The next village was wrong.
Not empty, not abandoned—just… off.
The roads twisted in ways they shouldn't. Houses leaned at uneven angles, like they'd been built by memory rather than hand. The trees outside the shrine had no leaves, even though the ones just beyond the hill were still full.
People were there.
But none of them looked at us.
Not directly.
Rin walked beside me, silent, her hand never far from the small charm she kept hidden in her sleeve. I didn't ask what she felt—I already knew.
Something had passed through this place.
Something still lingering.
***
We stopped at a small tea stall at the end of the square. An old man poured hot water into cracked cups and said nothing when we sat.
A girl was sweeping the stone a few paces away.
Thin. Young. No older than fourteen. Her black hair was cropped short, uneven. Her sleeves were patched. She didn't look at us—not at first.
But when I blinked, she was staring straight at me.
Eyes dark as ink.
She tilted her head slightly, like she recognized me from somewhere far away.
Then she said, "You brought the thread with you."
The old man froze mid-pour.
Rin stood immediately.
The girl just kept sweeping.
***Her name was Sayo.
We learned that much from a hesitant villager later—a man who warned us in a low voice not to talk to her, not to follow her, not to get involved.
"She sees things," he whispered. "Things that make the world forget itself."
We asked what he meant.
He didn't explain.
Just walked away.
***
We found Sayo again outside the shrine that evening, sitting beneath the empty trees. She didn't flinch when we approached.
Rin crouched beside her. "Where are your parents?"
"Forgotten," she said.
"By who?"
"Everyone."
Her voice was soft. Clear. Too calm for her age.
Rin placed a hand gently on her sleeve. "You don't have to stay here."
Sayo look at me again.
Then nodded once.
***
That night as we left the village under a moonless sky, Sayo followed beside us without a word. She didn't ask where we were going. She didn't carry anything with her.
But I could feel it again—the thread.
It had stretched.
And now it connected three.