The train moves like a quiet breath through the mountains, its rhythmic clatter fading into the vast stillness outside.
Ayato watches the scenery shift, the city unraveling behind him in layers of steel and concrete. Towers shrink into distant silhouettes, power lines give way to rolling fields, and soon, even the highways disappear. The further he travels, the quieter the world becomes.
The forests stretch endlessly beyond the window, trees swaying gently in the mountain wind. The mist gathers in the valleys like something alive, curling between the trunks, rising and falling with the land. Here, the air is softer, untouched by the weight of neon lights and rushing crowds.
For the first time in a long while, Ayato feels the absence of urgency.
By the time the train pulls into the station, the sun has dipped low, its light melting into the mist. The platform is almost empty—no bustling foot traffic, no hurried announcements. Just the faint rustling of leaves and the distant croak of a lone frog somewhere in the reeds.
A single taxi waits by the exit. The driver, an older man with deep lines on his face, eyes Ayato with quiet curiosity as he approaches.
"Komorebi Village, huh?" The driver exhales as he starts the engine, the headlights cutting through the misty dusk. "Not many people go there these days."
The road winds through the mountains, narrow and uneven, swallowed by towering trees on either side. The scent of rain lingers in the air, mixing with earth and moss, thick and rich in a way that feels almost tangible.
Ayato rests his head against the window, watching the branches shift and blur past.
The city feels like a lifetime away.
Komorebi Village looks like something lifted from an old watercolor painting—soft, muted, untouched by time.
The taxi rolls to a stop near a wooden sign, its edges worn and smoothed by years of wind and rain. The kanji, painted in careful strokes, reads Komorebi Village—Sunlight Through the Trees. True to its name, golden shafts of light pierce through the dense forest canopy, spilling over rooftops and narrow dirt paths like something sacred.
Ayato steps out, suitcase in hand. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh grass, the crisp mountain breeze carrying the faintest trace of burning wood. Somewhere, a wind chime tinkles, its delicate notes lost in the whisper of rustling leaves.
The village unfolds before him, a quiet world frozen in time.
Wooden houses with sloping tiled roofs stand neatly along the paths, their dark beams worn smooth with age. Some have paper lanterns swaying gently by the entrance, their warm glow flickering even in the fading daylight. Tiny vegetable gardens line the walkways, bursting with green, while stone wells sit nestled between houses, their edges softened by creeping moss.
The villagers move at a slow, deliberate pace. An elderly man kneels by his porch, carefully trimming a bonsai tree. A woman, her apron dusted with flour, sweeps her doorstep, pausing only to offer Ayato a curious glance. Children chase each other down the road, their laughter ringing softly, but even that feels hushed, like a song meant not to disturb the quiet.
Ayato shifts, the wheels of his suitcase catching against the uneven dirt path.
His city clothes feel too stiff here, too foreign. The faint rumble of a train, the glow of traffic lights, the drone of office air conditioning—those things feel impossibly distant now, belonging to a world that no longer exists.
Here, time moves differently.
And for the first time since he signed the papers, a strange thought settles into his chest.
What have I gotten myself into?
The village breathes with a stillness Ayato isn't used to. No rush, no urgency—just the quiet rhythm of a place untouched by time.
He hasn't taken more than a few steps before he notices them.
The villagers.
They gather slowly, emerging from their porches, their gardens, the narrow paths between houses. Not in an unwelcoming way, but with a quiet curiosity, their gazes lingering just a little too long.
The first to approach is an elderly woman, her back slightly bent with age, her hands worn from years of tending to something—perhaps a home, perhaps a life lived fully. She studies him with knowing eyes before offering a small, almost amused smile.
"So, you're the new café owner?"
She doesn't ask—it's a statement, as if she had already known he would come.
Ayato hesitates. "I… suppose so."
A young boy, no older than ten, tugs at his mother's sleeve. He whispers something, but in the hush of the village, Ayato hears it clearly.
"He's the one she chose?"
His chest tightens, a strange unease settling beneath his ribs.
He turns to the mother, but she only places a gentle hand on the boy's head, shushing him without answering. Others murmur in soft voices, glancing his way before returning to their tasks, as if he is something to be acknowledged, but not yet understood.
Ayato swallows. "The previous owner… What happened to them?"
A brief silence.
The elderly woman tilts her head slightly, considering him. Behind her, the other villagers pause, as if listening, waiting.
Then she chuckles, the sound light, almost amused. "Gone."
Gone?
