The morning mist lingers over the hills, curling around the rooftops like something half-awake. The village is still stretching itself from slumber, the scent of damp earth and wood smoke drifting through the air. Ayato pulls his jacket tighter around him as he steps outside, the coolness of the morning settling against his skin.
He walks toward the river, his footsteps muffled by the soft dirt path. The sky is pale, the sun not yet strong enough to burn away the mist. At the riverbank, a group of old fishermen move with slow, practiced motions, their hands weaving through nets as they prepare for the day. The boats rock gently against the wooden dock, their hulls dark with moisture.
One of the men, his face lined with age and sun, glances up and gives a small nod. Ayato hesitates before nodding back. He doesn't know if they recognize him, or if they're simply acknowledging his presence the way villagers do—out of habit rather than memory.
The river murmurs, its surface rippling as the breeze skims across it. The water smells fresh, carrying the scent of rain-soaked leaves and the quiet promise of a slow day. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls, its song disappearing into the mist.
A soft chuckle rises from the fishermen as one of them fumbles with his line, drawing playful jeers from the others. The sound blends into the landscape, warm and familiar, as if time moves differently here—unhurried, unconcerned with the rush of the outside world.
Ayato exhales, his breath misting in the cool air. He doesn't know how long he stands there, watching the river, the boats, the men whose names he might have once known. The past feels close in moments like this, just at the edge of his memory, like an old photograph tucked away in a drawer.
A gentle ripple breaks the surface of the water. The mist begins to lift. And for a little while, the world is quiet.
The mist has begun to lift, dissolving in slow, lazy swirls over the river. The fishermen move in unhurried motions, untying ropes, adjusting nets, murmuring in voices softened by time. The air carries the briny scent of wet wood and old fish, mixed with the crispness of morning.
Ayato watches in silence, hands tucked into his pockets. He's not expecting anything—just letting the moment stretch, feeling the stillness settle in his bones.
Then, from the side, a voice reaches him.
"Ah, so you're still here."
He turns.
An old man stands by the edge of a small wooden boat, his hands working at a frayed rope with absentminded ease. His face is weathered, deep lines creasing his tanned skin. His eyes, however—sharp, dark, and knowing—lock onto Ayato with an unsettling familiarity.
Ayato hesitates. "Sorry, have we met?"
The old man squints, then lets out a chuckle, low and rasping, like stones shifting in the riverbed. "Suppose it's been a long time." He pulls the rope tight, securing the knot with a firm tug. "People forget. Places forget. But the river—" he gestures vaguely to the slow-moving water "—it remembers."
Ayato shifts his weight. There's something strange about the way the man is looking at him—not just recognition, but something deeper, something like certainty. As if he knows a version of Ayato that even Ayato himself has forgotten.
The morning hums softly around them—the creak of boats, the quiet lapping of water against the shore. The other fishermen continue their work, paying no mind to the conversation.
Ayato wants to ask. Wants to press. But the words don't quite form.
Instead, the old man just grins again, as if the moment itself is enough. "Come by later," he says, turning back to his boat. "Maybe you'll remember, too."
Ayato watches him for a moment longer, then looks back at the river. The current drifts lazily, carrying leaves and forgotten things downstream.
The river moves like breath—slow, steady, carrying the weight of time without effort. The mist has thinned now, revealing the deeper greens of the hills and the quiet movement of the village waking up.
Ayato shifts his gaze back to the fishermen, their figures half-silhouetted against the pale morning light. One of them—a man older than the rest, his skin worn deep with lines, his hands rough from years of tying knots and pulling nets—has stopped moving. His eyes, dark and knowing, linger on Ayato with an expression that doesn't quite fit.
Then he grins, slow and certain.
"Ah, so you're still here."
Ayato blinks. The words settle strangely, as if they've been spoken before, as if they belong to a different time.
"Sorry," he says, shifting his weight, "have we met?"
The old man chuckles under his breath, the sound like the creaking of an oar against a wooden dock. He doesn't answer right away, only looks at Ayato the way one looks at a place they used to know well but haven't seen in years.
Finally, he says, "You don't remember, do you?"
There's no accusation in his tone. Just something softer. Something almost amused.
Ayato hesitates. His fingers tighten in his pockets. He doesn't know what he's supposed to remember, what version of himself this man seems to see.
A gentle breeze stirs the water, sending ripples across the surface. Somewhere upstream, a heron lifts its wings and takes flight.
The old man doesn't press. Instead, he only pats the side of his boat, nodding toward the village. "It'll come back to you," he says, like a promise. "The river always brings things back."
Ayato watches him for a moment longer. Then, without another word, he turns and starts walking.
But the moment lingers, like an old song at the edge of memory.
