Chapter 12: The Forgotten Shrine
The following morning, Hinata visited as usual.
I heard her knock before I was fully awake, three small raps, soft and familiar. By the time I reached the door, she was already stepping inside, her bare feet padding across the floor, her smile bright and ready for the day.
"Good morning, Hikaru-san!" she called out. Then, louder: "Good morning, Kiri-san!"
Kiri emerged from the guest room, her hair still mussed from sleep. She yawned and stretched.
"Good morning, little one," she said. "You're early."
"It's not early," Hinata said. "It's morning. Morning is the best time."
Kiri laughed. "I can't argue with that."
I moved to the kitchen to prepare tea. Behind me, I heard Hinata and Kiri settling onto the floor, their voices light and easy.
"Kiri-san, did you bring anything from the market?"
"I did, actually. I bought a watermelon."
"A watermelon? Really?"
"Really. I thought we could eat it together."
Hinata's voice rose with excitement. "I love watermelon! I love it more than anything!"
"More than the moon charm?" Kiri teased.
A pause. Then: "The moon charm is different. It's not for eating."
Kiri laughed again. I smiled to myself, pouring the hot water over the tea leaves.
We spent the morning together.
The watermelon was sweet and cold, the flesh bright red against the green rind. We sat on the porch, the three of us, our legs dangling over the edge, the juice dripping down our chins. The sun was warm. The sky was clear. The village was peaceful.
Hinata told silly stories about the village, the time a chicken had escaped and caused chaos in the market, the time an old man had fallen asleep at the bus stop and missed the only bus of the day, the time she had tried to catch a fish with her bare hands and had fallen into the river.
Kiri shared amusing stories about the city, the time she had accidentally worn mismatched shoes to work, the time she had locked herself out of her apartment in her pajamas, the time she had tried to cook a complicated meal and had set off the fire alarm.
I listened. I laughed. I let the warmth of the morning wash over me.
For a moment, life felt completely normal.
***
Evening arrived too quickly.
We shared dinner, simple food, rice and vegetables, the last of the watermelon. The conversation was soft, comfortable, the kind that didn't require effort. Hinata yawned halfway through her meal. Kiri's eyes grew heavy.
After cleaning up, everyone went to bed.
The village became silent.
I lay on my futon, staring at the ceiling. The dark was familiar now. The silence was familiar too. I had grown used to it, the weight of it, the way it settled over the house like a blanket.
Then, very faintly, I heard something.
Children singing.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. The voices were so soft, so distant, barely more than a whisper carried on the wind. I lay still, listening.
The words were hard to understand. Only fragments reached me.
"...tiny fingers..."
A pause.
"...hollow eyes..."
The singing grew slightly clearer.
"...something underneath..."
Then…
"...still cries..."
The voices faded away.
Silence returned.
I lay in the dark, my heart beating slowly, my breath shallow.
"Did you hear that?"
Kiri's voice came from the darkness. She was sitting up, her silhouette barely visible in the faint moonlight.
I sat up too. "Yes."
She reached for something on the floor, a flashlight, its beam cutting a thin line through the dark.
"Let's see where it's coming from," she said.
She was already moving, already reaching for the door.
I stopped her.
"Don't."
She turned. "What?"
"Don't go." My voice was sharp. "I've already followed the voices once before."
She stared at me. "When?"
"Before you came. The night I first arrive here… something is off and no one in the village would answer me question.”
The flashlight beam wavered.
"No one?"
"No one," I said. "Whatever is out there, it doesn't want to be found. Not at night. Villagers would avoid my question."
Kiri was quiet for a long moment. The flashlight clicked off. The room returned to darkness.
"Okay," she said at last. "We'll wait until morning."
I heard her settle back onto her futon.
I lay back down.
The silence returned.
I did not sleep.
The morning came gray and quiet.
I had not slept well. The fragments of the children's song still lingered at the edges of my mind, (tiny fingers, hollow eyes, something underneath, still cries.) repeating in a loop I couldn't stop.
***
The next morning, Kiri was already awake when I opened my eyes. She was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, a cup of tea in her hands. She looked at me as I stirred.
"We need to go back," she said.
I sat up slowly. "Go back where?"
"There... Wherever those voices came from." She set down her cup. "We should investigate in daylight."
I shook my head. "There's nothing there. I told you. I already looked."
