Chapter 9: An Unexpected Visitor.
Three days passed without Hinata at my door.
The first day, I told myself she was busy. Children had chores. Families had obligations. The rhythm of the village was different from the rhythm of the city, and I had learned not to expect consistency.
The second day, I found myself glancing at the path more often than I meant to. The broom leaned against the wall. The rice pot sat unused. The morning felt empty without the scratch of bristles or the soft thump of the paddle.
The third day, I went to Reika's house.
She answered the door looking tired, not the bone-deep exhaustion of the search, but something gentler. The weariness of a mother who had been up through the night.
"Hinata has a fever," she said before I could ask. "She's been sleeping most of the time. The elders say it's just a cold, but…" She shook her head. "She's small. It's hard to see her like this."
I felt my chest tighten.
"Can we see her?" I asked. "Kiri and I. We won't stay long. We just want to bring some things."
Reika hesitated. Then she nodded.
"She'd like that," she said. "She's been asking about you."
I returned home and told Kiri. She was already gathering supplies before I finished speaking.
"Rice," she said. "Soup. Something easy to digest. And I have an idea."
"What kind of idea?"
She grinned. "A home remedy. My grandmother used to make it. Works every time."
I didn't ask questions. I just helped her pack.
We walked to Reika's house with a basket of supplies, rice, vegetables, a jar of honey, and a small bundle of ingredients Kiri had insisted on bringing. The afternoon was warm, the sky clear. The village was quiet.
Reika opened the door and led us inside.
Hinata was in her small room, tucked under a thin blanket. Her face was flushed. Her hair was damp against her forehead. But she smiled when she saw us.
"You came," she said. Her voice was weak, but her eyes were bright.
"Of course we came," I said. I knelt beside her futon and pressed the back of my hand to her forehead. Warm. Too warm. "How are you feeling?"
"Bad," she said. "But better now."
"Better because we're here?"
"Yes." She paused. "Also, I threw up."
Kiri laughed. "That's honest."
"I'm always honest," Hinata said. "That's what makes me good."
I smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"We brought you something," I said. "A home remedy. Kiri's grandmother's recipe."
Hinata's eyes widened. Then narrowed.
"Is it disgusting?"
Kiri knelt beside me, her expression mock-serious. "It's not delicious. I won't lie. But it will make you feel better."
Hinata sighed. A long, dramatic sigh.
"Fine," she said. "I'll try it."
***
Kiri prepared the remedy in Reika's kitchen.
Warm water. A preserved salted lemon, brown and wrinkled, the kind that had been sitting in a jar for months, maybe years. She sliced a thin piece and dropped it into the cup. The water clouded slightly. A sharp, tangy smell filled the room.
"Here," Kiri said, carrying the cup to Hinata. "Drink it slowly. It's strong."
Hinata sat up. She took the cup with both hands. Her small fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic. She brought it to her lips.
She sniffed it.
Her face wrinkled.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Medicine," Kiri said. "Drink."
Hinata looked at me. I nodded.
She took a sip.
Then another.
Then her cheeks puffed out. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her entire face contorted into an expression of pure, exaggerated disgust, as if she had bitten into something that had personally offended her.
"Ugh…!" she sputtered.
The rest of us burst into laughter.
It started with Kiri, a snort, then a giggle, then a full laugh that she couldn't contain. I followed. Reika covered her mouth, but her shoulders shook. Even Hinata, despite the sour taste still coating her tongue, couldn't help smiling.
"It's so bad," she said, her voice muffled by her hands. "It's so, so bad."
"It's good for you," Kiri said, still laughing.
"It tastes like…" Hinata paused, searching for the right word. "Like a lemon that gave up."
"That's exactly what it is," Kiri said.
Hinata groaned. But she finished the cup.
***
About an hour later, Hinata shot up from her futon.
"Bathroom!" she announced. "Now!"
She ran out of the room before anyone could respond. We heard the door slide shut, then a moment of silence, then the unmistakable sound of water running.
Kiri looked at me. I looked at Reika.
"I think it worked," Kiri said.
