Morning came with a light breeze that rustled through the thin paper windows of the house. Shinji woke early. His body felt calm, but something inside him buzzed gently, like a quiet thought that wouldn't go away. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and looked over to Hana's sleeping mat. Empty.
He stepped out onto the porch. Hana was already outside, sitting with her legs crossed beneath the old cherry tree. She was braiding something — red thread, long and thin, twisted around itself again and again.
"What are you making?" Shinji asked, stepping closer.
"A loop," she said without looking up. "For a bell."
"A bell?"
She nodded, holding it up. The red thread shimmered faintly in the sunlight. "We need something to mark our secret. Something to remind us not to talk about it outside the shed."
Shinji looked at the thread, then sat down beside her. "Why a bell?"
"Because a bell rings when you forget to be quiet," Hana said, smiling a little. "So we keep one hidden, just between us. If it rings, someone messed up."
Shinji smiled. "I like that."
They finished the braid together, fingers moving in a quiet rhythm. It reminded Shinji of the chakra practice, slow, careful, focused. When it was done, Hana held up the finished loop and slipped it around the small brass bell she'd taken from a drawer inside. It had once hung by the door, a signal when the wind blew hard.
"Let's give it to Ren today," she said. "Then bury it somewhere only we know."
Shinji agreed, the warmth in his chest flickering gently again.
Later that afternoon, the three of them met behind the grain shed, where a few old stones marked the edge of a dried-up planting bed. Ren looked curious when Hana showed him the bell.
"It's… nice," he said, turning it over in his hand. "What's it for?"
Hana explained the idea. Ren listened, then nodded seriously. "Yeah. That's smart. We keep quiet, keep safe. We bury this together. If one of us talks, it means we all suffer."
Shinji felt the words settle heavily between them. It wasn't fear, exactly, but something close. The idea that their secret could bring trouble. That chakra wasn't just something strange and exciting—but dangerous, too, if handled wrong.
Ren knelt down and started digging with a flat stone. The dirt here was soft. In minutes, they had a shallow hole beneath the large corner stone.
"Say something," Hana whispered. "A promise."
They looked at each other, unsure. Then Shinji nodded. "We promise not to speak about our training to anyone outside this group. We keep it safe."
"Even if we're scared," Hana added.
"Even if someone asks," Ren finished.
They lowered the bell into the hole. The red thread gleamed one last time before the dirt covered it. Shinji pressed his palm flat against the ground when they were done. It felt still, like a silence that had agreed to stay.
Afterward, they returned to the shed.
"Let's try again," she said, and the three of them got to work.
They took turns. Shinji focused on the feeling inside — that slow coal warmth in his belly, the way it traveled when he asked it to. Ren tried to call his sparks again, but it only worked once, briefly. Hana also tried but she doesn't feel anything yet, maybe she needs some more time.
That night, after dinner, Shinji sat by the open window, the evening air cool on his face. His parents were cleaning up the last dishes. Hana was writing quietly in her herb notebook.
Shinji took out his own book — a small, folded journal he'd hidden beneath the floorboard. He opened to a fresh page and wrote:
Buried the bell.
Promise made.
Hana: Doesn't feel anything yet.
Ren: small spark again.
Me: calm coal still steady, but no change.
Need to keep going.
He paused, tapping the charcoal pencil against the paper. Then added:
The feeling is stronger now. Still quiet. Still not sure if it's right to keep it secret, but I know it has to be. For now.
He closed the book and slid it back beneath the floorboard, careful not to make a sound.
Outside, the wind passed gently through the trees, and somewhere in the distance, a bell from someone's cart gave a faint jingle.
Shinji froze for a moment.
Then smiled.
That wasn't their bell. The real one was buried beneath a stone, and it hadn't rung.
Shinji sat a little longer, watching the sky darken as more windows in the village blinked out. His eyes followed a lone firefly as it rose near the garden, blinking gently like it was lost but content. He wondered, just for a moment, if the bell would ever need to ring. If one day, one of them would slip. Say too much. Be noticed.
The bell helped. It was silly in a way. A string and a piece of brass buried under an old planting bed. But that was how real things started, wasn't it? Small and quiet. Not with fireworks or shouting. With whispers. With agreements spoken in dirt and sealed with a leaf in your palm.