"Maybe you were looking for the wrong thing."
I opened my mouth to argue. To tell her that I had searched the clearing, the shrine, the path. That I had found nothing but ash and silence.
But the words didn't come.
Because she was right.
I hesitated.
Then I nodded.
"Fine," I said. "We'll go."
***
The path to the bonfire site was familiar now.
The overgrown grass. The fallen branch. The way the trees seemed to close in as we climbed, the light dimming until it felt like we were walking through a different world.
Kiri walked beside me, her steps steady, her eyes scanning the ground. She carried a small bag with water and a notebook. I carried nothing.
The clearing opened up before us.
It looked exactly as it had before, ordinary, unremarkable. The scorched earth at the center was still dark, still settled into the soil. The bushes at the edges still held traces of ash. But there was nothing new. Nothing unusual.
I sighed.
"See?" I said. "I told you. There's nothing…"
Kiri knelt.
She was staring at the ground near the edge of the clearing, her brow furrowed. Her hand reached out, fingers hovering just above the soil.
"Hikaru," she said quietly. "Come look at this."
I walked over. Knelt beside her.
The marks were faint. Almost invisible unless you were looking for them. As if footprint pressed into the earth, running parallel to each other, disappearing into the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing.
Not animal tracks.
Something else.
Something that had been dragged repeatedly along the ground.
My stomach tightened.
"What are those?" I asked.
Kiri didn't answer. She followed the faint footprint with her eyes, tracing their path toward the trees.
"They lead toward the mountain," she said.
I looked up. The trees were dense, the path narrow. But I could see it now, the way the footprint continued, cutting through the undergrowth, heading upward.
I had missed them before.
Because I hadn't been looking.
"Kiri," I said. "I don't think we should…"
"We're already here," she said. She stood. Brushed off her knees. "We might as well see where they lead."
She started walking.
I followed.
***
The footprint continued up the mountain.
They were faint, barely visible in the dappled light. But they were consistent, narrow, parallel, the kind of marks that could only be made by something heavy over the same ground.
I thought of the children. Their silent dance. Their feet that did not touch the ground.
I thought of Hinata. Her blank eyes. Her empty smile.
I followed Kiri up the mountain.
And I did not look back.
The first torii gate rose out of the undergrowth like a skeleton.
Weathered wood. Faded vermilion. The crossbeams cracked with age. It looked exactly as it had the first time I had climbed this mountain, the same silence, the same stillness, the same sense of stepping into somewhere that had been waiting.
Without thinking, I bowed.
Deep. Respectful. The same bow I had given before.
Kiri watched me. Her eyes were curious, questioning. But she didn't interrupt. She simply waited until I straightened.
Then she stepped forward.
She clapped three times, sharp, clear sounds that seemed too loud in the silence. She closed her eyes. Her lips moved silently, forming words I couldn't hear. A prayer, I realized. Something from her own tradition. Something she carried with her even here, even now.
She bowed.
Then she turned to me.
"Ready?" she asked.
I nodded.
We stepped through the gate together.
The second gate. The third. The fourth.
The forest grew quieter with each step.
I noticed it first, the absence of birdsong, the lack of insects, the way the wind seemed to hold its breath. The only sounds were our footsteps on the worn stones, soft and rhythmic.
I glanced at Kiri. She hadn't noticed yet. She was too focused on the path ahead, on the narrow footprint that continued to lead us upward.
I said nothing.
But I felt the silence pressing against my ears.
The fifth gate was more weathered than the others. The wood was grey, split by seasons of rain and snow. A piece of the crossbeam had fallen, resting against the base like a broken bone.
I stepped over it. Kiri followed.
The sixth gate stood at the top of the slope.
Beyond it, the shrine.
***
The clearing was exactly as I remembered.
Small. Overgrown. The shrine sat at its center like a shadow, the wood grey with age, the roof sagging where the beams had given way. Moss covered everything, the steps, the eaves, the broken offering box that lay in pieces near the entrance.
The stone lanterns leaned slightly, as if tired of standing. The wooden beams were cracked, split by decades of weather. The air smelled of old earth and damp stone and something else, something sweet, like incense that had burned out centuries ago.
Kiri stood beside me. Her face was serious, her eyes moving slowly across the clearing.
"This is it," she said. It wasn't a question.
"This is it," I said.
