently, tucking it beneath the other scrolls and supplies. Next came her inkstone, brush case, and the packet of pressed herbs Tsukasa had given her at the journey's start. All accounted for. No signs of disturbance. No unusual folds in the cloth. No forgotten note or careless scribble. Not even a smudge of ink.
As if she had been here the whole time.
As if he had tried to preserve the illusion.
She rose again, mind whirring.
Good.
Then no one else needed to know.
She moved to the mirror—polished bronze set in a carved frame—and stared at her reflection. The face she had always worn. Pale from travel, tired from a night she had not lived.
Still hers.
But someone else had worn it.
Akiko ran her fingers over her cheek, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. There was no sign of possession. No visible shame. Nothing to betray the truth.
And it must stay that way.
If Tsukasa or Yasuhiro began to suspect—if word spread that she'd been acting strange, embracing men, speaking in unfamiliar tones—she could handle it. She would fold it into her mask. A noblewoman's fatigue. A brush with death. A temporary lapse.
But not madness.
Never that.
They would summon a shrine priest. They would try to drive out spirits that weren't there. And they would ask questions she could not answer.
No. This secret would stay hers.
And… his.
Sora.
She stared into her own eyes in the bronze. The boy from the future. The one who had seen her world through borrowed eyes and—somehow—had not broken it.
Her hand curled around the edge of the mirror.
If this happens again, she thought, he must understand how dangerous it is. For both of us.
A message. A signal. A way to speak when they could not.
But not yet.
Not while others were watching.
For now, she would play the part.
She would be herself, even if part of her had not been here yesterday.
Still kneeling, she reached into the scroll box again—this time for one of her blank sheets, the kind used for poetry practice or letter-writing. She selected the thinnest one, rice paper soft as breath, and laid it across the low table.
Her brush moved in silence. Careful strokes. Deliberate spacing. No signature. No name. Just a single message, written in classical script, the kind even a foreigner in her body might puzzle through.
If you are the one who was me yesterday, write nothing. But read well.
We are not alone in this.
Be careful what you say. What you show. What you touch.
I have protected your secret. I expect the same in return.
Leave no trace behind. Fold this into your sleeve when you wake.
She waited for the ink to dry, her eyes flicking once to the door. No footsteps in the hall. No creak of floorboards. Only the wind in the trees outside.
Then she folded the scroll into a neat triangle and slipped it into the inner lining of her robe, where she would later tuck it into the sleeve of her sleeping garment.
It would be there come morning. If this… whatever it was happened again.
A quiet promise across time.
She replaced the ink brush, wiped the table clean, and resumed her place on the futon. Eyes closed, breathing even.
No one needed to know.
And when morning came—
Sora would.
As Akiko was collecting her things, a sudden knock averted her eyes to the door which slowly slid open.
"My lady," came Tsukasa's voice, low but respectful. "Forgive the early hour. Breakfast has been prepared."
Akiko sat up slowly, schooling her expression into quiet composure. Her body still ached faintly—sore feet, taut shoulders, a lingering fatigue she could not claim as her own. Yet she moved as if she had risen from this very futon and no other, wrapping the outer robe around herself with practiced grace.
She slid open the door.
Tsukasa stood waiting, his usual armor conspicuously absent. Instead, he wore a faded travel cloak and roughspun kimono, his hair tied back in a simpler, more humble style. Yasuhiro stood beside him, similarly dressed in the manner of a country elder—his walking stick completing the illusion. The transformation startled her for a moment, but she didn't let it show.
"We thought it best to eat before the roads fill," Tsukasa offered. "The innkeeper has arranged a modest meal for us in the inner courtyard. Will that be acceptable?"
Akiko nodded slowly. "Yes. Thank you. Let us go."
They walked in silence through the inn's dim corridors, her bare feet brushing against worn tatami. In the courtyard, a wooden tray awaited each of them—steamed rice, pickled plum, slices of grilled venison, and warm barley tea that fogged in the crisp morning air.
Akiko knelt and ate in measured bites. She could feel their eyes on her, not suspicious, but searching. As if they expected something… or feared she might already suspect what they had quietly chosen.
