The air was colder now, even though it was the same season, it seemed warmer where Sora was, perhaps it was only his skin that made it feel that way.
Akiko stepped lightly down the moss-slick steps of the shrine, her wooden sandals whispering against stone. The faint scent of incense clung to her sleeve, though the fire had long since burned out. Morning fog blanketed the path ahead, silver and thin as spider silk, casting the world in half-formed silhouettes. A cart creaked somewhere beyond the trees. A bird called out once, then fell silent.
She should have felt comfort in the rituals. She had knelt, bowed, washed her hands. Whispered prayers with her own voice— that still did not feel like her own. But beneath every action lay a tightness in her chest, a careful calculation in her breath. It was not the world that had changed — it was how it looked at her.
Yasuhiro walked a few paces ahead, posture straighter than it had any right to be for a man of his supposed years. His stride was still sharp, measured. A warrior pretending to be a grandfather. Tsukasa flanked her other side, quiet, eyes darting too often to the woods.
She could feel the weight of their gazes when they thought she wasn't looking. Not unkind, but cautious. Like men walking beside a stranger dressed in familiar skin.
"Daughter," Tsukasa said, the word stiff on his tongue, like an old scroll unrolled for the first time in years. "You've not use the tsuitate yet."
She blinked once before replying. "I don't need to go yet." The voice was hers. The cadence was hers. But ever since yesterday— it was also his, or so it felt.
The silence that followed was long, and mercifully uninterrupted.
They had not argued when they made the suggestion, this morning under the light of the rising sun. They had exchanged only glances, subtle and brief, and accepted the change of titles. Father. Grandfather. Family. It had been the most sensible choice — a way to disguise themselves from whomever was after her.
But no amount of good sense could cover the truth: she did not feel like their daughter, nor knew how to act like it.
And perhaps they did not know how to, either.
As early morning slowly began to settle into early afternoon, they came upon the fork in the road.
The fog had begun to lift, burned away by the pale sun overhead, revealing the broad stone marker that stood crooked at the junction's heart. Moss crept up its flanks, and the carved names of prefectures had faded under the weight of time and footsteps. Even so, the three paths were clear.
To the left, the western trail bent sharply into the forested hills — old pilgrimage roads, narrow and overgrown, rumoured to be patrolled by bandits who mistook piety for coin. The right path led toward a fishing village Akiko had only ever heard of in passing, its trail winding through farmland and gullies, adding nearly three days to their journey.
But the center path — the one laid smooth by wheels and sandals and decades of trade — ran straight between the provinces, flat and swift. The merchant's route.
Tsukasa crouched beside the marker, fingers tracing the edge of a cart rut etched into the ground. "This road's seen traffic even in these troubled days," he said, half to himself. "Would have us reach the capital in half the time."
"And also make fine targets for anyone who knows we travel it," Yasuhiro added.
She said nothing, walking a few paces closer to the centre path. The breeze shifted. Somewhere far ahead, she could hear the distant clatter of wooden wheels and oxen lowing. Someone else had chosen this road. Perhaps they had no enemies at their heels.
She looked back at the others. "If we take the long way, might be late, since we do not know the time sensitivity of the message. There are eyes need to see this letter."
Yasuhiro's lips pressed into a thin line. "The archer probably knows the content of the letter."
"We cannot keep hiding in the trees forever. We need to make a choice sooner then later."
Akiko shifted her weight, eyeing the three paths as the silence lingered like a stone in the throat.
"This letter," Tsukasa began, rising to his feet and brushing dust from his knees, "we still know little of its contents. But it was passed to us in secret, with a seal not broken. We must assume it holds words that matter. Maybe even words that cannot wait."
Yasuhiro gave a grunt. "And what use is haste if we end up skewered on an arrow shaft before it reaches the shrine?"
Tsukasa gave him a pointed look. "Sometimes, risk is the cost of duty."
"That's easy to say when you're not the one they're aiming for."
Akiko said nothing, gaze flicking between them as they circled the argument like dogs unsure if it would end in teeth.
"I understand your caution," Tsukasa went on, glancing to her. "But if this letter contains names—if it speaks of movements or alliances—we cannot afford to be late. Delay could mean more than dishonor."
Akiko hesitated, but then nodded slightly. "And yet, if we take the merchant's road, we hand our enemies a straight blade to our throat."
