The fire had dwindled to embers, casting faint orange pulses across the small clearing. Shadows stretched long under the canopy of ancient cedars, their pale bark almost luminous in the moonlight that slipped through gaps in the branches.
Daichi knelt before Shiori, his broad shoulders blocking most of the dying light. He tightened the final knot on the root-fiber cloth around her ankle—firm, even, never tight enough to chafe the hypersensitive skin beneath. He leaned back slightly, eyes scanning the binding for any flaw.
"It's done."
Shiori glanced down. The wrap looked neat, concealing the faint branching lines of Root Strain that had crept a little farther since the last village. She flexed her foot once, testing. No pull. No pain beyond the usual dull ache.
"Mm."
Daichi rose smoothly, reaching for the small iron kettle suspended over the low flames. Steam curled from its mouth, carrying the plain scent of boiling rice and dried greens. "It'll take some time for the rice to finish. Lie down for a while. I'll wake you."
She didn't argue. Rest was necessary after a long day's walk, especially when the soil had whispered too loudly earlier. She never refused his quiet suggestions—not out of obedience, but because she understood the logic of it. Still, following through was another matter.
Shiori moved to the base of the largest cedar at the clearing's edge. The ground here was dry, blanketed in fallen needles that cushioned like old straw. She lowered herself carefully, folding one arm beneath her head as a pillow. Her dark chestnut hair spilled loose from its tie, strands catching on the rough bark. She closed her moss-green eyes, letting the forest sounds wash over her: distant crickets, wind sighing through high branches, the soft gurgle of a stream somewhere far off.
Normal.
For now.
Daichi adjusted the firewood with a stick, coaxing a few more flames. He sat cross-legged near the pot, wooden staff resting across his knees. He listened—not to roots, but to the human world around them: the rhythm of night insects, the absence of larger animals, the steady breathing of the girl under the tree. All quiet. All as it should be.
Shiori woke without a sound.
Her eyes opened first, staring straight up at the dark weave of branches. Then her breath shifted—short, shallow, catching at the edges. Cold sweat had already soaked the back of her travel robe, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. This was not an ordinary waking. Her body recognized the difference before her mind caught up: a hollow pull from somewhere deep in the root-network, like silence where sound should be.
Daichi was beside her before she managed to push herself upright. He had moved without noise, staff left by the fire.
"Where?"
She didn't meet his gaze. Her eyes fixed past the trees, north-east, through the wall of trunks and shadow.
The air in that direction felt… heavier. Not thick with rot or smoke. Not heavy with emotion at all.
Hollow.
She swallowed once, throat dry.
"Far," she said quietly. Her voice remained steady, grounded. Only the single word carried weight.
Daichi followed the line of her stare. The forest appeared unchanged—no unnatural glow, no stirring leaves, no sudden silence from the crickets. But her left hand had curled lightly into the fabric near her collar, knuckles pale against the muted sage of her robe. That small gesture told him more than words ever could: this was not a minor imbalance. Not the usual grief blooming pale orchids or resentment twisting brambles.
He stood slowly. "It's still dark. We move at sunrise."
She didn't argue.
That silence meant it wasn't urgent—not yet. Whatever waited north-east could hold until light.
Daichi returned to the fire, retrieved the waterskin, and poured into a small wooden cup. He handed it to her without flourish. She accepted it, fingers brushing his briefly—cool against his warmth. She drank slowly, still listening inward, outward, to the faint pulse beneath the soil that only she could hear.
After a few seconds she lowered the cup.
"It's not grief."
"Anger?"
She shook her head once.
"Empty."
The word hung between them. Daichi paused, the fire reflecting in his deep brown eyes. Empty was rare. Most imbalances carried heat—grief's chill ache, resentment's sharp burn, regret's dragging weight. Emptiness suggested something else: a void where emotion should have pooled, or worse, something actively draining what once had been there.
He exhaled through his nose, barely audible. "Eat first."
She gave a faint nod.
The rice was plain—steamed with dried vegetables and a pinch of salt from their dwindling supply. Nothing special. They sat on opposite sides of the fire, bowls in hand, eating without speech. The only sounds were the soft scrape of wooden spoons, the occasional pop of sap in the embers, and the forest breathing around them.
They packed in practiced silence: bedrolls rolled tight, kettle cooled and stowed, herb satchel secured at Shiori's waist. Daichi shouldered their shared pack; Shiori carried only what she needed for listening. At the first true light they set off north-east.
By the time the sky began to pale in the east—gray bleeding into faint rose—the forest had fallen strangely quiet again. No birdsong yet. No wind. Shiori hadn't relaxed. Her shoulders remained level, posture composed, but her fingers brushed lightly over the bandage at her wrist, tracing the hidden lines beneath.
Daichi noticed. He didn't comment.
