It was the kind of rain Kyoto knew best—quiet, insistent, and full of ghosts.
The cobblestones beneath Sayo Satou's feet were slick with autumn, and red maple leaves clung to her shoes as if they, too, were afraid to be left behind. Her school sat four kilometers to the west, tucked neatly between a hillside and a Shinto shrine, but her path home never followed a straight line. Sayo liked detours. She liked alleys that weren't on maps. She liked the quiet places that felt like they existed only for those who listened.
She was seventeen, with ink-black hair that curled slightly at the ends, and a softness to her gaze that made people think she was dreaming even when she wasn't. Most days, she felt as though she lived underwater—like the world moved too quickly above the surface, and she preferred the hush beneath.
Today, however, something pressed at her from within. A restlessness. Like a word she had forgotten how to say.
It was then, while stepping through the old district known as the Temple Spine, that she saw it.
A roadside shrine.
It wasn't large—barely taller than her waist, nestled between a crumbling wall and a persimmon tree. Its wooden roof sagged with age, moss clinging to the edges like a crown. Offerings lay forgotten: a cracked cup of sake, a bundle of rotting flowers, and a rusted coin. The stone statue at its center had eroded so much that she couldn't even tell what god it once honored.
And yet, it called to her.
She stepped closer, the world dimming around her. Her fingers hovered just above the altar when she saw it:
A single, white paper crane.
Pristine. Perfect. And dry.
The rain fell all around, but the crane remained untouched, as if some invisible dome shielded it from the world. Her breath caught. There was no reason for it to be there, let alone like that.
She reached for it.
The moment her fingers touched the paper, something shifted inside her. A chill raced up her spine. The air grew thick. The world—for a heartbeat—went silent.
She blinked.
And then everything returned.
Cars passed in the distance. Wind stirred the leaves. The drizzle resumed its rhythm against her umbrella.
She stood, clutching the crane in her hand.
A feeling settled into her chest: This means something.
---
That night, she placed the crane on her desk beside her lamp. It looked ordinary under the yellow light, its wings casting sharp shadows over her textbooks.
Sayo brushed her teeth in silence, her mind replaying the moment over and over. Why had she picked it up? Why did it feel so familiar?
She lay in bed and pulled the blankets to her chin.
Rain tapped softly at the window.
Sleep came slowly.
---
In her dream, the sky was crimson.
A field of white cranes stretched to the horizon, each one burning.
The fire didn't rage—it whispered. Flames curled like fingers, gentle and inevitable, consuming thousands of folded wings. The air smelled of ash and memory.
Sayo stood in ceremonial robes, her long sleeves stitched with cranes in flight. Her bare feet rested on cold earth. Smoke clung to her hair.
Beside her stood a man. Tall. Graceful. His hair was black as ink, tied loosely at the nape. A flute hung from a cord at his waist. His eyes, when he turned to her, were old.
"We have to let them go," he said.
His voice was like distant thunder. Gentle, but impossible to ignore.
Sayo didn't speak. Her hands were full of unburnt cranes. She couldn't let them go. Not yet.
The man looked down, then reached out. He touched one of the cranes in her hand. It vanished in a burst of light.
He looked at her again.
"They remember us," he said. "Even when we forget."
She opened her mouth to answer—
---
And woke with the crane in her hand.
---
Morning came pale and quiet. The sky was still weeping, though softer now.
Sayo sat up slowly, her heart echoing in her chest. The paper crane rested between her fingers, warm from sleep, though she knew that was impossible. She had left it on the desk.
Her breath hitched.
Something was happening.
She carried the crane downstairs, cradling it as if it might break. Her mother stood at the kitchen counter, chopping scallions, her movements efficient and gentle.
"You're up early," her mother said.
"I had a dream," Sayo murmured.
Her mother didn't look up. "The kind you remember?"
Sayo hesitated. "Yes."
That made her mother pause. She turned, wiping her hands on a cloth. Her gaze softened.
"Was it... one of those dreams?"
Sayo blinked. "What do you mean?"
Her mother exhaled slowly. "Never mind. Go eat. You'll be late."
But the tone was different now. Guarded. Like a door had cracked open between them, and her mother had closed it just as quickly.
Sayo took her breakfast in silence.
---
At school, everything felt too loud. Too bright. Her classmates laughed and bickered and complained about tests. None of it seemed to touch her. She kept one hand in her pocket, fingers wrapped around the paper crane.
By lunch, she had already decided she wouldn't be going straight home.
She had to find the shrine again.
---
The Temple Spine felt different in the daylight. Less magical. Less mysterious. But the feeling still pulled her forward.
She turned the corner past the persimmon tree.
And froze.
The shrine was gone.
Not destroyed.
Gone.
The wall was intact. The tree stood the same. But where the shrine had been, there was nothing but dirt and stones.
As if it had never existed.
She stepped forward, her heart racing. Her hand opened, and the crane caught the breeze. It lifted for a moment, like it would take flight, then settled at her feet.
She picked it up again, hands trembling.
Behind her, someone cleared their throat.
She turned.
A boy stood there. About her age. Tall, with a calmness in his eyes that made him seem older. His school uniform was different—navy with a golden pin on the collar.
"You saw it too," he said.
Sayo swallowed. "The shrine?"
He nodded. "And the crane."
Silence stretched between them. The rain had stopped. A beam of sunlight slipped through the clouds.
He stepped closer and looked at the crane in her hand.
"That one doesn't burn," he said.
"How do you know?"
He smiled faintly.
"Because I've been trying for years."