Yasuhiro's tone softened, for once. "The Fujiwara still have hands in every market and village along that path."
Tsukasa folded his arms, jaw tight. "Then we take the pilgrims' road? Hope no one recognizes us? Hope the bandits are sleeping?"
"No," Akiko said, shaking her head. "That path is too desperate. Too many hungry men with empty rice bowls and short tempers."
She took a step toward the rightmost trail — the one that followed the rivers west, skirting small fishing hamlets and crumbling prayer stones. "This one. It's longer, yes. Slower. But it keeps us among quiet folk. Out of the Fujiwara's eye."
Yasuhiro's brow furrowed. "The route bends wide past three rivers. We'll be lucky to make a village before nightfall."
Akiko nodded. "Then we'll move quickly and stop at the first one we reach. Somewhere with walls. Or at least a roof."
"We trade speed for silence," she said again, quieter this time. "And we arrive in one piece."
A silence passed between them again — not of indecision, but of agreement.
Tsukasa gave a short nod. "Then we follow the rivers."
Yasuhiro adjusted his bag and took the lead. Tsukasa followed, though not without a backward glance at the other two routes — had they made the right choice?
Akiko lingered a moment longer. The inland route was longer, yes. But with luck, it might still carry them forward without more blood.
She turned her back on the shadowed trail and followed the others into the fading light.
The trail narrowed almost immediately. Roots clawed through the soil like veins, and uneven stones made each step uncertain. The trees here were younger, thinner, and still waking from winter's grip. Akiko's robes snagged often. Thorny brambles caught at her sleeves, dragging against the embroidery like claws.
The land was quiet. Not silent — there was the chirp of birds, the trickle of unseen water, and the shifting of undergrowth as squirrels and boars went about their routines — but quiet in a way that felt detached from people. From roads. From the capital's poisonous games.
Yasuhiro said little. He walked with measured steps and a constant eye on the path ahead, his hand never far from his bag. Tsukasa, behind him, murmured to himself now and then — likely checking distances, times, or the vague outlines of villages he'd only ever heard of.
By noon, the sun had burned through the clouds, and sweat formed under Akiko's collar. She said nothing. Neither did the others.
They passed two abandoned waypoints before sunset — one nothing more than a sagging gate and a rotted beam, the other a burnt-out rest house stripped of anything useful.
"The rivers used to flood this lowland," Yasuhiro said at one point, gesturing toward the distant marshes. "Merchants came through back then. Pilgrims too. Before the wars pulled it all inward."
Akiko listened but didn't ask for more. She kept her eyes on her feet.
They crested a rise as the sky began to burn orange and gold. Beyond the last of the trees, nestled between wide floodplains and a winding river, lay a village. It was small — perhaps two dozen homes clustered along a central path, smoke curling up from half the chimneys. A lazy mill wheel turned in the stream at its edge. Children ran between fences. Dogs barked.
A normal place.
Akiko slowed as they neared the ridge.
"We camp if we pass it," Yasuhiro said. "No other towns for another day."
Tsukasa pointed to the western edge. "There's a smithy. Smoke's black. Might still be working."
"And the general store?" Akiko asked.
"North end. Likely," Tsukasa replied. "If they have one."
Akiko nodded slowly. "Then we stop. Refill our bags. Ask no questions."
"And stay no longer than a night," Yasuhiro added, adjusting his posture. "We draw too much attention dressed like this."
Her eyes lowered to her robes — already dirtied from travel, but still noble silk, still stitched with fine hands.
She exhaled. "We stay the night."
They crossed the footbridge into the village just as the first lanterns were being lit. A few heads turned, but no one spoke. A man loading crates into a cart gave a nod as they passed. A woman brushing off her stoop watched with narrowed eyes. But no alarm was raised.
Yasuhiro approached the inn first — if it could be called that. It was a single long building, half-tavern and half-guesthouse, with a battered sign that simply read: Rest Well. A toothless old man behind the door looked up from a clay bowl of soup, blinked once, and grunted.
"Two rooms," Yasuhiro said, laying a small roll of silk. "We won't stay long."
The man called for his wife, who attentively inspected the silk, then shoved two keys into his hand. "Bath's out back. Don't mind the chickens."
