"Not all things buried are meant to stay hidden."
The golden hush of morning spilled through the shoji screens, painting the tatami floor in strips of light. Outside, the wind tiptoed through the bamboo, swaying the chimes into a soft metallic lullaby.
The old house in Takayama had settled into a kind of peace over the years—quiet and careful, like it, too, had learned to carry grief without spilling it.
Nala's grandmother, Emiko, moved through the hall with practiced grace, balancing a tray with miso soup, warm tea, and two rice cakes wrapped in banana leaf. Her feet padded soundlessly, kimono tied in a muted blue. Her hands, though delicate, bore the years in faint scars and fading calluses—signs of a woman who had both fought and nurtured.
She slid the door open.
Nala lay curled beneath her blanket, one arm draped outside, fingers relaxed but firm—like a blade still at rest. Her breathing was soft but uneven, as if even in dreams she couldn't fully surrender.
Emiko's eyes flickered to the open journal on the floor.
She stooped quietly, setting the tray down. Her gaze landed on the page, and she paused.
The words, penned in Nala's neat, deliberate script, pulled at her.
In the silence after thunder,
I hear her voice—soft like river wind,
wrapped in the scent of pimento and hibiscus,
telling me I'm more than vengeance.
That I am still hers.
A whisper of hibiscus filled Emiko's memory. She saw herself younger, laughing with her daughter-in-law, Amoy, under a wisteria tree, their voices intertwining as they playfully debated spice levels and festival kimono patterns. Amoy's vibrant energy was a contrast to Emiko's composed demeanor, yet their bond was undeniable. Emiko remembered her son, Renji—stoic and steady—often found sharpening a blade or reading under a lantern's glow. He had fallen for this bold island woman, finding joy and warmth in her presence.
Emiko's own reflection in the window brought her back to the present. Her silver-streaked hair was neatly pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, a few wisps escaping to frame her delicate face. Fine lines traced the corners of her gentle eyes, which held the depth of years gone by. Her slender frame was adorned in a simple, yet elegant, indigo kimono, the fabric whispering with each graceful movement. Despite the passage of time, there was a quiet strength in her posture, a testament to the resilience woven into her being.
And then she thought of the child they left behind.
Her eyes returned to Nala, now a young woman with both her father's silence and her mother's fire stitched into her bones. The poem wasn't just a memory—it was a tether, one Nala hadn't shown her, but had left open. Maybe on purpose.
"You're still hers," Emiko whispered, voice cracking slightly. "But you're ours too."
Nala stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open, lashes heavy with sleep, brow still pinched from a dream.
"Grandma?"
"I didn't mean to wake you," Emiko said, quickly wiping her eyes. "I brought breakfast."
Nala sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall to her lap. "You always make the soup too salty."
"And yet you always eat every drop."
A faint smile ghosted Nala's lips.
They sat in silence for a while. Emiko poured the tea, and Nala leaned against the wall, shoulders still heavy from sleep—or memory.
"How's your knee?" Emiko asked, not pushing.
"Healing," Nala said. "Grandpa went too hard yesterday."
Emiko chuckled. "He says pain is the truest teacher."
"Pain never shuts up," Nala muttered, taking a sip.
Just then—bam. The front door slammed open.
"NALA!"
The voice shot through the hallway like a cannonball. Footsteps barreled in like a storm.
Lena burst into the room, breathless and wide-eyed, pajama pants tucked into boots, hair unbrushed and flying in every direction. Her black hair swung like a curtain behind her, and her light brown-green eyes lit up with wild energy.
She held up her phone like a sacred artifact. "You have to see this."
"Morning to you too," Nala muttered, brushing a curl from her eye.
"I tried calling you but your signal out here is basically prehistoric."
"What is it?" Nala asked, already bracing herself.
Lena shoved the phone between them. A blurry video played—someone filming in the old textile district downtown. Smoke. A flash of movement. And then... something painted on the wall.
A mark. Not quite a character. Not quite a symbol. But somehow familiar.
"That looks like—" Emiko started.
"—The lotus," Nala finished.
A chill prickled the back of her neck.
"That building's been abandoned for years," Lena said. "No one goes there. And now? Smoke. Symbols. And people saying they saw someone—but no one can agree on what he looked like."
Emiko stood slowly, placing her tea back on the tray.
"This might not be coincidence," she said.
Nala's heart thudded.
She reached for the bokken leaning beside her bed and stood.
"Lena," she said, voice quiet but firm, "take me there."