Reika pressed a hand to her chest. "I hope so."
When Hinata returned, she looked different. Her cheeks were less flushed. Her eyes were clearer. She walked with more energy than she had all afternoon.
"Better?" I asked.
"Better," she said. She sat down on her futon and crossed her legs. "The medicine is terrible. But I feel better."
She paused.
"I almost ruined my clothes running to the bathroom," she added. "That would have been a waste. I like these clothes."
Everyone laughed. It was a warm, easy laugh, the kind that came from relief more than humor.
"We're going to make another batch," I said. "A bigger one. So your mother can give it to you when you need it."
Hinata's face fell. "Another batch? More of that?"
"More of that."
She sighed. A deep, theatrical sigh.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm not smiling this time."
She smiled.
***
Together, we gathered in Reika's kitchen to create the medicine. After measuring the water, Kiri added salt. I washed the lemons. Reika labeled a spotless jar with a piece of paper.
Hinata sat on a stool and watched. She was still weak, but the improvement was obvious. Her color had returned. Her eyes were bright.
"I really don't like this medicine," she announced. She was looking directly at Kiri, her arms crossed. "It's the worst thing I've ever tasted."
Kiri nodded solemnly. "That's how you know it works."
Hinata opened her mouth to argue. Then she stopped.
"I almost ruined my clothes running to the bathroom," she said again. This time she was trying not to smile. "That would have been a disaster."
Kiri laughed. I laughed. Reika laughed.
Hinata smiled.
***
The sun began to set outside. The jar of remedy sat on the counter, sealed and ready. Reika promised to give Hinata a small dose each day until she was fully recovered.
We said our goodbyes.
Hinata waved from her futon.
"Come back tomorrow," she said. "Bring more food. But not more medicine."
"No promises," I said.
She pouted.
I smiled.
And we walked home in the fading light, Kiri and I, the village quiet and warm and peaceful around us.
***
The next morning, I was still thinking about Hinata when the knock came.
Three small raps. Soft. Familiar. The kind of knock that didn't need to be announced.
I recognized it immediately.
I hurried to the door and opened it.
Hinata stood on the step, her face bright with the morning sun. The persimmon ribbon was tied around her wrist, frayed and soft. The moon charm rested against her collarbone. Her cheeks were flushed with color, not the pale, fevered flush of illness, but the healthy pink of a child who had slept well and woken ready for the day.
"Good morning, Hikaru-san," she said happily.
I looked at her. The smile on my face came naturally, without effort.
"Hello," I said. "You're all better now."
"Yes," she said. "I feel as fresh as morning dew."
I stepped aside and let her in.
She walked past me, her bare feet padding softly on the wooden floor. She looked around the room with the same curiosity she always had, taking in the low table, the drawn curtains, the small kitchen where the rice pot sat waiting.
"Kiri-san?" she called out. "Is Kiri-san here?"
"Still sleeping," I said. "She stayed up late last night."
Hinata nodded. She seemed satisfied with that answer. She settled onto the floor, her legs crossed, her hands resting in her lap.
"I can wait," she said.
***
The morning light was soft, filtering through the gap in the curtains. I moved around the room, gathering the cups and plates from the afternoon before. The tea things were scattered across the low table. A few crumbs from the rice crackers had fallen onto the floor.
It was ordinary work. Grounding work.
I was tidying up the low table, gathering the cups and plates from our afternoon tea, when I noticed Kiri had settled into the corner with a manga. Her legs were crossed, her back against the wall, her face lit with the quiet absorption of someone who had found a familiar comfort.
I smiled and went back to tidying.
Hinata noticed too.
She crept over, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor, and hovered at Kiri's shoulder. Her eyes were fixed on the pages.
"Kiri-san," she said, pointing at an illustration. "What are those children playing with?"
Kiri looked up. Then down at the page. Her smile widened.
"They're called kinetic tops," she said. "They're special. When you spin them, they hover about an inch above the ground."
I paused, a cup in my hand.
"That's impossible," I said.
Kiri laughed. "Only in manga. In real life, they'd need magnets or something. But in this story, they just... float."