Akiko stepped inside the room, the sliding door closing softly behind her. The space was modest, a single room lit by the dim glow of an oil lamp near the corner. The floor was covered in tatami mats, their woven texture soft beneath her feet but not as luxurious as the finer rooms she was accustomed to. A low wooden table sat in the center, its surface bare save for a small bowl of unripe fruit, left there by the innkeeper's wife, who had greeted them earlier. Beside it, a single cushion was placed neatly, its cloth worn but still serviceable.
To her left was a low futon, folded neatly and tucked against the wall. The bedding was simple: a thin quilted blanket, not as heavy or as intricately embroidered as the bedding she used back at her family estate, but it would serve for the night. The pillow was plain, filled with buckwheat husks, but it looked comfortable enough.
The walls were made of paper sliding doors — shōji — that let in just a trace of the twilight outside. The dim light made the room feel even smaller than it was, though she had to admit, even a room like this would have been extravagant for common folk. It was a place of rest, of passing time, but for Akiko, it felt confining, as if she were reduced to the bare essentials.
A small wooden chest sat against the far wall, its lid slightly ajar. A simple robe lay across the chest, a stark contrast to her elaborate attire from earlier — plain, humble cloth meant for travel, not for court. Above the chest, a single scroll was fastened to the wall, a prayer or perhaps a verse of wisdom from the sacred texts. Akiko's gaze lingered on it briefly before she turned away.
Her hand hovered near the corner where a small wooden chest sat on a raised shelf. It could contain her personal items, nothing big. But nothing here was as grand or as opulent as her quarters in the estate. The thought of her spacious, well-appointed room, the soft cushions stacked high and the grand tatami mats spread across the floor, made her heart ache with a quiet, distant longing.
Her mind wandered briefly to Sora's room — his modern space with its stark simplicity. The hard, cold lines of furniture, the lack of any ornaments or the fine artistry she was used to. The unyielding nature of his bed, the silence of his empty, unadorned walls, it had all felt strange to her then. Yet now, standing here in this modest room, she realized there was an odd comfort in the simplicity of it. It was a room meant for living, not for status. There was no need for grandeur here — just a place to rest and restore.
She sighed, running a hand over her hair.
It would have to do.
After setting her bag down she immediately began undoing the ties at her waist. Her hands trembled slightly, more from exhaustion than nerves, but still — it felt like peeling away something she'd worn too long. The robes were damp, dusty, and beginning to stink. She laid them across the mat and opened her pack.
Folded near the bottom of her bag, were the clothes Tsukasa had insisted they bring: a faded yukata, plain and travel-worn, and a sash that had seen better days. She dressed quietly, tying her hair back with a thin strip of cloth. When she looked in the polished steel plate that passed for a mirror, the change was stark.
She looked… unremarkable.
Good.
In the common room, Yasuhiro and Tsukasa sat across from each other, a shallow bowl of sake between them.
"There's a ferry up the river two villages north," Tsukasa murmured. "If we follow the bend and cross there, we can bypass the provincial checkpoint entirely."
Yasuhiro sipped and gave a noncommittal grunt. "Risky. Ferrymen talk."
"Less risky than the hill pass," Tsukasa countered. "We'll be spotted in the woods. Open ground's worse."
Akiko stepped into the room just as a woman from the kitchen brought out a small plate of grilled eel and pickled greens. The scent made her stomach twist.
"Eat," Yasuhiro said. "Then sleep. We leave before sunrise."
She sat silently beside them and took a bite. Salt and smoke filled her mouth. It was simple food. Real food. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.
They ate in silence. Around them, the tavern filled slowly — a few laborers, an old priest, a laughing couple who reeked of rice wine. No one seemed to care about the three newcomers.
Until the boy appeared.
He couldn't have been more than ten. Dirty tunic, one sleeve torn. He lingered near the door, pretending to watch the fire. But his eyes kept darting toward Akiko. Then to Yasuhiro. Then back to Akiko.
She stiffened slightly. So did Yasuhiro.
"What is it?" Tsukasa whispered.
"Nothing yet," Akiko murmured. "But he's watching."
The boy noticed their attention and vanished out the door.
Yasuhiro stood. "I'll follow."
Akiko caught his sleeve. "Careful."
He left without a word.
Tsukasa gave a low sigh. "Could be nothing. Could be a curious kid."
"Or someone's lookout," she said.
The door opened again — but not Yasuhiro this time.
