Haruki woke with a jolt.
His breath steamed in the cold air of his room, despite the warm spring night. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, heart thudding like it had run a marathon. The dream again-so vivid it felt more like a memory than a figment of sleep.
A mountain shrouded in mist.
A shrine hidden among the rocks and pines.
And a glowing crystal, pulsing like a heartbeat.
His heartbeat.
He reached for the sketchpad beside his bed. By now, the dream had become ritual.
He flipped past pages of half-finished drawings-faces he didn't know, symbols he couldn't read, and always, that mountain.
The shrine. The light.
This time, something was different. There'd been a voice.
It hadn't spoken words. It had felt more like a whisper in his bones. A pull.
Across the room, a soft chime echoed his phone alarm. 7:00 a.m.
Haruki sighed. Back to reality.
Downstairs, the apartment was quiet. His mom had left for work already, her usual sticky note on the fridge: Happy 17th, H.
There's cake in the fridge! Love you.
He smiled at the note, but the dream still hung over him like a cloud. Seventeen. It was supposed to feel like something. But it just felt... empty.
He opened the fridge, grabbed a soda instead of cake, and flopped onto the couch. As he did, the doorbell rang.
He wasn't expecting anyone.
At the door stood a delivery man holding a long, flat package wrapped in cloth and tied with a thin cord. No label. No return address.
"Haruki Kaito?" the man asked.
Haruki blinked. He hadn't used his father's last name in years.
"Uh... yeah?"
"Sign here." The man handed him a tablet, then walked away without another word.
Haruki shut the door, puzzled, and set the package on the kitchen table. He stared at it. His name written in ink-elegant, old-fashioned Japanese calligraphy.
He untied the cord.
Inside: a scroll wrapped in dark silk, and an old photograph. The picture showed a mountain-the mountain-exactly as he'd seen it in his dreams. Mist curled around it like smoke. At the top, barely visible, a shrine with a slanted roof and a round stone in the center that glowed, even in the black and white photo.
Underneath it, a note written in ink on rice paper:
"It's time to remember, Haruki. Go to the place of your blood.
The sun still burns.
His hands trembled.
Tucked beneath the scroll was a small stone pendant, shaped like a teardrop, warm to the touch faintly glowing with golden light.
And in that moment, he knew: his father hadn't just disappeared.
He had gone back.