By mid-morning, the sun had burned away most of the mist that clung to Hoshinaka Village. Narrow dirt lanes shimmered in the heat, and the cadence of daily life resumed—shopkeepers arranging produce, children scurrying home for lunch, and villagers murmuring among themselves. In the distance, the pines rustled faintly, their topmost branches shimmering as though stirred by a breeze that did not reach the ground.
Ryoko Shibata walked with purpose along the cobblestone path of the village's main street. The lace collar of her blouse caught the sun's glare as she moved from one storefront to the next. In her left hand, she clutched a small black notebook—its pages already thick with observations and questions. Her right hand rested on the reassuring weight of her car key. She maintained a composed expression, but beneath her calm exterior, a tense curiosity drove every step.
She reached the faded green awning of Mrs. Fujimoto's General Store. The storefront was a jumble of crates and wooden barrels, small ornaments hanging from the rafters. At the center, an elderly woman with silver hair knelt, sorting through a basket of mountain radishes. When Ryoko approached, Mrs. Fujimoto looked up, her thick spectacles sliding down her nose.
"Ryoko-sensei," the old woman said with a slight bow. "What brings you here this fine afternoon?"
Ryoko returned the bow. "I'm following up on odd occurrences in the village. You mentioned something about your wind chimes?"
Mrs. Fujimoto nodded, standing slowly and dusting off her apron. She led Ryoko behind the counter, where a row of wind chimes made from bamboo stalks and thin metal rods hung. Each chime was adorned with tiny paper strips printed in delicate calligraphy. At the moment, none of them moved; the air was still.
"These chimes belong to my grandson," she explained. "He brought them home from a trip, but the moment he hung them, they became stubborn. They spin—and the paper strips rustle—no matter how calm the air is. It started at midnight two nights ago. Not once or twice, but every hour, on the hour."
Ryoko nodded, making a note in her notebook. "Every hour? For how long?"
"Just after twelve, and then one, and two…" Mrs. Fujimoto counted on her fingers. "Until dawn. I tried tying them down, but that didn't help. No matter how still the air, they twist on their own."
Ryoko recorded each detail. "Thank you. Anything else unusual besides the chimes?"
Mrs. Fujimoto hesitated. "I saw something in my dreams—whether you call it a dream or a vision, I'm not sure. I saw golden roots weaving through the pines, connecting every tree. Some of the roots glowed, and they led me to… something. I woke at dawn with my heart pounding. It felt real."
Ryoko gently closed her notebook. "Dreams can reveal truths. Thank you for sharing. I'll be discreet, of course."
Mrs. Fujimoto offered a small, grateful nod. "Be careful by the old shrine, Ryoko-sensei. My cat refused to go near it last night—hissed and ran away as if it saw something that wasn't there."
Ryoko gave a curt, respectful bow. "Thank you. I appreciate your time."
Ryoko walked a few steps down the road before spotting the weathered sign for Mr. Daisuke's Post Office. The small white building stood at a gentle angle; its sliding wooden door was propped open to invite what little breeze remained. She stepped inside, nodding to Mr. Daisuke, who sat behind the counter reading an old newspaper.
"Postmaster Daisuke," she greeted. "I wanted to check if you've experienced anything unusual lately."
Daisuke folded his newspaper with a deliberate calm, peering over gold-framed glasses. "Ms. Shibata, by day I handle mail and by night I see things most wouldn't believe. But lately… the radio in here, the old analog one, has been behaving oddly."
Ryoko raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
Daisuke waved a hand toward a battered radio set in the corner—its dials dusty, its wooden case chipped. "I turned it on last night to check the local news. The moment I hit the switch, it crackled, then settled on a station broadcasting out of Nagoya—completely unrelated. I thought it was a fluke, so I turned it off and on again. Same thing. Then static. Then… a melody. No words, just a tune that sounded like children humming."
Ryoko's pen paused. "A melody? Can you describe it?"
Daisuke tapped his chin thoughtfully. "It was simple, like a lullaby you'd hum under your breath. But not a melody I recognize. It repeated once, then disappeared, leaving the radio in silence. The next morning, it worked fine, no hint of that tune."
Ryoko recorded every detail. "Did you feel anything else when you heard it?"
