It was late afternoon, and the sun shone through clouds drifting lazily across the sky.
Tsushiro walked slowly along the stream, a map clutched in his hands.
"I'm terrible at directions," he thought. "No… it has to be around here. It has to be."
He folded the map and tucked it back into his robe, turning his attention to the surroundings.
"It might have a few more trees," he murmured to himself, "but this has to be it. This is the stream where Yushiro and I used to hang out all the time."
His gaze fell on a large boulder resting near the stream.
His steps slowed until he came to a stop beside it. The stone's surface was rough and weathered, cracks running through it like scars left by time. He reached out, resting a hand against it, and a strange tightness curled in his chest.
For a brief moment, the gentle murmur of the water seemed to shift.
Laughter—faint but unmistakable—echoed in his ears.
Tsushiro blinked, and suddenly the space beside the boulder felt crowded.
He saw them clearly now: two boys, ankle-deep in the stream. One was smaller, clumsier, splashing water without care, while the older stood nearby, arms crossed, pretending not to smile.
A thin streak of white ran through the older boy's dark hair, catching the sunlight whenever he turned his head. The younger boy had one too—shorter, less defined, but unmistakably the same.
"Hey, slow down," the older boy said, though there was no anger in his voice. "You're gonna slip again."
The younger boy laughed, holding a wet stone triumphantly.
"I didn't fall this time!"
Tsushiro's breath caught.
That was him.
And that was Yushiro.
The vision shifted slightly—Yushiro climbing onto the boulder, stretching his arms out as if it were a mountain peak, shouting something he could no longer hear. The older boy followed, warning him to be careful even as he offered a hand to help him up.
The memory felt warm. Too warm.
Tsushiro's fingers curled against the stone as the vision began to fade, the laughter dissolving back into the steady murmur of the stream.
The boulder was empty again.
"…Yushiro," he murmured softly.
The air felt heavier than before as he stood there, staring at the place where the memory had lingered—unsure whether what he had seen was merely his mind replaying the past or something else entirely.
He hesitated, then turned and walked away, this time with a sense of purpose, though his steps were measured, as if he wished to delay reaching the other side.
The forest stretched before him, the long, bulky trees forming a dim corridor of shadow and light. Hesitating, he stepped through anyway.
The sunlight blinded him for a moment, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes.
When he could see again, he was met with a heart-wrenching sight.
From the edge of the old farmland, Tsushiro stood on higher ground, the earth beneath his feet uneven and it looked out upon what remained of his village. Or rather—what time and silence had left behind.
What had once been neat rows of crops had long since surrendered to the wild. Tall grass swayed freely in the wind, vines coiling around broken fence posts, their wood split and softened by years of rain. Fruit trees had grown unchecked, branches sagging under their own weight, roots cracking through stone paths that once led home.
Beyond the fields lay the village itself.
Roofs had collapsed inward, their tiles scattered like fallen scales. Walls leaned at awkward angles, some swallowed almost entirely by creeping ivy and moss. Doorways stood open with no doors to close them, windows dark and empty, as though the buildings themselves had gone
Trees grew where homes once stood, their trunks piercing through floors and ceilings, branches stretching outward as if to claim the sky in quiet triumph. Flowers bloomed where fires had scorched the ground decades ago, their colors soft, almost apologetic. The land bore no signs of violence anymore—only the calm indifference of time moving on.
From where he stood, Tsushiro could see everything at once.
The stream cutting through the land like a familiar scar.
The broken roads fading into nothing.
The places where laughter should have been were instead filled with silence.
His chest tightened.
This was the home he lost that day.
The village he had been walking toward all this time.
And yet, from this distance, it felt impossibly small—fragile beneath the sky, swallowed whole by the world that had continued without it.
The wind passed through the ruins, rustling leaves and tall grass, and for a moment it almost sounded like voices.
Tsushiro remained still, unable to step forward, his eyes tracing the ruins as if searching for proof that it had all once been real.