The old man laughs, the sound low and warm, like the river lapping against the dock. He shakes his head, rubbing his calloused fingers together as if turning the past over in his hands.
"Of course we have," he says, his grin easy, certain. "You served me tea at Café Komorebi. Best cup I ever had."
Ayato's frown deepens. "That's impossible. I only arrived a few days ago."
The old man tilts his head slightly, as if puzzled by the statement. His brow furrows, but the amusement in his expression doesn't fade. "A few days?" he repeats, then lets out another chuckle. "No, no. I came here when I was a boy—must've been forty years ago now." He taps his temple, as if to make sure the memory is still there, still real. "And you looked exactly the same back then."
Ayato stares at him.
The other fishermen nod, their faces calm, untroubled by the absurdity of the claim. One of them adjusts his hat, another continues mending his net, but none of them seem surprised. As if this was simply the way things were.
Ayato feels a strange weight settle in his chest. The village, the river, the mist curling through the trees—it had all felt oddly familiar from the start, but he had pushed the thought aside, dismissed it as coincidence.
And yet—
A boat rocks gently against the dock, the ropes groaning softly. The morning light catches on the water, shifting in ripples, distorting reflections. For a moment, Ayato isn't sure if he's standing in the present or if the river has carried him somewhere else entirely.
The old man watches him, waiting, as if expecting him to remember
Ayato forces a laugh, light and dismissive. "You must be thinking of someone else," he says. "Maybe the previous owner."
The old man only hums, unconvinced, and turns back to his boat, as if the conversation is already over. The other fishermen follow suit, moving with the slow ease of men who have seen too many years to question the oddities of time.
Ayato tries to shake it off, but the words linger, threading themselves into the quiet spaces of his mind.
Later, as the sun climbs higher, he wanders through the village, stopping at the small shops and food stalls tucked between weathered wooden houses. He asks, casually at first—who used to run Café Komorebi?
The answers are all the same.
"The café has always been there."
Not a name. Not a face. Just those same, simple words, spoken with the certainty of someone recalling the sky is blue or the river flows downhill.
Always.
A strange chill creeps into Ayato's bones. He grips his sleeves tighter, but the feeling doesn't leave. It's not fear, exactly. Not yet.
Just the unsettling sense that he is standing at the edge of something—something vast and quiet, something that has been waiting for him far longer than he can remember.
That evening, the unease lingers. It clings to Ayato like the mist along the river, settling into the quiet corners of his mind.
Unable to shake it off, he finds himself at the counter of Café Komorebi, the soft glow of the hanging lanterns casting long shadows against the wooden walls. The place is silent except for the distant chirring of night insects outside.
He pulls the old café ledger from its usual place beneath the counter. The cover is worn, the pages yellowed at the edges. He's flipped through it before, out of curiosity. The careful strokes of names and dates written by hands long gone had always felt like nothing more than remnants of the past—ordinary, distant.
But now, something compels him to look again.
He turns the pages slowly, his fingers brushing over faded ink. Customers, orders, short notes scribbled in the margins. The years stretch backward, one after another.
And then, he stops.
A name.
The fisherman's name, written in neat, steady handwriting.
The date beside it: forty years ago to the day.
Ayato stares. His breath catches, his pulse a quiet thrum in his ears. The ink is old but clear, as if it has been waiting for him to find it. The letters are familiar—not just because he's seen the name before, but because the handwriting…
It looks like his own.
A slow, creeping sensation crawls up his spine. The café is silent, but the air suddenly feels heavier, as if the walls are holding a secret they cannot speak.
The fisherman's words return to him, threading through the stillness like a whisper.
"And you looked exactly the same back then."
Ayato exhales, unsteady.
Outside, the wind stirs the trees. The old sign creaks gently. And in the dim glow of the café, the past sits before him—written in ink, impossible to ignore.
Ayato stares at the page, his breath shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears. The name sits there, ink faded but undeniable, defying reason.
Forty years ago. His handwriting. His café.
But that was impossible.
A shiver ghosts down his spine. The wooden beams above creak softly, settling in the silence. The café feels different now—too still, too aware, as if the walls themselves are listening.
Then, from across the room, a candle sputters.
The flame flares violently, stretching unnaturally tall for the briefest moment, throwing wild shadows against the walls. Then, just as suddenly, it settles. Steady. Quiet. As if nothing had happened.
Ayato exhales, but his chest feels tight.
A sound—soft, almost imperceptible.
He turns.
In the doorway, the black cat sits, its golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. Its tail curls lazily, but its gaze is fixed on him, unblinking, knowing.
The ledger remains open beneath his hands. The ink does not change. The past does not rewrite itself.
Ayato swallows hard.
A question forms at the edge of his mind, but he does not say it aloud.
Because somehow, he already knows—
There will be no answer tonight.