Chapter 13: Some things are better left forgotten.
We stood in silence before the abandoned shrine.
The wind had stilled. The trees were quiet. The only sound was our breathing, slow and shallow, as if we were afraid to disturb something that had been sleeping for a very long time.
Neither of us spoke.
Our minds were still replaying everything we had discovered, the fresh bowl of rice, the weathered ema with its plea for forgiveness, the hidden shimenawa buried beneath layers of moss. Each object was a question we couldn't answer. Each discovery asks more question than answer.
If the shrine had truly been abandoned for generations...
Someone had been secretly maintaining it.
Kiri broke the silence first.
"We should take something," she said. "As evidence. One of the statues. Or the ema. Something to show Reika, or the elder."
I shook my head.
"No," I said. "This is still someone's sacred place. We can't take things from it."
Kiri looked at me. Her eyes were troubled, but she didn't argue.
"You're right," she said quietly. "I know you're right."
She looked back at the shrine. At the small stone figures. At the offering bowl.
"I just feel like we're leaving without any answers."
"We're leaving with questions," I said. "That's not nothing."
She nodded slowly. Then she turned to face the shrine.
"I'm sorry," she said. "For disturbing your peace."
I didn't know if she was speaking to the shrine, or to whatever might be listening. But I understood the impulse.
I bowed.
Deep. Respectful. The same bow I had given at the first gate.
Kiri bowed too.
Then we turned and began the descent.
The path was quiet.
The marks we had followed were still there, faint footprints in the soil, leading toward the shrine. But we didn't follow them. We walked beside them, careful not to disturb them further.
The forest was still unnaturally silent. No birds. No insects. Just the soft crunch of our footsteps on the worn stones.
I didn't look back.
Neither did Kiri.
We passed the sixth gate. The fifth. The fourth.
The light grew brighter as we descended. The trees thinned. The sounds of the village, distant, ordinary, began to filter through the silence.
Finally, we stepped out of the forest and onto the familiar path.
The village lay before us. Peaceful. Ordinary.
As if nothing had happened.
I stopped at the edge of the trees and looked back.
The mountain was still there. The gates were hidden by the foliage. The shrine was invisible from here.
But I knew it was there.
Waiting.
Kiri stood beside me.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
I turned away from the mountain.
"No," I said. "But I will be."
She didn't press.
***
Back in the village, we began asking questions.
We started with the market. The rice vendor was arranging his wares when we approached. Kiri asked him about the shrine, who had built it, when it had fallen into disuse, whether anyone ever visited it.
He paused. His hands hovered over the grains.
"The shrine?" he said. His voice was flat. "I don't know anything about that."
"You've lived here your whole life," Kiri said. "Surely you've heard…"
"I don't know anything about that," he repeated. He turned back to his rice. "You should try the next shop. "
We left.
The shopkeeper was the most direct.
She was sweeping the front of her store when we approached. A small shop, the kind that sold rice and salt and matches. I had been here before. I had bought the ball, the pendant.
"Excuse me," Kiri said. "We were wondering about the shrine on the mountain…"
The shopkeeper's broom stopped.
"I don't know anything about that," she said. "I've lived here all my life, and I've never heard of any shrine."
Kiri blinked. "Never? It's on the mountain. You can see it from…"
"I've never heard of it," the shopkeeper repeated. Her voice was flat. Final.
She went back to sweeping.
No one became angry.
No one told us to stop asking.
Instead, everyone simply avoided answering. The silence itself became suspicious. It was the same response, repeated over and over, a polite deflection, a change of subject, a sudden memory of something that urgently needed to be done.
Determined, we visited the village elder.
His house was set back from the path, half-hidden by the willow. The same house I had visited before. The same tired villagers resting outside.
The elder opened the door before we knocked. He looked at us for a moment, then stepped aside.
"Come in," he said. "I've been expecting you."
We sat in the small, spare room. The lamp flickered. The elder poured tea, slowly, deliberately, as if he was trying to delay the inevitable.
Kiri didn't wait.
"Who built the shrine?" she asked.
The elder didn't answer. He finished pouring the tea, set down the pot, and folded his hands on the table.
"Who was the ancient god worshipped there?" Kiri pressed.
Another silence stretched between us.
The elder looked at his hands. At the tea. At the flickering lamp.
Then he said:
"Some things are better left forgotten."
Kiri leaned forward. "Why?"
The elder smiled. A sad smile, the kind that came from a place of deep weariness.
"Because remembering them only brings sorrow."
He reached for his cup. He didn't drink. He just held it, letting the warmth seep into his palms.
"The past is heavy," he said. "Some weights are not meant to be carried."
Kiri opened her mouth to ask another question. I saw it in her face, the determination, the refusal to accept such an evasive answer.
But the elder spoke before she could.
"The rice you bought from the market, is it good? I've heard the quality has improved."
He changed the subject completely.
Kiri looked at me. I looked at the elder.
The conversation went nowhere.
We left without answers.
We walked home through the quiet village.
Neither of us spoke.
But we both knew what the elder had meant.
Some things were better left forgotten.
And that was exactly why we couldn't stop looking.