A man stepped in. Broad shoulders. Wore a straw coat and a fishing hat too clean to be real. His eyes scanned the room, slow, deliberate.
He wasn't local.
Tsukasa shifted his foot, ready to stand. Akiko's hand stopped him under the table.
"Wait."
The man moved to the counter, ordered a drink, and took a seat facing the room. A dagger hung loose at his side. His cup remained untouched.
Then, just as suddenly, he stood and left.
Akiko exhaled slowly. "We need to leave at first light."
Tsukasa nodded. "I'll watch the hallway tonight."
Yasuhiro returned not long after. "Boy ran to a hut near the eastern edge. No movement since. Might've been warning someone. Or just playing."
Akiko didn't sleep much that night. She sat by the paper window, watching the flicker of the last lantern across the square. The inland route had been the right call.
But they were not as hidden as they hoped.
Akiko lay in the dim light of the room, the futon spread beneath her like a thin blanket of comfort she could not seem to embrace. The weight of everything that had happened—the body she shared with him, the worlds they'd exchanged, the world she was no longer sure of—pressed heavily on her chest. She tossed, turning over again, her back aching from the unfamiliarity of the bed, the coolness of the room settling around her like an atmosphere she could not escape.
The sounds of the village had faded, leaving only the soft rustle of wind outside and the occasional distant creak of wood. The night felt alive, pressing in on her, and no matter how she shifted, she could not find rest. She pulled her knees to her chest, feeling the cool air brush across her bare arms, but the tension in her body wouldn't loosen.
Her mind kept racing. The long, endless paths she'd walked, the strange people she'd met, the way her own body felt when Sora moved it like it was his. Had they made the right choice? Did they trust the right people? Would they really escape the grasp of the Fujiwara, or would they be trapped by it, forever running from something they couldn't outrun?
Her eyes flicked to the window, the moonlight slipping in through the paper walls. The moon hung high, a perfect sphere in the black sky, casting faint shadows against the wooden beams. It was almost as though it was watching her. She wondered, briefly, if Sora could see the same moon from wherever he was.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows and peered through the small gap between the door and the frame. Outside, the world was still—silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves. She could make out the silhouettes of trees against the night, the horizon barely visible through the veil of fog. Time seemed to stretch in the quiet, the night thick with the weight of unspoken things.
But nothing moved.
Her stomach twisted. She wasn't sure if it was from hunger or unease.
Falling back onto her futon with a huff, she stared at the ceiling, the thin beams outlined in shadow. She had never been good at waiting. Her life had always been filled with decisions, with actions, with people. But now, all she could do was… wait. She was trapped in this stillness, her body restless, mind frantic.
How had it come to this?
The beams of the inn were creaking softly, gust of wind creating new movement, echoing through the entire building.
A soft sigh escaped her lips. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, but the more she tried, the more her mind refused to settle. It was almost as if she could hear her heart thumping louder in the silence, a beat that pulsed in her ears, quick and insistent.
The moon glowed brighter, high above, its pale light filtering through the thin walls and casting long shadows on the tatami mat.
Then, all at once, it seemed to grow still. Everything seemed to stop.
A shift, deep in her chest. Like a great breath had been taken by the world, then held.
She closed her eyes tightly, clenching her fists, willing herself to sleep. Her body was exhausted, but her mind would not rest. Not yet.
And then, as she lay there in that painful silence, trying to silence her thoughts… it happened.
The world went black.
Buzz buzz buzz
Akiko jolted up, ready to be attacked. However, she once again realized she was in an unfamiliar place. Or—so it felt like at first. No, she had been here the day before yesterday. She had been him the day before yesterday.
Now, instantly able to locate the noise, her eyes fell on the—strange black rectangle, glowing and trembling like a possessed wooden talisman. Its smooth surface flickered with light, lines of colour shifting like fireflies trapped beneath glass. She didn't know what to call it, only that it screamed like a trapped spirit and vibrated with unnatural energy.
This time, it had a piece of paper stuck to it. She could read it:
"Green keeps the alarm going. Red turns it off."
Directly pressing the red button, it went silent.
She looked down at her hands. Manly hands. She was him again—Sora.
Her eyes scanned the dimly lit apartment. Clean, was the first word that came to mind. The second thought struck quickly after:
Why is there paper stuck to literally everything?