Shelves loaded with scrolls and old books stood around them like silent guardians, the wood-scented air humming with dust and quiet. Lanterns swayed from the ceiling beams, their soft glow breaking into ripples every time a draft slipped in under the door, sketching brief, dancing shadows across the walls.
Pulsebun, restless as always, hopped up onto the table. He leaned in, ears high, his electric-blue eyes locked on Kenji with a curiosity that almost crackled.
"You're not just worried about the capital," he said. "There's something else."
Kenji drew a slow breath and reached for a long, age-worn scroll. He unrolled it with deliberate care, as if the paper might sigh if handled too fast. Ink lines, faded and brown, revealed a forest and a cluster of marks that didn't belong to any path locals used.
"A few days ago," Kenji began, voice low but steady, "the outpost received a batch of old documents from a remote depot. I thought they were the usual—field notes, trading ledgers, weather records. Nothing that would change a single thing." His finger traced a faint symbol. "But while I was cataloging, this kept reappearing."
Aiko stepped closer, drawn by the quiet focus in his eyes. She knew that look. It meant he'd found something that clicked into place inside his mind, a pattern starting to form.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice soft and a little breathless despite herself.
Kenji tapped a tiny marker on the map, in a patch of forest not far from Kyoten. It was an ordinary-looking area to anyone who had grown up here—moss, ferns, trees that had stood longer than any memory. Still, someone had dared to mark it.
"The texts mention forgotten ruins," he said, "and refer to a 'sanctuary where time bends and echoes of the past remain.' The phrasing repeats with small variations across three separate records, at least a generation apart."
Aiko felt a shiver skitter up her spine. Pulsebun glanced at her, then back at the scroll, his ears angling forward.
"A lost sanctuary this close to us?" Pulsebun asked, head tilting. "How have we never heard of it?"
Kenji gave a ghost of a smile. He reached for another scroll, older still, and laid it carefully beside the first. This one was more of a patchwork, stitched and repaired, the script tight and cramped, as though whoever wrote it was trying to fit something important into too little space.
"I wondered the same thing," he admitted. "At first I thought it was a stain, or sloppy cartography. Then I saw the second reference. Then a third. And then I noticed the gaps—places where records should exist but don't. The pattern feels intentional. Like someone wanted this to be forgotten, not lost."
Aiko frowned. She had lived her whole life in Kyoten. She could walk the market blindfolded and never bump a cart, find the river by smell alone when the mint leaves crushed underfoot. The notion of something ancient and strange hidden within a morning's walk felt wrong and right at the same time.
"You want to go," she said, not as a question.
Kenji's mouth lifted at one corner. His eyes said what his voice didn't: need, not want.
"I have to see it for myself, Aiko," he said. "I can't keep reading about the world and pretending the pages are enough. If the past is closer than we think, we should know why."
Pulsebun practically vibrated. "Finally! Real ruins, real mystery, and maybe—just maybe—some shiny thing that hums if you poke it."
Aiko exhaled, folding her arms. She tried to imagine the walk, the rustle of leaves, the quiet that came with deep forest. She also imagined coming back, stepping into the bakery's warm, yeasty air, her father turning with flour on his hands and a smile ready. The thought both anchored and tugged at her.
"And you want us with you," she said gently.
Kenji pushed his glasses up, as if steadying himself. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it mattered. And… I think it will be safer with three."
Pulsebun flashed a grin. "Three plus electricity," he corrected. "Which is basically four."
Aiko couldn't help it—she smiled. The room felt a fraction lighter, though the scrolls between them didn't change. The map didn't erase that small mark.
"All right," she said. "But we move carefully. If anything feels wrong—too dangerous or just… off—we turn back. Promise me."
Pulsebun tossed her a wink. "Adventures never listen to rules, but fine, I promise."
Kenji chuckled under his breath, then nodded with more sincerity. "I promise. We'll be cautious. We'll go, look, and if it's wrong, we return."
"When?" Aiko asked.
"Tomorrow at first light," Kenji said, already reaching for a cloth to wrap the scrolls. "The route's mostly old deer paths and game trails. If the site is as hidden as it seems, we'll need time."
"You decided that before you asked, didn't you?" Aiko said, one eyebrow rising.