The walk home felt much quieter than before.
The village was the same, the same low rooftops, the same pale walls, the same path winding through the fields. But everything seemed different now. The silence between houses felt heavier. The glances from passing villagers felt sharper.
No one stopped us. No one spoke to us.
But I could feel their eyes on our backs.
Kiri walked beside me, her hands in her pockets, her gaze fixed on the ground. She didn't speak for a long time. When she finally did, her voice was flat.
"Everyone knows something."
I nodded. "They do."
She stopped walking. I stopped too.
"But no one wants to be the one who says it."
I looked at her. Her face was tired, frustrated. The kind of frustration that came from hitting a wall you couldn't climb.
“and Hinata…” I said.
"Hinata…?" Kiri asked. "What does she have to do with this?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. But she disappeared for three days. She didn't remember me when I found her. She was speaking words that didn't belong to her."
Kiri pressed her hands to her face.
"Hikaru," she said. "What is going on here?"
I didn't have an answer.
We started walking again.
The village was beginning to settle into afternoon, lanterns being lit, doors being closed, the slow retreat of the day.
"We won't learn the truth by asking questions," I said. "They'll never tell us."
Kiri nodded slowly.
"Then we have to find another way."
We walked home in silence.
But for the first time, we both knew…
The answers wouldn't come from the villagers.
They would have to come from the mountain itself.
***
Next Morning, Hinata arrived as usual.
Her knock was the same, three small raps, soft and familiar. I opened the door to find her standing on the step, her smile bright, her cheeks flushed from the walk. The persimmon ribbon was tied around her wrist, frayed and soft. The moon charm rested against her collarbone.
"Good Morning, Hikaru-san!" she said. Then, peering past me: "Is Kiri-san here?"
"She's inside," I said. "Come in."
Hinata stepped past me, her bare feet padding across the floor. She found Kiri sitting on the floor, a book in her hands, and immediately settled beside her.
"Kiri-san," she said, "I have so much to tell you."
Kiri looked up. Her face, which had been tired and troubled, softened into a smile.
"Tell me everything," she said.
Hinata chattered happily about ordinary things.
The village cat had stolen a fish from the market again. The vendor had chased it with a broom, but the cat was too fast. A bird was building a nest near her window, and she had watched it carry twigs all morning. One of the older boys in the village had told her that watermelons grew bigger than pumpkins, but she didn't believe him.
"Pumpkins are huge," she said. "They're like, like big orange rocks."
"Watermelons can be pretty big too," Kiri said.
"But pumpkins are bigger. I've seen them. Watermelons are round, but pumpkins are round AND tall."
"That's a very good point."
Hinata nodded, satisfied.
For a while, the mystery was forgotten.
The conversation wound down naturally. Hinata had moved on to telling a story about a frog she had seen near the river, how it had sat on a rock and stared at her, and how she had stared back, and how they had both decided to go their separate ways.
Then she gasped.
"Oh!"
She reached into the small satchel hanging over her shoulder. Her small hands fumbled for a moment, then emerged with a folded envelope.
"Kiri-san," she said. "I forgot."
She held out the envelope, her expression suddenly apologetic.
"Someone asked me to give this to you this morning. A visitor. At the bus stop. I was supposed to bring it right away, but then Mama asked me to help with the vegetables, and then I saw the cat, and then…"
She bowed her head.
"I'm sorry."
Kiri smiled. Her voice was warm.
"It's alright. Thank you for bringing it."
She took the envelope.
Hinata brightened again, her guilt forgotten. "Aren't you going to open it?"
"In a moment," Kiri said. "First, tell me more about the frog."
Hinata launched into another story.
***
Kiri held the envelope in her hands for a long moment.
Her fingers traced the edge of the paper. Her thumb ran across the seal. She looked at the address, the handwriting, the familiar logo of her company embossed in the corner.
Hinata was still watching her, curious and patient. The frog story had been forgotten.
"Aren't you going to open it?" Hinata asked.
Kiri smiled. But her eyes were distant.
"In a moment," she said.
She turned the envelope over. She opened it carefully, not tearing, not rushing. The way you open something you know will change things.
She unfolded the letter.
I watched her face.
Her eyes moved across the page. The color drained from her cheeks. Her hands, which had been steady, began to tremble slightly.
"Hinata," she said. Her voice was quiet. Controlled. "Who gave you this letter?"
Hinata looked up. Her brow furrowed.
"A woman," she said. "I don't know her name. She said she was a friend of yours. She asked me to give it to you."
Kiri stared at the letter.
"Did she say anything else?"
"No. She just said to give it to you." Hinata tilted her head. "Is something wrong?"
Kiri folded the letter carefully. She tucked it into her sleeve.
"No," she said. Her voice was steady, but I could see the tension in her jaw. "Everything is fine."
She smiled at Hinata. A real smile, or close enough.
"Thank you for bringing it."
Hinata nodded, satisfied.
I watched Kiri. She didn't meet my eyes.
The letter sat in her sleeve, heavy and silent.
The room fell quiet.
Kiri sat motionless, the letter still in her hands. Her face was pale. Her eyes were fixed on the page, reading the words again, as if hoping they would change.