Tsushiro descended from the higher ground and stepped into the village.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold of what had once been the main road, the air felt different—thicker, heavier, as if the land itself recognized him. Grass crunched softly beneath his feet, the sound far too loud in a place that had forgotten noise.
He walked slowly.
With every step, the ruins shifted—not physically, but in his sight.
For a brief moment, the broken frame of a house straightened. The collapsed roof lifted itself back into place. Faded walls regained their color, clean and whole, before flickering like a dying flame and returning to rot.
Tsushiro stopped.
In front of him, standing where only weeds should have been, were figures.
They were faint—transparent, their forms wavering like reflections on disturbed water. Villagers walked the road as they once had, carrying baskets, speaking to one another with mouths that moved but made no sound. Their laughter never reached his ears, yet he felt it all the same, pressing against his chest.
He took another step.
A woman passed through him, her image dissolving as it overlapped with his body. The chill that followed made his breath hitch. Where she had been, only wind and dust remained.
"..."
He wanted to speak.
He didn't know what he would say.
Further ahead, near the remains of the marketplace, the vision changed again.
Children ran past him—two boys chasing one another, their feet barely touching the ground. One of them turned, laughter frozen on his face, a streak of white hair catching the sunlight.
Tsushiro's steps faltered.
The boy vanished.
In his place stood a burned-out stall, its wood blackened and split.
Tsushiro clenched his fists.
He moved through the village as the images continued to rise and fade around him. A smith hammering steel where a tree now grew. Elders seated beneath a roof that no longer existed. Neighbors greeting one another, their forms breaking apart as soon as he tried to focus on them.
None of them looked at him directly.
It was as if they were memories replaying themselves, unaware of the man walking among them—a stranger wearing the face of someone who should have grown old here.
Then he saw them.
Beside a large boulder, two figures sat close together.
One was smaller, his legs dangling as he spoke, a smile across his face. The other leaned back against the stone, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the sky. Both had black hair marked by a thin white streak—one on the right, one on the left.
Tsushiro stopped breathing.
The figures laughed.
The sound was faint, distant, like it was coming from another lifetime.
He took a single step forward—and the vision shattered.
The stream flowed quietly.
The boulder stood alone.
No voices remained.
Tsushiro stood there for a long time, surrounded by ruins and silence, his gaze fixed on the empty space where the past had just been.
These weren't spirits haunting the land.
They were memories refusing to let go.
And as he finally moved again, one truth settled heavily in his chest:
The village was gone, forgotten by the cruel world it once resided in.
Tsushiro turned away and followed a narrow path filled with overgrown grass leading away from the village center.
Unlike the others, his home had always been set apart.
Past the last broken houses, beyond a thin line of trees that had grown wild and tangled over the years, the land sloped gently upward. Branches arched overhead, their leaves whispering softly as he pushed through, as if reluctant to let him pass.
The moment he stepped beyond the trees, he saw it.
His home stood at the edge of the village, just as he remembered—isolated, quiet, untouched by the clustering chaos of the other houses. Or what remained of it.
The roof had collapsed inward. One wall had given way entirely, allowing vines to crawl freely through the broken frame. Yet for a fleeting instant, the ruin wavered.
The door was whole.
Smoke curled from the chimney.
And then—
"Tsushiro!"
The voice struck him harder than any blade ever had.
He froze.
Standing in the doorway was his mother.
She looked exactly as she had in his memories—hair neatly tied back, sleeves rolled up, a faint crease of worry between her brows. Her eyes searched the path ahead, then lit up as she saw him.
"There you are," she called, relief warming her voice. "I was starting to worry."
Tsushiro's breath caught in his throat.
His feet wouldn't move.
"I—" His voice failed him before the word could form.
Then something passed him.
A blur of motion, light and fast.
He watched as a younger version of himself ran past—barefoot, laughing, the familiar streak of white hair catching the sunlight as the boy rushed toward the house.
"I'm back!" the boy shouted.
The child didn't slow. Didn't hesitate.
His mother's face softened instantly.
"There you are," she said again, kneeling just in time to catch him as he threw his arms around her waist. She laughed quietly, resting her hand atop his head.
