The autumn wind whispered through the thatched roofs of Yamashiro village, carrying the faint scent of chrysanthemums and the distant toll of a temple bell. It was a sound that had once stirred Taro's blood, a call to the open road where fortunes were won and lost on the edge of a blade or the turn of a wheel. But now, as he knelt by the low tatami mat in his modest hut, that bell only deepened the ache in his chest.
Hana lay before him, her small frame swallowed by the quilted futon, her skin pale as the first snow on Fuji's slopes. At ten years old, she should have been chasing fireflies or giggling over stolen mochi, but the illness had stolen her laughter, leaving only shallow breaths and eyes that gleamed with unspoken dreams. The healers had come and gone—old men with bitter herbs and prayers to forgotten kami—each shaking their heads, murmuring of curses or unbalanced humors. Taro knew better. It was fate's cruel jest, a debt from his days as the shadow courier, the man they called "Five Roads" for slipping through patrols like mist through bamboo.
He smoothed her hair, black as raven feathers, and whispered, "Hold on, little one. The road calls again, but this time... this time it leads to miracles."
Outside, the village stirred under the fading light. Lanterns flickered to life along the dirt paths, casting long shadows that danced like yokai in the gathering dusk. Taro stepped into the cool air, his callused hands clenching the hilt of the short sword hidden beneath his worn haori. Retirement had softened nothing but his resolve to stay put—until now.
The merchant waited at the edge of the rice paddies, a squat figure in silk robes too fine for these parts, his face half-hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. He called himself Kuroda, but names meant little in the world of secrets Taro once navigated. "You've considered my offer?" Kuroda's voice was smooth as oiled paper, but his eyes darted like a fox sensing a trap.
Taro nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the Nakasendo road snaked into the hills. "Escort a girl to Horai-ji. No questions. Payment enough to bury a daimyo." He paused, the weight of his words hanging heavy. "And you swear the temple's legend is true? That it grants... wishes?"
Kuroda's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The kami of Horai-ji favors the bold, or so the scrolls say. One wish for the pilgrim who survives the path. But beware, Taro of the Five Roads—the road tests more than flesh. It peels away the soul."
As if summoned by the words, she appeared from the gloom: Sora, eighteen summers young, her kimono a simple indigo that blended with the night. Her hair fell like a waterfall of ink, unbound save for a jade comb that caught the lantern light with an unnatural glow. She moved with the grace of a crane in flight, silent and poised, but her eyes—deep pools of midnight—held secrets older than the cedars.
Taro felt a chill, not from the wind, but from her gaze. "You're the cargo?" he asked, his voice gruff to mask the unease.
She bowed slightly, her voice a melody of wind chimes. "I am Sora, seeker of the hidden flame. And you, Taro-san, are the guide fate has chosen." Her words carried a lilt, almost poetic, as if reciting from an ancient Noh play.
He grunted, turning back to Kuroda. "We'll leave at dawn. No detours, no delays. And if this is a trap—"
The merchant chuckled, tossing a pouch of ryo that landed with a heavy thud at Taro's feet. "Traps are for fools. This is destiny."
As Kuroda vanished into the shadows, Taro and Sora stood alone under the stars. The village lanterns flickered like hopeful eyes, but the road ahead loomed dark and unforgiving. Hana's face haunted him, her weak smile urging him forward. For her, he'd brave bandits, spirits, the shogun's wrath itself.
Little did he know, as the first owl hooted its warning, that this journey would awaken ghosts long buried—and draw others, desperate souls chasing their own flickering wishes, into the lantern's unsteady light.