Taro's fingers tightened around his chopsticks, the soba cooling untouched in his bowl. That red cord outside the screen—it gnawed at him, a reminder that safety was just an illusion, like the steam rising from the tea. He pushed the thought aside, glancing at the group huddled around the low table. Sora sat quietly, her eyes on the rain-streaked window, while Kenta shoveled noodles like a man starving for more than food. Mika fidgeted, her gaze bouncing between the door and the teahouse owner, who busied herself with other patrons.
The air inside felt thick, laced with the smell of wet wood and sesame oil. Taro leaned back against the wall, letting his mind drift to simpler times—nights when he'd slip through checkpoints with nothing but a fake permit and a grin. Now, every shadow felt like a trap. He caught himself wondering if Hana was watching the same rain back home, her small hands pressed to the window, waiting for a story he'd promised to bring back.
"Can't just sit here," Mika muttered, breaking the quiet. She poked at her food, her voice edged with that street-sharp bite. "That creep outside? He's not alone. I know types like him—scouts for bigger trouble."
Kenta set his bowl down with a clunk, wiping his mouth. "Then we move. Slip out the back, find another inn."
Sora shook her head, her voice soft but firm. "Running blinds us. We stay, listen. The storm hides as much as it reveals."
Taro felt a spark of irritation mix with reluctant admiration. She had a way of seeing things he didn't, like peering through fog. But trust came hard these days. He stood, muscles protesting from the day's walk, and nodded to the owner. "Another round of tea. And whatever news floats in with the rain."
The woman returned with a pot, steam curling up like ghosts. As she poured, her eyes flicked to Sora. "You lot look like you've got stories. Heading east?"
Taro kept his answer vague. "Far as the road takes us."
She chuckled, low and knowing. "Road's got teeth these days. Heard a monk in the market earlier, rambling about spirits waking up. Said the old paths are angry, pulling folks in who ain't ready."
A monk. Taro filed that away, his gut telling him it wasn't coincidence. Mika perked up, leaning in. "Where's this monk now? Might be worth a chat."
"Down by the stables, last I saw. Eccentric type, bottle in hand." The owner straightened, moving on to another table.
The group exchanged looks. Kenta's face hardened, ready for action, but Taro felt the pull of caution—a father's habit, born from too many close calls. He thought of Hana again, not with the usual ache, but a quiet resolve that surprised him. She deserved more than his regrets.
"Let's find him," Taro said finally, standing. "But careful. No rushing in."
They stepped out into the rain, the lanterns swinging overhead like drunken stars. The streets of Okabe sloshed underfoot, vendors calling out from under eaves, selling hot chestnuts and paper umbrellas. Mika led the way, her steps quick and sure, like she'd mapped the town in her head already. Kenta hung back, hand on his sword, while Sora moved with that effortless grace, rain beading on her hair like jewels.
The stables smelled of hay and horse sweat, a lantern casting jittery light on the beams. There, slumped against a post, was the monk—a rumpled figure in faded robes, his bald head shining, a sake gourd dangling from his belt. He hummed a tuneless song, eyes half-closed.
Taro approached, rain dripping from his hat. "Heard you're spinning tales about the roads."
The monk looked up, his eyes sharp despite the sake haze. A grin split his face, revealing crooked teeth. "Tales? Nah, truths with a twist. Name's Jiro. And you... you reek of destiny, friend. Or maybe just wet dog."
Mika snorted, crossing her arms. "Cut the poetry. What's this about angry paths?"
Jiro took a swig, wiping his mouth. "The old ways to Horai-ji? They're stirring. Yokai sniffing around, drawn to shiny things." His gaze slid to Sora, lingering a beat too long. "You heading there? Got a wish burning a hole in your pocket?"
Taro's hand twitched toward his blade, but he held back. Jiro's words hit close, stirring a mix of hope and dread he hadn't named yet—hope for Hana's laugh returning, dread that the price might break him. Kenta stepped forward, voice steady. "If you know so much, why not join? Safety in numbers."
Jiro laughed, a bark that echoed off the stable walls. "Me? I'm no hero. But the road calls funny folks together. Fine, I'll tag along. For the sake, and maybe a story or two."
As they huddled under the eaves, rain pounding like a heartbeat, Taro felt the group shift, awkward but solid. Sora smiled faintly, as if she'd expected this all along. Mika rolled her eyes, but there was a spark of curiosity there, buried under her tough shell. Kenta nodded, his shame easing just a fraction in the shared purpose.
But outside, in the dark, that red cord lingered in Taro's mind—a thread pulling them deeper into whatever web waited. He pushed it down, focusing on the warmth of the lantern light, the small comfort of allies in the storm. For now, that was enough.