The days begin to settle, folding into a gentle rhythm.
Morning light filters through the shoji screens, casting shifting patterns across the wooden floor. Ayato wakes to the sound of birds beyond the veranda, their songs blending with the distant murmur of the river. He brews tea in the quiet, the earthy aroma filling the café as he dusts forgotten corners, polishes old wooden tables, and clears away the remnants of a past he doesn't yet understand.
The villagers greet him when he steps outside—polite nods, quiet smiles. They speak to him kindly, but distantly, as though they have seen others before him. As though they have seen others leave.
"Getting used to things?" an elderly woman asks as she sets out vegetables in front of the village shop.
Ayato nods. "Slowly."
She smiles, though there's something knowing in her gaze. "That's good. This village… moves at its own pace. Some stay. Some don't."
He isn't sure how to respond to that.
Instead, he continues his walk through the village, his steps slow on narrow dirt paths lined with persimmon trees and weathered stone walls. The scent of rain still clings to the earth, mingling with the faint sweetness of wildflowers. Komorebi Village is beautiful in an almost unreal way, caught between past and present, as if time here refuses to move too quickly.
Yet, something lingers.
The woman in the kimono.
The way she sat across from him, silent and watching. The words she left behind.
"It suits you."
Some nights, he almost convinces himself it was a dream. That the flickering candlelight played tricks on his eyes. That the scent of cherry blossoms drifting through the café was only a memory from the city.
But then—
A breeze will slip through the open window.
And the fragrance will return, light and unmistakable.
As if something—or someone—has never truly left.
The rain has stopped, but the air remains thick with the scent of damp earth and old wood. Ayato slides the wooden doors of the café shut, the latch clicking softly into place. The village is quiet now, the world wrapped in the hush of night.
Then, he sees it.
Just beyond the veranda, sitting in the rain-dampened street, is a black cat.
Its fur glistens faintly under the lantern light, its tail curled neatly around its paws. But it's the eyes that hold him still—golden, sharp, unwavering. Watching.
Ayato blinks. A strange feeling settles over him, something like déjà vu, though he can't place why. Had he seen this cat before? In the village? Somewhere else?
He takes a slow step forward. "You lost?"
The cat doesn't move. Doesn't blink.
A breeze stirs the trees, rustling through the quiet street, carrying the faintest trace of cherry blossoms.
Ayato exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not much of a talker, huh?"
The cat tilts its head—just slightly, almost like an answer.
He glances around. No one else is outside. Just the empty street, the mist rolling in from the hills, and the soft glow of lanterns flickering behind paper windows. The village feels even older at this hour, like a place caught in time.
When he looks back, the cat is still there, watching.
Ayato hesitates, then sighs. "Well… good night, I guess."
He turns to go back inside, sliding the door shut behind him.
For a long moment, he stands there, listening.
No footsteps. No sound of movement.
And yet, somehow—
He knows the cat hasn't left.
The next night, it happens again.
Ayato shuts the café's wooden doors, the latch clicking into place, and when he turns—
The black cat is there.
Sitting just outside, golden eyes fixed on him, unblinking.
It doesn't move. Doesn't make a sound. Just watches.
A quiet observer.
Ayato exhales, leaning against the doorframe. "So, this is a thing now, huh?"
The cat's tail flicks once, slow and deliberate.
The night air carries the distant croak of frogs from the rice paddies, the rustling of trees swaying in the wind. Somewhere, a wooden chime clinks softly. The village is wrapped in its usual hush, but the cat's presence shifts something in the stillness, makes it feel less… empty.
It doesn't leave when Ayato lingers, nor does it come closer. It only stays.
The next night, it happens again.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
Always waiting.
Always watching.
An unspoken ritual forms between them.
Ayato locks the doors. The cat appears. They stand in silence for a while—him leaning against the doorway, the cat perched just beyond the veranda, their quiet staring contest stretching into the cool night.
He starts talking to it, half out of amusement, half to fill the space.
"You're persistent, I'll give you that."
The cat blinks lazily.