"An odd warmth in my chest," he said. "I felt both comforted and uneasy." He rubbed his hand against the counter. "Then it stopped, and I realized my heart was racing."
Ryoko gently closed her notebook. "Thank you. One more question: did the radio react to anything else—light, metal, wind?"
Daisuke shook his head. "No. It just started on its own. And when it did… the birds outside flew in odd circles, like they were confused by something overhead."
Ryoko made a quick note. "I appreciate this. Please keep me informed if it happens again, no matter how insignificant it seems."
Daisuke nodded solemnly. "I will."
Ryoko left the post office and made her way toward the small carpentry workshop near the edge of the village. The sign above the door read "Shigeru's Carpentry and Repairs." Outside, an old oak saw table sat under a broad awning, its legs chipped but sturdy. A small dog dozed in the shade, ears twitching at every passing sound.
Ryoko tapped lightly on the workshop's doorframe. "Shigeru-san?"
Inside, the carpenter was hunched over a piece of driftwood, sanding its surface with careful strokes. The grain shimmered in the afternoon sun. He looked up, his face creased with the lines of a life spent shaping wood.
"Shibata-sensei," he greeted. "Come to fix furniture or fix me?"
Ryoko stepped inside, noting the smell of sawdust and varnish. "I'm here to ask about the old shrine path. I've heard villagers saying it feels… alive."
Shigeru set his tools aside and scratched his head. "That path? Nobody uses it much these days—too many stories of ghosts and restless spirits."
Ryoko crossed her arms. "I'm hearing about children feeling unsteady, and animals refusing to go near. Did that happen around your shop or along the shrine path?"
Shigeru glanced toward the back of the workshop, where the small dog had awakened. Its ears perked up as Ryoko spoke. "My dog, Tama, won't go past the gate on the path. She barks, hair standing on end—acts like she sees a stranger when there's no one there. Also, last night I tried to fix a broken elder's chair out there. As soon as I stepped onto the path, the wood… it felt off. The boards shifted under my feet—like something underground was moving."
Ryoko leaned forward. "You actually felt movement beneath the planks?"
"Whole thing trembled—wood creaked in a way I can't describe. I looked around, saw nothing, heard nothing, but the air seemed charged." He ran a weathered hand through his hair. "So I left before I finished. Came back here. Tama followed me home."
Ryoko scribbled notes. "Has anyone else mentioned feeling that tremor?"
Shigeru nodded slowly. "A few neighbors said the earth felt ticklish, like something squiggling below. They thought it was just the foundation settling. But now—dogs yelp sometimes for no reason, crows cry in the trees when there's no one around. It's weird."
Ryoko closed her notebook. "I appreciate this, Shigeru-san. Please call me if you notice anything else—any shift in the ground."
Shigeru offered a solemn nod. "I will. And please, be careful out there."
Ryoko stepped outside, glancing at the forest beyond the path. She pulled out a fresh page in her notebook and drew a simple map of the village: the general store, the post office, the workshop, and the pine-lined path to the old shrine. She marked dots wherever odd occurrences had been reported: the chimes at Mrs. Fujimoto's, the radio tune at Daisuke's, the tremor near Shigeru's. With a practiced eye, she connected the dots and saw an arc forming, one that curved toward the northeastern ridge of the forest.
She traced a line from the carpentry shop up to the slender spine of pines, then down to the edge of the school grounds. In her mind, she added a notation: "Pattern: Village Anomalies — Radius Expanding from Node 2?" She circled the northern ridge, scribbling alongside it: "Check forest edge near old stone marker."
As she tucked the notebook into her coat, the dog Tama walked up and sat, nose twitching in the air. Ryoko knelt to scratch Tama's ears, then stood and looked back at the workshop's dark doorway. She knew no one inside had spoken of nodes, but everyone felt something. The village was waking to a hidden heartbeat long buried beneath its soil.
Ryoko took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of midday sun on her back. She raised her gaze to the forest line, the pines swaying overhead. The whisper of leaves carried a faint hum—a resonance she could almost understand.
Turning on her heel, she left the village center, heading toward the school and Souta's classroom. It was time to share her findings, to see how much he already knew—and to prepare for whatever lay within those restless woods.