Hinata looked between us, her brow furrowed.
"Kiri?" i asked quietly. "What's wrong?"
Kiri didn't answer at first. She folded the letter carefully, her movements slow and deliberate. When she looked up, her smile was strained.
"It's from my company," she said. "There's been an emergency. They need me to come back."
Hinata blinked. "Come back? To the city?"
"Yes."
"But…" Hinata's voice was small. "You just got here."
Kiri's smile softened. "I know. I'm sorry."
I watched them both. The weight of the moment pressed down on me.
Kiri had been here for only a short time. But she had become part of the rhythm of my days, her laughter, her warmth, her steady presence. The thought of her leaving made the house feel suddenly empty.
But I understood.
"Your work needs you," I said. "You have to go."
Kiri nodded slowly. "I'll have to leave tomorrow."
Hinata's shoulders drooped.
"Already?" she asked. Her voice was barely a whisper.
Kiri knelt down to her height. She placed a hand on Hinata's small shoulder.
"Just for now," she said gently. "I promise I'll visit again. As soon as things settle down, I'll come back."
Hinata looked at her. Her dark eyes were wide, searching. She didn't say anything. She just nodded.
The room was quiet again. Outside, the afternoon light was beginning to fade.
Kiri folded the letter once more and tucked it into her sleeve.
I watched her.
"Are you sure you have to leave so soon?" I asked. "Couldn't you…"
"No," she said quietly. "I can't. I promised them I'd be available. This is my job. My responsibility."
I nodded. I understood.
Even if I didn't want to.
Hinata sat on the floor, her knees drawn up, her hands clasped in her lap. She was unusually quiet, not pouting, not complaining. Just holding herself still, the way children do when they don't want to show how much something hurts.
Kiri noticed.
"Hinata," she said. "I'm not gone yet. We still have today. We can make it special."
Hinata looked up. Her eyes were bright, but she didn't cry.
"What kind of special?" she asked.
Kiri smiled. The first real smile since she had opened the letter.
"The best kind," she said. "We'll make onigiri. Just the three of us."
Hinata's lip trembled slightly. But she nodded.
"Okay," she said. "I can do that."
I watched them both.
The afternoon had been warm and ordinary. Now the weight of the evening pressed down, the knowledge that something good was slipping away, that the house would be quieter tomorrow, that the laughter would fade.
But today was still here.
We still had today.
That evening, the three of us sat together on the porch.
The sun had set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of earth and drying grass. The village was quiet, the ordinary quiet of evening, when everyone had retreated inside and the world was settling into stillness.
Kiri had a small notebook open on her lap. She had written down the bus schedule, the times, the connections. She traced the lines with her finger, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"There's a bus at eight in the morning," she said. "If I catch that, I can make the connection to the city by noon."
I nodded. "I'll walk you to the bus stop."
Hinata, who had been sitting quietly beside Kiri, suddenly sat up straighter.
"I want to come too," she said. "I want to say goodbye."
Kiri smiled. "Of course you can come."
Hinata nodded, satisfied. But her shoulders were still tight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
The conversation drifted to lighter topics.
Kiri told a story about her first job, how she had accidentally sent an email to the wrong person and spent the entire day apologizing. Hinata laughed, her voice bright and genuine. I smiled, though my heart wasn't in it.
The night grew darker. The stars emerged, scattered across the sky like tiny lanterns.
But an unspoken feeling lingered beneath the surface.
The investigation had stopped.
The questions remained unanswered.
The shrine still sat on the mountain, its secrets hidden. The children still sang in the night, their voices drifting through the dark.
I looked at Kiri. At her familiar face, her warm smile, her steady presence. She had been here such a short time, but she had become part of my life in ways I hadn't expected.
Tomorrow, she would be gone.
And I would be alone again.
Hinata yawned. Her eyes were growing heavy.
"Time for bed," Kiri said gently.
"No," Hinata murmured, but her protest was weak. "I'm not tired."
"You're exhausted."
"I'm not…"
She yawned again. Kiri laughed softly.
"Come on," she said. "I'll walk you home."
Hinata stood reluctantly. She turned to me, her small face pale in the light.
"Goodnight, Hikaru-san," she said.
"Goodnight, Hinata."
She hesitated. Then she stepped forward and hugged me, quickly, tightly, her small arms wrapping around my waist.
I felt my chest tighten.
She let go. She walked to Kiri's side.
I stood on the porch and watched them disappear down the path.
The evening air was cool against my skin. The village was settling into its usual quiet, the sounds of the day fading into the soft hum of night.
I didn't move.
I just stood there, watching the empty path, feeling the weight of the evening press down on me.
Then I noticed it.
The Teru Teru Bōzu was still hanging outside my window.
The little white doll swayed gently in the evening breeze, its string creaking softly against the hook. The cloth was damp from the rain, the edges curling slightly. The face I had drawn, the smile, the small dimple, had faded, blurred by the weather.
It swayed once in the wind.
A small, lonely movement.
I looked at it for a long moment.
And I would have to decide what to do next.
What will happen next...
Next time, same time, same place.