They packed in practiced silence: bedrolls rolled tight, kettle cooled and stowed, herb satchel secured at Shiori's waist. Daichi shouldered their shared pack; Shiori carried only what she needed for listening. At the first true light they set off north-east.
The path wound steadily through thinning trees, sunlight filtering in dappled patches on the ground. The air grew warmer, carrying the faint scent of turned earth and distant smoke. They walked without hurry, boots scuffing softly on the dirt. After an hour, the forest edge appeared—a line where wild growth gave way to ordered fields.
The farmland opened wider with every step, rows of early crops bending gently under the morning breeze. At a distance, the landscape appeared ordinary: neat furrows, soft green shoots catching the first light, the quiet rhythm of a village waking.
Then the pattern fractured.
One strip thrived unnaturally—leaves thick, almost luminous, as though drawing more than their share of life. The adjacent row paled, stalks thin and listless. Another patch looked untouched, normal. Ahead, an entire section lay colorless. Not scorched by drought. Not withered by blight. Just… blank.
Shiori's pace eased. Her moss-green eyes scanned the uneven fields without lingering on any single spot, feeling the distribution of absence rather than presence.
Daichi shifted the strap of their shared pack across his broad shoulder. "It's uneven."
She did not reply at once. Her gaze continued its slow sweep. "Not a natural spread," she said finally, voice low and steady.
They pressed on.
A low stone wall rose ahead, marking the village boundary. Moss softened its base, and between two weathered posts hung a simple wooden sign. The carved characters were faded but legible: Hoshinaka Village.
Daichi halted before it, staff planted lightly in the dirt. "This the place?"
Shiori paused, studying the air beyond the wall. The hollow pressure from the night before brushed her senses again—faint, not insistent, but unmistakable. A thinness in the root-network beneath. "Yes."
He gave a single nod.
They stepped past the boundary.
Inside, morning life unfolded in muted routine. Women knelt at the central stone well, rinsing vegetables in slow, practiced motions. Two men crouched over a broken cart wheel, tools clinking softly. Children darted along the narrow dirt road, laughter brief and contained. No shouts of alarm. No visible crisis.
Yet gaps existed.
One house stood with shutters drawn tight against the rising sun. A nearby field lay empty—no bent backs, no hoes turning soil. The air carried no rot, no sharp residue of resentment or regret. Only a quiet draining.
Shiori did not head straight for the village center. She stopped in the middle of the path, boots planted on the packed earth. She listened—not to voices, but to the ground beneath.
The soil under the road felt stable, ordinary. No aggressive pulse. No fevered heat. But the north-east quadrant pulled thin, like fabric worn through at the threads. Not poisoned. Not fighting back. Just… emptied.
Daichi watched her without shifting his weight. "Direction?"
She tilted her chin a fraction. "There."
His eyes followed. A modest cluster of houses hugged the far edge of the farmland, roofs low and dark against the pale sky.
Before they could move, two villagers passed close enough for fragments of talk to drift over.
"…been like that since winter." "…she still won't step outside." "…fields haven't grown since."
Shiori's gaze shifted—barely a flicker. Daichi caught the words without turning. He simply listened.
Another voice, lower, from a man mending a fence nearby: "Maybe we angered the land." "Or maybe she should finally let it go."
That was sufficient.
Shiori resumed walking. Daichi fell into step at her side. They asked no questions. The barren patch announced itself clearly as they drew nearer.
Unlike the scattered pale areas beyond the wall, this disturbance confined itself to one property. A simple fence encircled it, posts leaning slightly with age. The soil inside remained untouched—smooth, uncracked, as though no seed had ever been pressed into it, no root allowed to take hold.
Shiori stopped at the edge. She crouched slowly, palm hovering first, then settling lightly against the cool earth.
Too cool. No pulse stirred beneath her touch. No faint echo of rot or bloom. No pale orchids of grief, no wilting lilies of suppressed truth. Only stagnation.
Behind her, Daichi's voice came quiet. "Level?"
She closed her eyes. This time she lingered longer, letting the faint vibration rise from deeper layers. Not violent. Not sharp. Suppressed—folded tightly upon itself, refusing release.
"Level I," she said. A pause. "Single source."
Daichi's gaze moved to the house beside the field. Shutters remained closed. No thread of smoke rose from the chimney. The building seemed to hold its breath.
"Household?"
She nodded once.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Widow."
Shiori opened her eyes. "You heard?"
"Enough."
Silence settled between them, comfortable and familiar. The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from elsewhere in the village. For a brief instant, something deeper flickered beneath the stagnation—not strong enough to classify yet, just a whisper of unfinished grief, perhaps, or a longer refusal to mourn.
She withdrew her hand from the soil. "We start here."
Daichi stepped back, scanning the perimeter out of habit. "Talk first?"
"Yes."
She rose smoothly. No flourish. No announcement.
They walked toward the silent house.