"You're not expecting food, are you? I don't have anything for you."
No reaction.
"...You're not some kind of spirit, are you?"
The cat tilts its head, and Ayato swears it almost smirks.
A breeze rustles the trees, and with it, the scent of cherry blossoms drifts past him again—light, fleeting, impossible.
He doesn't know why, but the moment lingers, settling deep in his chest like a memory he can't quite grasp.
When he looks down again—
The cat is gone.
Ayato sighs as he crouches by the veranda, placing a small dish of milk just outside the café's entrance. The cat isn't here yet, but he knows it will come. It always does.
"Not that you asked for this," he mutters, setting the dish down carefully. The night air is crisp, carrying the distant murmur of the river.
He waits, leaning against the wooden post, arms crossed. But the cat doesn't appear.
Minutes pass. The village is still. The paper lanterns hanging from the eaves sway gently, their glow flickering like fireflies in the dark.
Another sigh.
"Fine. Have it your way."
Ayato stands, dusting off his hands before heading inside. He leaves the door slightly ajar, just enough to glance back one last time.
Nothing.
But when he wakes the next morning, the dish is empty.
No footprints in the dirt. No sign that anything had been there at all.
Just the lingering proof that something—or someone—had accepted his offering.
The next night, he does it again.
And the night after that.
Each time, he sets out the dish. Each time, it's empty by morning.
Yet, the cat never drinks while he's watching.
Ayato tries waiting a little longer, lingering by the door, pretending to be occupied. Still, the cat doesn't come. The moment he looks away, the moment he steps inside—only then does it appear.
A strange, silent visitor.
A presence that exists only when the café is closed.
Ayato leans against the counter one night, staring out through the shoji screens, deep in thought.
"Why do you only come when I'm not looking?"
Outside, the wind shifts.
And somewhere in the darkness—just at the edge of sight—golden eyes watch him from the shadows.
The scent of roasted tea drifts through the village elder's small home, mingling with the faint aroma of tatami and aged wood. Outside, the afternoon rain has just stopped, leaving behind the soft drip-drip of water sliding from the eaves.
Ayato watches as the elder stirs his cup with slow, deliberate movements, as if even the act of drinking tea is something to be savored.
Finally, he speaks.
"There's been a cat hanging around the café," Ayato says, setting his own cup down. "Black. Golden eyes. It only appears at night."
The elder hums, nodding as if he already knows.
Ayato hesitates. "I started leaving out milk for it. But it never drinks while I'm watching."
The elder stops stirring. His gaze lifts, sharp and thoughtful.
"Ah…" His voice is quiet. "So it's watching you now."
Something in the way he says it—now—sends a strange chill through Ayato's spine.
He frowns. "What do you mean?"
The elder takes a slow sip of tea, his face unreadable. Then, just as slowly, he smiles.
"Komorebi Village remembers things in its own way."
Ayato waits for him to continue, but the silence stretches on, as heavy as the mist curling through the hills outside.
He exhales. "That's not an answer."
The elder only chuckles, setting his cup down with a quiet clink.
And just like that, he says nothing more.
That night, Ayato sleeps, but it is not a peaceful sleep.
The dream unfolds like mist, slow and quiet, wrapping around him before he even realizes he's dreaming.
He is inside the café. But it is not his café.
The wooden counters gleam, polished by hands that are not his. The air is thick with the scent of tea—rich, earthy, familiar. A single candle flickers on the table, its light casting long, wavering shadows across the floor.
Then, the shoji doors slide open.
A figure stands in the entrance, their silhouette dark against the lantern glow outside. He cannot see their face, cannot tell if they are stepping in or about to leave.
Something about them feels unfinished, like a story with missing pages.
He tries to speak, but his voice does not come.
His breath stills.
At the doorway, just beyond the figure's feet, the black cat sits in its usual place. Watching. Unmoving.
And then—
Somewhere, just beyond the candlelight, a voice whispers his name.
Soft. Familiar. Almost tender.
Ayato.
His heart lurches.
The candle flickers. The shadow shifts.
And in the next instant—
He wakes.