"You're going to trip one of these days if you keep running like that."
"I won't," the boy replied confidently, pressing closer.
Tsushiro stood rooted to the spot.
The scene played out before him, whole and complete—warm, alive, untouched by time.
Then the image trembled.
The colors faded.
The laughter thinned.
The child loosened his grip.
In the next heartbeat, the doorway collapsed inward, the figure of his mother dissolving into dust and light. The boy vanished with her, leaving behind only the broken remains of the house and the creeping silence of the forest.
Tsushiro finally took a step forward.
His hand reached out—but grasped nothing but air.
The path ahead was empty.
His home was empty.
And he stood alone at its threshold, a guest in a place that no longer had room for him.
Tsushiro stepped closer to the doorway.
The doorframe had collapsed inward long ago, its wood split and swallowed by thick, gnarled roots that had forced their way through the threshold. They twisted and coiled where the entrance once stood, as if the earth itself had decided the house would never open again.
Something pale lay beneath them.
He stopped.
At first, he thought it was just debris—old timber, broken stone, the remains of furniture ground down by time. But as his eyes adjusted, the shape became unmistakable.
Human.
The roots had grown over it, around it, pinning it gently but irrevocably to the ground. The remains were slumped where someone might have fallen while trying to leave, half sheltered by the doorway, half claimed by the soil.
His mother.
He knew without needing proof.
The clothing—faded, torn, but familiar in shape. The posture—curled slightly inward, as if she had been bracing against something unseen. One arm lay trapped beneath the roots, the other stretched toward the open space beyond the door.
Toward the path.
Toward him.
Tsushiro didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
A faint stir broke the stillness—something small shifting among the remains, a quiet reminder that time had not stopped here just because he had returned.
He averted his gaze, not out of fear, but respect.
His hands trembled at his sides.
He didn't kneel.
Didn't reach out.
Didn't touch her.
He only stood there, watching, as the truth settled into place.
She had waited.
Not long enough to escape.
Not long enough for help.
But long enough to reach the door.
The roots creaked softly in the wind, tightening their hold as if to shield what was left of her from the world.
Tsushiro lowered his head.
And for the first time since entering the village, the silence did not feel empty.
It felt final.
Tsushiro stood before two newly made graves.
They were simple—nothing more than shallow mounds of earth marked by rough wooden planks, the wood still pale where it had been freshly cut. Stones had been placed carefully along the edges, not for ceremony, but to keep the soil from sliding back into itself.
Someone had taken time here. Someone had cared.
The names carved into the wood were uneven, clearly done by an unsteady hand.
Yushiro Yamada.
Yuzuki Yamada.
The wind moved softly through the grass, brushing past him, stirring the loose dirt at their bases. No prayers were spoken. No incense burned. The village was too far gone for rituals, too quiet for mourning crowds.
It was just him.
Tsushiro lowered himself to one knee, resting his hand against the ground between the two graves. The earth was cool beneath his palm—firm, real, undeniable.
"So this is where you are," he murmured.
His voice didn't break. Not because the pain wasn't there, but because it had already hollowed him out.
He imagined his brother laughing somewhere behind him, urging him to hurry up. Imagined his mother scolding them both for tracking mud inside the house. The images rose uninvited, vivid and cruel, then faded just as quickly.
He exhaled slowly.
"I wonder," he said, "what does it mean to die? What is there beyond the stream? Is it nothingness, or is it a better world?"
"Even I couldn't tell," came the quiet reply.
He sat down on the grass. "I've made a deal with the devil because I just couldn't let things go… could not let what they did to us go unanswered."
"If there is a world beyond death, then it will be a while before I can see you again," he whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek, "so please… wait for me."
He stood slowly, wiping the tear from his face.
He turned to leave, but a part of him couldn't resist looking back.
When he did, he saw a small pair of birds land on the slab of wood that made up his mother's gravepost.
Their gentle chirping was soothing to his heart, a quiet benediction in the stillness.
He turned away once more. This time, he didn't look back. He walked forward, letting the wind carry him toward the path ahead.