Hinata leaned closer, her face inches from the page. Her eyes were wide, sparkling.
"I wish I had one," she said. "A top that floated. I could spin it and it would just stay there, like magic."
"It would be magic," Kiri said. "That's the whole point."
Hinata nodded slowly. Her finger traced the outline of the illustration, a small top, suspended above a child's open palm.
"I would spin it and watch it forever," she said.
Kiri looked at her. Something soft passed across her face.
"Maybe one day," she said. "Maybe someone will invent one."
Hinata looked up at her.
"You think so?"
"I think anything is possible."
It was a quiet, intimate, and natural moment. A child dreaming. A friend spoiling her. A quick diversion into a book's pages from the real world.
I smiled and went back to tidying.
***
The peaceful afternoon was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Not a soft knock. Not the familiar three raps of Hinata or the gentle tap of Reika. This was urgent. Sharp. The kind of knock that carried news.
I opened the door.
A villager stood there, a woman I recognized from the market, her face pale, her eyes red. She looked at me, then at Kiri, then at Hinata.
"There's been a death," she said. "The Tanaka family. Their youngest daughter. She passed this morning."
The words hung in the air.
I felt the warmth drain from the room.
"What happened?" I asked. "Was it an accident? An illness…"
The woman shook her head. "I don't know. The family hasn't said. We only just heard."
I turned. Kiri was standing now, her manga set aside. Her face was unreadable.
"We should go," I said. "Pay our respects."
Kiri nodded.
Hinata was still sitting on the floor. She looked up at me, her eyes wide.
"Someone died?" she asked. "Who?"
I knelt beside her. I didn't know how to answer.
"I don't know yet," I said. "But we need to go. Will you wait here with your mother?"
She shook her head. "I want to come."
I looked at Kiri. She nodded.
"Okay," I said.
***
We walked through the village in silence.
The streets were empty. The usual sounds, birds, children, the distant clatter of work had vanished. The air was heavy. Even the light seemed dimmer, as if the sky itself was mourning.
The house was easy to find. The Tanaka house was small, like most of the village homes. But it was filled with people. Neighbors. Friends. Family. They stood in clusters, speaking in hushed voices. Children sat against the walls, their faces blank with shock. Adults held each other.
The air was thick with grief.
I didn't know the family well. I had seen them at the market, exchanged nods with the father, smiled at the daughter once or twice. But I knew what it meant to lose someone. I knew the weight of that silence.
We offered our condolences. We bowed. We stood quietly with the others.
Kiri didn't speak. She just watched. Her eyes moved across the room, taking in the faces, the whispered words, the careful way everyone moved around the grief as if it were something fragile.
I thought about the girl. Her name was Yuki. She had been nine years old. She had been playing near the river just days ago.
Now she was gone.
I thought about Hinata.
I thought about the mountain.
And I wondered, in the dark, what else this village was hiding.
***
Evening had fallen over the village.
The light had faded to a deep violet, the kind that came before true darkness. The air was cool. The sounds of the day had quieted, no birds, no voices, just the soft rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of the river.
Kiri was still inside the Tanaka house, her hand on the grieving mother's shoulder, her voice soft and steady. I had watched them for a moment, the way she leaned in, the way she listened, the way she offered comfort without demanding anything in return.
She was good at that.
I was about to suggest we try to eat something, anything, just to have something to do, when the knock came.
Three raps. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of knock that meant someone had been thinking about it for a long time before they raised their hand.
I stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.
The man standing outside was old.
His clothes were worn, a dark yukata, patched at the shoulders, the fabric faded by years of sun and washing. His face was lined, his skin weathered by seasons I couldn't count. His hair was white, thinning, pulled back in a simple knot.
His eyes were dark. Deep. The kind of eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by anything.
For several seconds, he simply looked at me.
Then he asked:
"Can I come in?"
His voice was quiet. Rough. The voice of someone who didn't speak often, and who chose his words carefully.
I nodded.
"Yes," I said. "Please."
He lowered his head.
He stepped past me into the house.
Who is this old man...
And why did he show up at this time?
Next time, same time, same place.
