Ayato wakes to silence.
Not the restless kind—the hum of traffic beneath his apartment window, the muffled voices through paper-thin walls—but a deeper, undisturbed quiet. The kind that belongs to places untouched by urgency.
Soft light filters through the shoji screens, turning the wooden walls into warm amber. The scent of damp earth lingers in the air, left behind by last night's rain. Somewhere beyond the walls, water drips from eaves, a steady rhythm against the stone path outside.
For a moment, he forgets where he is.
Then, the details return. The long train ride, the village elder's words, the untouched teacup on the counter. The café. His café now.
The futon beneath him is softer than expected, the tatami floor beneath his hand cool and smooth. He sits up slowly, stretching out the stiffness of travel, listening. No car horns. No footsteps rushing down a hallway. Only the distant call of a bird, the whisper of leaves shifting in the breeze.
Outside, the village breathes in its slow, measured rhythm.
Ayato steps onto the veranda, the wooden planks cool under his bare feet. The sky is overcast, thick clouds rolling in from the mountains, their edges tinged with the promise of more rain.
A single droplet lands on the wooden railing beside him. Another follows, sending tiny ripples through the puddles left behind from the night before.
The air smells of earth and cedar, of something faintly floral drifting from the garden.
No rush. No obligations.
For the first time in years, there is nowhere he needs to be.
The rain begins as a hush—soft, uncertain. A single drop against the roof, then another. Before long, it becomes a steady rhythm, a quiet symphony of water meeting earth.
Inside, Ayato moves through the café with careful steps, each footfall muted against the worn wooden floor. The space feels different in the morning light—less abandoned, more like something waiting to be woken up.
He finds the tea canisters neatly arranged on a shelf, their labels hand-written in fading ink. Some of the blends are familiar—sencha, hojicha—but others bear names he doesn't recognize, words that feel like whispers of a past he isn't yet part of.
Choosing one at random, he scoops the leaves into the pot, watching as the steam curls upward, carrying the scent of something warm, something alive.
The aroma spreads, filling the air with notes of roasted earth and faint sweetness. It seeps into the wooden beams, lingers in the quiet corners.
Ayato exhales.
The rain deepens outside, turning the dirt roads into slick ribbons of bronze. The rooftops glisten, their tiles shining under the gentle downpour. Water trickles along the edges of the veranda, forming tiny streams that slip through the gaps in the wood.
Beyond the café's open doors, the trees sway, their leaves heavy with rain. The whole village seems to move with the weather, as if time here bends and slows to match the rhythm of falling water.
Ayato takes a sip of his tea.
Warmth spreads through his chest, quiet and steady.
For the first time in a long while, he feels something close to peace.
Evening settles over the village like a slowly drawn breath. The rain has softened to a quiet drizzle, the last light of day slipping between heavy clouds. The café is steeped in shadow, the glow of a single lantern casting long, flickering shapes along the wooden floor.
Ayato sits behind the counter, the warmth of his tea still lingering in his hands. Outside, the wind moves through the trees, whispering against the old wooden beams.
Then—
Chime.
The delicate ring of the door bell breaks the stillness.
His heart stumbles.
The door isn't unlocked. He's sure of it.
Slowly, he turns.
She is there.
Seated at one of the low wooden tables, her presence impossibly quiet—like she had been there all along, waiting for him to notice.
The woman in the white kimono.
The one who sold him this place.
Her sleeves pool against the polished wood, the faint glow of the lantern catching the soft shimmer of her fabric. Her long hair spills over her shoulder, dark as the night beyond the rain-streaked window.
She watches him with unreadable eyes. Not unkind, but distant, as if she exists half in this world, half in another.
"You came," she murmurs.
It isn't a question.
Ayato swallows, his fingers tightening around his cup. "…You never told me your name."
She tilts her head slightly, considering him. Then, with the faintest smile—
"Does it matter?"
The lantern flickers. Outside, the wind shifts.
And for the first time since arriving in Komorebi Village, a chill creeps up Ayato's spine.
The woman sits with perfect stillness, as if she belongs to the café more than Ayato ever could.
Her posture is poised, effortless. Her white kimono folds neatly around her, untouched by time or travel. In her hands, she cradles a delicate teacup, steam curling from its surface in soft tendrils.
Ayato doesn't remember pouring it.
His grip tightens against the counter. The candle beside him flickers, its flame bending with the quiet breeze that has somehow slipped through the closed doors. Shadows dance across the wooden walls, shifting with the light—but her face remains unchanged.
Dark eyes, reflecting the glow. Unreadable. Watching.
His throat feels dry. "You—what are you doing here?"
She lifts the cup to her lips, taking a slow sip.
No answer.
The silence stretches between them, pressing at the edges of the room. The soft hush of rain against the veranda. The distant creak of old wood settling. The rhythmic tick of a clock he hadn't noticed before.
Ayato exhales, running a hand through his hair. "You never told me anything about this place. The villagers barely remember you. And now you're just…" He gestures, frustration creeping into his voice. "Here. Drinking tea like you never left."
She lowers her cup, setting it on the table with a soft clink.
For a moment, it seems like she might speak.
But she only tilts her head slightly, her gaze lingering on him as if weighing something unseen.
The candle flickers again. The wind stirs.
And Ayato suddenly has the strange, unmistakable feeling—
That she isn't really here at all.
The rain beats softly against the wooden veranda, a steady rhythm against the hush of the room.
Between them, the silence stretches, deep and endless.
Ayato waits.
The woman in the white kimono watches him, her expression unreadable, her presence impossibly quiet. The steam from her tea curls into the air, vanishing before it can reach the ceiling.
Then, at last—
"It suits you."
Her voice is barely above a whisper, yet it carries through the stillness, settling into the wooden walls, into the very bones of the café.
Ayato opens his mouth to speak—to ask what suits him, why she's here, who she really is.
But before the words can leave his lips—
The candle flickers.
The flame bends, stretching unnaturally, as if caught in an unseen current.
And then—
She's gone.
Not in a way that suggests she left. No rustle of fabric, no shift of movement. Just—
Emptiness.
As if she had never been there at all.
Ayato stares at the empty seat, the untouched teacup, his pulse thrumming in his ears.
A breeze drifts through the open doorway, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms and rain.