That's all? No explanation, no elaboration. Just… gone.
Another villager, a man with graying hair, shifts his weight, offering what might have been reassurance. "The café's been empty for a while. It's good that someone's here to take care of it again."
Not quite an answer. Not quite a lie.
The air feels thicker now, the warmth of the village tinged with something else. Not hostility. Not fear. Just… something left unsaid.
Ayato grips the handle of his suitcase a little tighter.
The café waits for him, just ahead.
Ayato asks again. And again.
The villagers respond with the same uncertain pauses, the same distant looks, as if trying to recall a dream upon waking—something just out of reach.
"The previous owner…" He glances between them, searching their faces. "What was she like?"
An elderly man scratches his chin, his gaze drifting toward the mountains as if the answer might be hidden in the mist. "It's been so long… maybe ten years?"
A woman standing nearby frowns. "Less than that, surely."
"No, no," the old man insists. "Or maybe it was?" His voice trails off, his certainty slipping away like sand through fingers.
A silence settles between them. Someone shifts uncomfortably. Another villager murmurs something under their breath, words lost to the wind.
It isn't just that they don't remember.
It's as if the memory itself refuses to stay.
Ayato watches them, unease creeping into his bones. Faces that had been warm and welcoming just moments ago now hold something else—a quiet, unspoken confusion.
Finally, a younger man sighs, shaking his head. "Does it matter?" He gestures toward the road ahead, toward the waiting café. "The place is yours now."
The others nod, almost relieved to move on.
Ayato hesitates. The sun is lower now, golden light slanting through the trees. The wind carries the scent of earth and old wood, the hush of the village settling back into its slow rhythm.
No one remembers her.
Or maybe… no one can.
The thought lingers, heavy in his chest, as he turns toward the café waiting for him at the end of the road.
The village elder walks with quiet purpose, his steps slow but certain.
He leads Ayato down the narrow path toward the café, the fading sunlight catching the edges of his white hair. His posture is straight, his presence steady—like an old tree that has weathered countless seasons. There is something deliberate in the way he moves, as if every step is placed with care, as if he has walked this road a thousand times before.
"This village has its own pace," he says after a long silence. His voice is low, unhurried, the kind that carries weight without needing volume. "Its own way of remembering things… and forgetting them."
Ayato glances at him. "Forgetting?"
The elder does not stop walking, but his eyes flicker with something unreadable.
"You'll understand, in time."
A breeze stirs through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. The village hums softly around them—wind through old wooden beams, the distant murmur of water flowing somewhere unseen.
Ayato tightens his grip on his suitcase. "Did the previous owner leave anything behind?"
The elder finally stops. He turns slightly, just enough to meet Ayato's gaze.
There's a faint smile on his lips. Not unkind. Not distant. Just… knowing.
"If she did," he says gently, "you'll find it soon enough."
Ayato doesn't ask anything more.
Something about the way the elder speaks—slow, certain, final—tells him that the answers won't come simply because he asks.
They will come when they are ready.
Or perhaps, when he is.
The café stands ahead, waiting for him.
Ayato stands before the wooden teahouse from the photographs.
It looks exactly the same—aged wood, sloping tiled roof, the soft glow of lanterns swaying gently in the evening breeze. Yet, as he takes in the sight before him, an unsettling feeling stirs in his chest.
Something about it feels… different.
The elder leaves him there with a nod, his footsteps fading down the path. The village is quiet now, the air thick with the scent of cedar and earth.
Ayato hesitates only a moment before stepping inside.
The door slides open with a low, hushed creak, as if waking from a long sleep. Dust swirls in the golden light filtering through the shoji screens, catching in the air like tiny ghosts. The room smells of old wood, faint traces of tea, and something softer—something lingering just beneath the surface, like a memory waiting to be unearthed.
Everything is still.
Everything is waiting.
The low wooden counter stretches before him, shelves lined with ceramic teapots, their colors faded yet elegant. A row of cushions sits neatly along the tatami floor, undisturbed. The air is thick with quiet, a hush that feels almost sacred.
And then he sees it.
A single cup.
Resting on the counter, delicate and untouched, as if someone had set it down just moments ago.
Ayato's breath catches. He steps closer, running a finger along the rim. The porcelain is cool, dustless—different from everything else in the room.
Outside, a soft thump.
He turns.
A black cat perches on the veranda, its sleek fur catching the last light of dusk. Its green eyes meet his, unblinking. Watching. Knowing.
As if it had been waiting for him, too.