Finally, it was Yasuhiro who broke the silence.
"My lady," he said, placing his cup down, "we spoke last night. About the ambush."
Akiko raised her gaze slowly. She nodded once. "Go on."
Tsukasa exchanged a glance with him, then leaned forward slightly. "It was not random. The route, the timing, the weapons—they were no common bandits. Someone knew you were coming."
Yasuhiro picked up the thread. "And not just that. They knew when and where to strike. The road was deserted, unusually so. Someone ensured there were no witnesses."
Akiko's fingers tightened around her chopsticks. Her pulse quickened—but she kept her face calm, like still water hiding the current beneath.
"They were after the letter," she said quietly.
Tsukasa nodded. "We believe so. But there's more. The arrow we recovered—it bore decisive features of the Fujiwara."
She let that hang in the air for a moment, feigning contemplation while freaking out inside, then offered a steady response. "Which either means the Fujiwara themselves are responsible… or someone wishes us to believe they are."
Yasuhiro's eyes widened just slightly. "You… came to the same conclusion."
They were silent for a beat, and then Tsukasa nodded with quiet admiration. "You are as wise as you are brave, my lady."
Akiko allowed herself a faint smile. "And you are loyal as always."
She let her gaze pass over them both now—studying the changes in their appearance. The travel-worn robes, the soft-spoken deference traded for an air of simple familiarity. It was subtle, but deliberate.
"You've chosen to change roles," she said softly.
"We had to," Tsukasa admitted. "Two retainers escorting a noblewoman—too obvious. We discussed it last night. From this point on, we will travel as family. I, your father. Yasuhiro, your grandfather."
Akiko nodded slowly, accepting the disguise without protest. In truth, she appreciated the foresight. It would grant her freedom from scrutiny… and give her room to move carefully.
"Very well," she said. "Then you will forgive me, father, if I speak sharply on the road."
Tsukasa allowed himself a small chuckle. "You've done worse before."
Yasuhiro fainted a laugh. "She gets that tongue from your side of the bloodline."
Akiko smiled politely, though a quiet warmth stirred in her chest, conflicting with hierarchical standards. They were protecting her. And they had no idea that the person they protected yesterday… had not been her.
She finished the last of her fish and rose with practiced grace.
"I am ready. Let us move before the sun climbs too high."
As she turned, the hidden message in her sleeve brushed faintly against her arm, a quiet reminder: she was not alone in this mystery.
A message. A signal. A way to speak when they could not.
As Tsukasa gathered Akiko her supplies from the room, and Yasuhiro theirs, they set foot in the early morning sun.
As Sora sat down on his bed with a sigh, he stared at his phone.
Kazuki: So, tell me how it went man! Did you hold her hand? 😂
Kazuki: Tell me you at least paid for her.
Kazuki: Oh and don't forget your book tomorrow, I don't think Asuka will mind, but I think our professor will mind. See you tomorrow, and you better tell me all about your day 😉
There Kazuki goes again. Always poking fun, always assuming. He knew Sora didn't like Asuka like that—he just thought Sora needed a little push. Maybe he did. Maybe it would've gone better if Sora hadn't been… well, himself lately.
But it was more than that.
Sora stared at the screen, thumb hovering, typing and deleting half-responses. He could've just said it was fine. That they talked. That he was tired.
All technically true.
But that didn't explain the way the air shifted sometime between lunch and sunset. Didn't explain the sudden heaviness in her voice, or the look she gave him that stuck like thorns under his skin.
She'd said something.
Not cruel. Not even dramatic.
Just a sentence.
One that didn't make sense. One that shouldn't have mattered. But it did.
He tried to forget it. Pushed it aside through the train ride home and the walk back through the flickering vending machine lights of his neighbourhood.
But now, in the stillness of his room, it echoed.
A quiet whisper against the edges of his thoughts.
He set the phone down beside him, screen still glowing, Kazuki's teasing words untouched. Somewhere beyond the window, a motorcycle buzzed through the night. A dog barked. The light on the charger blinked once.
None of it helped.
None of it made it go away.
He leaned back on the bed, eyes wide open.
And thought again—
Why did she say that?