She quietly says:
"Where's the bell?"
Hikaru:
"Bell?"
Kiri points.
"Every shrine has a bell."
Silence.
The beam where it should hang is empty.
We stood in silence for a moment.
Then, together, we bowed.
Not the quick, instinctive bow I had given before. Deeper. Slower. The kind of bow that acknowledged something older than us, something that had been here longer than we could imagine.
While I stood at the center of the clearing, uncertain where to begin, Kiri moved.
She was methodical, more methodical than I had ever been. She started at the outer edge of the shrine and worked her way inward, examining every surface, every shadow, every corner. Her hands moved carefully, brushing away moss and debris, revealing what had been hidden beneath.
I watched her for a moment. Then I joined her.
But Kiri found everything.
She found the shimenawa first.
It was hidden beneath a thick layer of moss near the base of the shrine, the sacred rope, frayed and faded, its twisted strands barely visible beneath the green. Someone had deliberately covered it. Not discarded it. Hidden it.
"Look at this," she said quietly.
I knelt beside her. The rope was old, the fibers brittle. But the knots were intact. The paper streamers, shide, were still attached, though they had long since turned grey.
"Someone didn't want this to be seen," Kiri said.
I nodded. I didn't know what else to say.
She found the shide scattered behind the shrine.
Dozens of them. Zigzag paper streamers, the kind that were meant to hang from the rope, marking sacred space. They lay on the ground instead, scattered like fallen leaves. Some were crushed into the earth. Others were tangled in the roots of a nearby tree.
They hadn't fallen naturally. They had been placed there.
Or thrown.
"These should be hanging," Kiri said. "Not lying on the ground. Someone took them down. Or tore them down."
She looked at me. Her eyes were troubled.
"Who would do that?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
She found the stone statues behind the shrine.
Tiny figures, no taller than my hand. Children. Their faces were weathered, worn smooth by years of rain and wind. Most were barely recognizable, just small shapes, the suggestion of a body, the faint outline of a face.
But one was different.
One was newer.
The details were still sharp. The eyes. The mouth. The small hands folded in front. It looked almost like a child I knew.
I didn't say that.
I couldn't.
Kiri picked up the newer statue. Turned it over in her hands.
"This one hasn't been here as long," she said. "Maybe a few years. Maybe less."
She set it down gently.
Something about the face tugged at me.
I almost said a name.
But the thought slipped away before I could catch it.
She found the offering bowl near the base of the shrine.
Small. Ceramic. Filled with fresh grains of rice.
I stared at it.
"That's impossible," I said. "The shrine is abandoned. No one comes here."
Kiri didn't answer. She knelt beside the bowl, examining it carefully. The rice was clean. Unspoiled. It had been placed recently, maybe that morning. Maybe the day before.
"Someone is taking care of this shrine," she said. "Someone who doesn't want anyone to know."
The wind stirred the trees around us. The leaves rustled, soft and dry.
I felt a chill run down my spine.
She found the footprints next.
They were faint, barely visible in the dust behind the shrine. Small. Child-sized. They led away from the building, toward the edge of the clearing.
Then they stopped.
Just stopped.
There was no trail leading away. No marks in the soil. No disturbance in the leaves. The footprints simply ended, as if the child who had made them had vanished into thin air.
Kiri traced the edge of the last print with her finger.
"They don't go anywhere," she said. "They just... stop."
I looked at the ground. At the sudden, impossible absence of tracks.
My chest tightened.
***
She found the prayer plaque near the back wall.
Weathered wood. Faded paint. The writing was barely legible, worn away by years of wind and rain. But a few words remained.
"...forgive..."
"...remember..."
Kiri held it carefully, her fingers tracing the faint characters.
"This is a prayer," she said. "Someone left this here. Someone asked for forgiveness."
"For what?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I don't know."
The wind stirred again. Stronger this time. The trees bent, their branches creaking.
I looked around the clearing. At the hidden rope. The scattered streamers. The new statue. The fresh rice. The impossible footprints. The plea for forgiveness.
If no one had visited this shrine for years...
Who replaced the rice?
Who left the footprints?
Who wrote the prayer?
Kiri and I exchanged uneasy glances.
The wind moved through the trees around us.
And neither of us had an answer.
What really happened in the village...
What secret is the village hiding?
Same place, same time.
