Amber spilled from the sun, casting light across the mud-and-thatch roofs that clung to the mountainside. Shadows retreated toward the treeline, but the mountain village of Kareno was not yet warm. A chill clung to the air — a dampness born not from the morning mist drifting down the teranda, but from something older. It felt primordial. It felt like a warning.

The monk, Seijin, felt it in the bones of his waraji-clad feet as he walked the path to the shrine. He had walked it a thousand times—in the heavy rains of planting, when frogs sang in the paddies; in the heat of summer, when dragonflies skimmed the water’s skin; in the sharp air of harvest, with smoke rising from every hearth; and in the snow, when the shrine’s roof bowed beneath its weight.

Ahead, a figure stood by the small hokora at the mountain gate, silhouetted by the pale light. Jiro — the carpenter whose hands were usually grained with sawdust — was as rigid as a post. Seijin had seen him in joy and in drink, in work and in grief. Never like this. This was not the stillness of shock, but of a man who understood exactly what he was seeing.

The low, constant droning reached him next, seeping into the quiet like a sickness.

“I came for the morning offering… and found them.” His voice caught on the last word, as if it didn’t want to leave his mouth. “So young…” Half muttered to himself, half to Seijin.

As Seijin drew closer, the air thickened with the metallic tang of blood, laced with the sharp scent of crushed herbs and damp earth. A basket lay overturned, its contents scattered in the dirt — roots, stems, and wild greens torn and muddied where feet had trampled them.

At the foot of the aged wooden shrine were two bodies. One, a child — throat slit with a precision that spoke of practiced hands. The other, an older man — his torso a ruin of deep, chaotic stab wounds, each angled differently, the marks of a desperate fight.

Blood had pooled against the shrine’s foundation stones, dark as lacquer, seeping into the grain as if making an offering to something that would never bless it. His breath caught as he shook his head—not because of the death, but because it came early this year. Not from shock, but from the grim recognition of what violence left behind.

He stepped closer, small stones shifting in the damp earth beneath his waraji. Kneeling, the hem of his grey kesa brushed softly against the ground, careful not to smear the blood that soaked the soil. Near the older man’s side, half in the mud, lay a wildflower — petals stained crimson, with a faint yellow still showing beneath. Seijin lifted it gently and set it beyond the blood’s reach.

He looked over their faces.

The first was young—too young. Not long ago, she had placed wildflowers before the altar during Obon, bowing solemnly before scampering off to play. Now her skin was pale, her features slack, innocence erased.

The second was lined and weathered by time. He had brought timber to repair the torii just last summer, laughing as he worked. Now his head sagged forward, his body empty of breath.

He pressed two fingers lightly to the ground between the bodies—just enough to feel, not enough to disturb. The earth was warm beneath his fingers. But worse, it was wrong. Gritty. Wet.

The earth had not simply absorbed the blood; it felt as though it had drunk it down with a thirsty greed. Kegare. The defilement was not on the ground, but in it. The soil had not resisted this uncleanliness—it had received it. His master’s voice rose unbidden from memory: A defiled place does not reject the dead. It makes room.

Seijin drew a slow breath, the cold air scraping his lungs. He closed his eyes, whispering against the coming dread.

“南無阿弥陀仏… 南無阿弥陀仏… 南無阿弥陀仏…”

Namu Amida Butsu… Six times, each softer than the last. Not for the souls — those he could pray for later — but for the ground itself, a plea that it would not claim more.

“I will prepare them,” Seijin said, his voice a low rasp, as though speaking too loudly might stir the dead from their uneasy rest.

Jiro moved without a word, his grief a heavy cloak. He retrieved folded bundles of coarse cloth from a nearby cart—not burial shrouds, but repurposed grain sacks. Hasty. Meant to erase the sight before the village fully awoke.

It was already too late. The crows had already seen. The sharp, knowing caws of crows circling overhead heralded the first stirrings of the village.

Seijin spread the cloth over the child first. There was no time for incense or washing. Only the fold, the knot, the careful binding of ankles and neck. You do not bind the dead to hold them, his master had told him once. You bind them so they do not forget their shape.

When the man was wrapped, the wet ruin of his chest soaked through the cloth in moments.

Jiro’s gaze met Seijin’s for the briefest moment. No words passed—only the weight of what both men understood.

In silent unison, they lifted the bodies onto the flat cart. The old wood groaned, a sound of protest not against flesh, but against consequence. The monk began to push, his hands firm on the splintered wood. The wheels creaked over the earth, one catching with every third turn. He felt the village begin to notice—a door sliding open, the breath of sleep breaking under waking eyes.

Dawn crept into Haru’s world through the doorway of his small hut, the stillness shattered by the creak of the monk’s wagon as it passed on its way to the temple, and the caw of crows overhead. He leaned against the rough-hewn timber of the doorframe, not with laziness, but with the quiet contentment of a man who knew his place in it, watching the pale light slide over the rice paddies beyond.

The air smelled of damp earth and the embers of last night’s fire from the sunken irori hearth at the center of the hut’s packed earth floor. His wife, Keiko, knelt beside it, her sleeves tied back, humming softly as she packed a small ball of millet and rice for their older child, Kaoru.

“That child will get the food covered in mud before getting a chance to eat it,” Haru said, his words light with amusement.

Keiko looked up, her own smile gentle. “Then they will eat a meal with the taste of adventure.” She wrapped it neatly in a bamboo leaf. “Go on, Kaoru. Be back before the shadows grow long.”

Kaoru took the offering with one hand, the other clutching a stick of charcoal — the same one they always carried to the river stones. Haru ruffled the childs hair “Another day of drawing samurai and monsters?” Haru asked. The child nodded eagerly, bowed, and darted off toward the river.

Haru’s gaze followed Kaoru until the child vanished from sight, then dropped to Aki by the water basin near the door, her small fingers chasing a single sakura petal that had fallen into the water.

He crouched beside her, boards creaking under his weight, “The petal is faster than you, little sparrow,” his large, calloused farmer’s hands gentle as he pointed.

Aki giggled, a sound like small bells, and splashed a hand in the water, sending the petal swirling faster. Haru felt Keiko’s hand on his shoulder. He leaned into her touch, a simple, profound comfort that was the anchor of his world. Everything he needed was within these mud-and-thatch walls. The rice paddies could wait another hour. This was peace.

Then the crows called again. Not a passing chorus — a persistent, circling cry.

Haru looked up. Over the far side of the village, black wings churned in the sky, swirling above the temple. Crows. Not one or two, but a murder of them. Circling with purpose, fixed on something unseen.

The knot in his stomach tightened. He remembered the monk’s cart — the shape beneath the cloth. At the time, he had thought little of it. Now, the sight of those birds felt like an omen carved in black feathers.

The wind shifted. No scent of rain, no promise of warmth. Only the faint, unmistakable smell of smoke. And it was not from a cooking fire.