Awaken
That day, though it was early May, the morning air was unseasonably cold.
A sharp, clear wind howled low as it swept through the remote mountain village, colder than one would expect from a season already past spring.
A place surrounded by forest so dense it could only be described as pure, untouched nature.
Farther beyond that village, deeper into the wilderness, stood a solitary wooden house. There were no other buildings nearby—not even on either side. The narrow road leading up to it was unpaved, the shoulders overrun with moss in the dim light. The house sat quietly in the shadows.
Several tiles had peeled off the roof, and the deep brown walls were curling and cracked. Its age was uncertain, but it was undeniably old. The wind of May showed it no mercy, battering it relentlessly, as if trying to strip away its warmth.
Beyond the house, far in the distance, loomed a majestic mountain known as Mount Happo. Its ridges, still powdered with snow, stretched out in all directions, forming a bold and sacred presence. The locals called them the "Happo-One," and had lived alongside the mountain for generations—sometimes with reverence, sometimes with affection.
It was both beautiful and formidable, and it often sent icy downwinds roaring to the foothills, a constant reminder of nature’s indomitable will. One could never conquer nature.
And here, in the village of Hokujō in northern Nagano Prefecture, the wind continued to blow as fiercely as winter, silencing even the birds.
Maybe it was that wind. Or maybe a dream. But something stirred the girl sleeping in that old house.
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
The room was freezing. As soon as she awoke, she curled instinctively beneath the thick blanket.
She wore a plain, long-sleeved black tracksuit. It was simple for a girl her age, but perfectly fine for sleeping. With the down-filled bedding, it was enough to endure Hokujō’s cold, even in spring.
Letting out a faint murmur, she slowly sat up, her short black hair swaying gently.
Her name was **Sakura Urugi**, and she had just turned seventeen in April. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she squinted through the blurry vision and fixed her gaze on the morning mist drifting beyond the window.
Her mind wasn’t fully awake yet. But even so, she immediately noticed something.
Her breathing was heavy.
When she placed a hand on her chest, she could feel her heartbeat racing. Thump. Thump. Faster than normal.
Trying to calm herself, Sakura exhaled slowly, drawing out her breath.
How many times had she had that dream now?
She took a deep breath, letting fresh air fill her lungs. But her heart refused to settle.
She hadn’t seen it often recently, but she’d dreamed it many times before.
It was the memory of the day she met Kizuna.
Back then, Sakura was only seven. It should have been a vague memory by now. But sometimes, without warning, the dream returned. Whether it carried a message or was some kind of omen, she didn’t know. All she knew was, the dream was always the same.
That man.
That voice.
And the little girl named Kizuna.
She remembered the words clearly—despite hearing them only once.
A warm, calm voice. Someone she’d never met, yet it carried an odd sense of nostalgia.
"Take care of Kizuna."
Kizuna...
Her mind began to drift again. But it was pointless to try and decipher that dream, not after ten years. She brushed it aside and looked at the clock hanging on the wall.
It was a simple room with tatami flooring. A wooden desk. A long clothes rack. That was it. For a seventeen-year-old girl, it was almost too bare.
The clock read 6:30 a.m. A decent time to wake up.
As she stood from her bedding, a cold draft hit her square in the face. Not as brutal as winter, but cold enough to make her shiver.
She folded her bedding and stepped out of the room. The wooden flooring of the hall was cold beneath her bare feet, stiffening her expression slightly.
Each step she took down the staircase creaked beneath her, a jittery sound that made it feel like the whole floor might collapse.
The stairs were steep, and the steps were narrow. One wrong move and she could get seriously hurt. So she descended with caution.
It was an old wooden house, after all. Strange noises were to be expected. But the winters were bone-chilling, and in summer, the heat became unbearable. That, at least, was something Sakura still struggled with.
Still—she couldn't complain.
She was lucky to have a place to stay.
Compared to the days when the floors literally froze, this kind of spring chill wasn’t so bad.
At the bottom of the stairs was the bathroom. Crossing its threshold first thing in the morning was part of her daily routine.
The bath and sink were combined into one room. Sakura reached for the faucet and slowly turned it.
There was no hot water.
If she wanted it, she’d have to boil it in the kitchen or go outside and stoke a fire.
She already knew the answer.
The cold water gushed out with a hiss, and Sakura flinched ever so slightly.
No matter how long she lived here, she never got used to it. Three years, and still the chill surprised her.
She hesitated, then cupped her hands under the faucet.
The cold pierced her skin, spreading across her face like needles. Again and again, she splashed the water until her sleepiness was gone.
"Haa..."
She grabbed a towel and wiped her face dry, her breath slipping out with a sigh.
Her vision was now clear.
"...Ah."
Her own reflection made her wince.
She looked exhausted. The kind of tired that made her dislike what she saw.
...I look worn down.
Am I really okay?
Her face was pale, her eyes unfocused. Stress, maybe. Hidden somewhere inside.
But she couldn’t allow this.
She leaned in, studying her eyes.
Jet black hair. Strong brows. Eyes filled with justice. A face with sharp lines that some people said looked intimidating.
Still—a beautiful face. Straight nose. Balanced features.
People often said she was beautiful. That she had been blessed with good looks.
But now, that beauty felt like a curse.
Because she looked just like *her*.
She moved her face side to side, top to bottom. Tracing it with her eyes.
She could see it. So clearly.
First it was just the eyes. Then, as she grew older, her entire face changed.
They used to say she looked like her.
Now, it was uncanny.
She looked like that person.
So much so, it frightened her.
It didn’t feel like her own face.
Sakura covered it with a towel.
I don’t want to look like her.
Why do I have to look like her?
She knew it was futile to blame her genes. But the injustice of it weighed on her.
So she fought back in the smallest way.
She kept her hair short. Refused to grow it long like hers.
It was all she could do to resist.
Still, she couldn’t escape the blood they shared.
I am me.
She looked up again, checking her face for any hint of color.
What stared back was blank.
Emotionless. Unchanging.
She tried to smile, but even a fake one wouldn’t form.
When was the last time she’d smiled for real?
If she didn’t keep her expressions alive, she’d become even more like her.
No. She couldn’t let herself look like that. Not in front of **her**.
Sakura took a breath, firmed her lips, and shifted into a more serious expression.
Her gaze hardened. But at least it wasn’t the face of someone who had given up.
What do I look like to her?
She wanted to be dependable.
A sister Kizuna could rely on.
She didn’t want to show weakness.
Not here.
Not in front of the one person who mattered most.
From the dining kitchen, she heard movement.
And with it, the faint aroma of coffee.
Somehow, the smell lifted a small weight from her shoulders.
It was her.
**Kizuna.**