Kenji's smile turned sheepish. "I've known you a long time."
Pulsebun hopped down, landing with a soft thud. "I'll pack the essentials," he declared. "Rope, hooks, some jars, a coil or two, the small lantern, the medium lantern, and the one that overheats but looks cool—"
"Not the one that overheats," Aiko said.
"Then two of the medium," Pulsebun conceded, already mentally repacking.
Kenji bundled the documents like a small treasure and slipped them into a case. He paused, the curve of his shoulders tight for a moment, then eased. "The capital… those incidents," he said. "If they're connected to this, we need to know before someone else does."
"You think the Guild doesn't already suspect something?" Pulsebun asked, nosing the edge of the case. "They sent you the papers."
"They sent what they could spare," Kenji said. "That's different."
Aiko glanced past them to the window. Afternoon light spilled into the outpost, painting the floor in mellow gold. Outside, the village spoke in its usual sounds: a cart wheel catching on a stone, a shout from the square, the soft patter of a broom on wood. Safe sounds. Familiar.
She imagined those sounds from deeper in the forest—muted, distant, replaced by birdsong and the whisper of wind through needles and leaves. The thought tightened inside her chest, then slowly loosened.
"We'll go," she said, more to herself than to them. "And we'll come back."
Pulsebun bumped her leg with his shoulder. "We'll bring back a story. And maybe a shiny humming thing."
"Please don't bring back anything that hums on its own," Kenji said.
They laughed, the ease of it carrying them a step or two away from the heavy center of the scrolls. But nothing in the room had actually changed. The marks were still on the map. The words still called the place a sanctuary, as if it had a purpose beyond standing and rusting in the dark.
They spent the next while in quiet preparation. Kenji sharpened a small knife and checked the stitching on his satchel, then filled it with charcoal, a wax pencil, a spool of thread, spare paper, and a tiny brush for dusting surfaces. Pulsebun assembled a compact lantern that could carry a spark and hold it, its glass hood cloudy from previous experiments. He added coils of line, a folded cloth, a canteen, and a wrapped packet of dried fruit he swore was essential for morale.
Aiko watched, then moved without thinking to the back shelf, where she kept spare cloth and a tin of salve for blisters and cuts. She tied a neat bundle and set it at the edge of the table. Kenji glanced up and gave her a grateful look that said more than words.
"Tomorrow," he repeated, as if saying it out loud pinned it to the calendar.
"Tomorrow," Aiko echoed.
Pulsebun's tail flicked like live wire. "Sleep is for people who aren't going exploring in the morning," he said, even as he yawned and tried to hide it.
They left the outpost as the light softened toward evening. The square had begun to gather its lamps; someone was hanging new paper lanterns, the red paint still glossy and wet. Aiko lifted a hand to wave at an elderly neighbor, who waved back with a laugh and a wordless question in his eyes. She smiled and shrugged in answer, a promise of bread tomorrow, as always.
On the way home, Kenji fell into step beside her, the document case tucked under his arm. "Thank you," he said simply.
Aiko nodded. "If it's dangerous, we go back."
"If it's nothing, we'll have walked in the woods and come home to fresh bread," he said.
"And if it's something?" Pulsebun asked, skittering ahead and then circling back, unable to decide which direction felt more interesting.
"Then we treat it like something," Kenji said. "Carefully. Together."
Aiko breathed in, slow and deep, the evening bringing the village's familiar scents—wood smoke, damp earth, a hint of sweet bean paste cooling on a tray somewhere. It all felt solid beneath her feet.
Later, lying awake and listening to the house settle, she saw the map again behind her eyes. The small mark in the forest. The line about time bending and echoes remaining. She pictured trees parting to reveal stone and metal, imagined a place that didn't belong to wood and thatch and lanterns but to something older and stranger. The thought frightened her. It also pulled at her like a tide.
She turned onto her side and stared at the faint pattern the window cast on the wall. Tomorrow, she would step into that pattern, and the pattern might change.
Outside, the village finished breathing out for the day and tucked itself in. The night held, quiet and untroubled. Somewhere far off, a bird called once and then fell silent.
Aiko closed her eyes with a final, small decision settling in her chest.
They would go.
And if they found something that shouldn't be found, they would still be themselves when they turned back.