The first sound Ren remembered was a bell.
Not the hollow clang of iron striking iron, but the round, living tone of a temple bell rolling through summer air. He had been a boy then, standing beside Kaito at the foot of a mountain shrine. The path was steep and the smell of pine sap clung to his hands.
Kaito ran ahead, wooden sandals slapping the stones. "Come on, Ren! They say if you reach the top before the bell stops ringing, your wish will reach the gods."
Ren had followed, slower, his fingers brushing the carved names along the torii pillars. He never told his brother what he wished for; he only remembered the echo that seemed to follow him—soft at first, then fading, then gone.
When the last ring dissolved into silence, Kaito laughed and said, "Guess the gods stopped listening."
Even as children, Kaito had smiled at endings.
The memory faded like mist.
Ren opened his eyes to dawn light cutting through the mountain fog. The forest below the ridge was still grey with ash, but birds had returned, tentative, testing the air. He could smell water again. The Maiden knelt near a half-burnt torii, folding her travel cloth.
"You were dreaming," she said without turning.
"I remembered a bell," he answered. "And Kaito."
She nodded once, the motion small, as if she understood the weight of that name.
"The world keeps its memories," she said. "Even if it forgets the sound."
They left the border shrine in silence. The path wound north into valleys where the trees bent inward as though the sky had pressed them down. The air shimmered faintly—signs of Yomi's breath leaking upward through the soil. Ren felt it against his skin, a cold that didn't touch the wind.
Hours passed. Once they crossed a stream that flowed uphill; the Maiden scattered ofuda into the current, and the water righted itself. Each charm burned blue, leaving ash that smelled of lotus. She did not explain, and he did not ask.
By midday the light thinned. The mountains ahead rose sharp as broken teeth. There, half hidden by the cliffs, stood the Temple of Silence.
It had once been white. Now its plaster walls were veined with black cracks, the bell tower leaning as though the weight of prayers had bent it. The torii at its gate still stood, but the wood had turned grey, the paint stripped by years of ash rain. Paper amulets fluttered from the crossbeam, each one blank—the ink erased by time.
The Maiden stopped at the gate, pressing her palms together.
"This temple was built to keep the Mirror Fire," she said. "The monks guarded it until the Gate first trembled. When they broke their vow, sound left this place."
Ren listened. The wind moved, but nothing answered it. Even the crows above flew without noise.
"Why bring me here?" he asked.
"Because your mark holds the spark I need. The Mirror Fire can slow Yomi's breath, but only if it drinks from both life and death. You are both."
She stepped beneath the torii. The air inside the courtyard thickened, heavy as water. Ren followed. The moment he crossed the threshold, his heartbeat faltered—then resumed in rhythm with the earth.
The inner hall lay open to the sky. The roof had fallen long ago, and rain had carved channels through the tatami. At the center stood an altar of black stone, smooth as mirror glass. Around it, six bronze bowls formed a circle, each filled with cold wax.
The Maiden set her bundle down and began preparing the rite. She moved with measured grace, spreading salt in precise arcs, placing ofuda at each direction. Her voice was low when she spoke the first sutra; the syllables trembled like the last vibration of a string.
Ren watched the light gather in her hands. It was faint at first—only warmth against the dark—but when she traced the final symbol across the altar, the wax bowls flared at once, their flames rising without smoke.
"Sit," she said.
She reached for him, her fingers were steady, though her eyes had gone distant. She pressed her palm to his chest. The mark beneath his ribs stirred, a slow glow spreading outward like ink through paper.
"You will feel it," she murmured. "Don't resist."
The temple walls trembled. Ren felt the burn travel from his heart to his spine, then upward behind his eyes. For a moment he saw nothing but light. Then another voice—soft, familiar—breathed inside the blaze.
You shouldn't let her take what's yours.
The tone was gentle, almost concerned. He knew it instantly—the yokai woman.
She calls it saving you, but each word of her prayer cuts a piece away.
Ren tried to steady his breath. The Maiden's chant wove through the words, clear and unwavering. Between them, he heard two rhythms—devotion and temptation—fighting for the same space in his chest.
You don't have to burn for her, the yokai whispered. I can quiet the fire. Just reach—
The sentence broke in a flash of white. Ren gasped; the light from the altar surged upward, spilling into the open air like a column of glass. The six flames merged, twisting into a single pillar that reflected everything around it—the Maiden's bowed form, Ren's shadow, the cracked walls, the pale sky.
Then the Mirror Fire steadied, its surface smooth and still.
Ren's reflection trembled upon the shining surface. Behind his mirrored self, another figure flickered — the yokai woman. Her image leaned close, the curve of her face touching his outline as though the glass itself remembered her.
See? She binds you to herself, the voice said softly. And I will be the one who frees you.
Ren shut his eyes. The moment he did, he felt the Maiden's other hand press against the mark beneath his ribs. Her chant deepened, words older than speech itself. The glow inside him pulsed once, twice, and then burst outward.
The pain was not heat, but weight — like his soul being pulled in two directions. For an instant, he saw her memories instead of his own: a little girl standing before a shrine fire; the faces of monks bowing as she took her vow; the years spent alone chanting to a silent sky. Through her stillness, he sensed endless fatigue and quiet courage.
The Mirror Fire roared. Its color turned from white to amber, then settled into a deep gold that shimmered without sound. The yokai's reflection vanished.
The Maiden lowered her arms. Light spilled down around her shoulders like water. When she looked at him, the glow traced a faint pattern between them — a thread of light connecting her chest to his.
"It's done," she said. Her voice was calm but hollow. "The Fire will hold the breath of Yomi for a while."
Ren realized he could still feel her heartbeat, echoing through that thread. Each pulse brushed against his own.
"What is this?"
"The link," she replied simply. "I took half of your mark's rhythm to stabilize the seal. Our souls will move together until the Fire dies."
He opened his mouth, but she was already walking toward the altar, her bare feet leaving no prints on the cracked stone. She touched the mirror's edge; the gold light dimmed to a steady glow, like a candle deciding to live.
The silence that followed was enormous. Even the air seemed to rest.
Ren stood, dizzy. "How long will it last?"
"Until one of us stops breathing," she said, turning slightly, the faintest smile on her lips. "Then it will choose."
Outside, the sky had cleared. The mountains were blue again, not ash. He could see the river glinting far below, winding through the valley.
They stepped beyond the torii. The instant they crossed the threshold, the world's sounds returned — a crow's cry, the rustle of leaves. Ren looked back. Inside the temple, the mirror still burned quietly. In its surface he thought he saw three shapes: himself, the Maiden, and the faint outline of the woman from Yomi, watching through the fire.
He blinked and the image was gone.
The Maiden began to walk down the steps, her voice soft. "The bell tower still stands. When the monks return, maybe they will ring it again."
"You believe they will come back?"
She shrugged. "Someone always does. Even the gods."
They stopped where the path leveled. From here the valley opened wide, the trees below bending with new wind. Ren's body felt lighter, but the thread between them tugged each time he breathed. He wondered if she felt it too.
"Rest," she said. "We'll leave at dawn."
He nodded. She moved a few paces away, sitting beneath the shadow of a cedar. Her face was turned toward the horizon, unreadable.
Ren looked once more toward the temple. The golden flame flickered faintly through the cracks in the roof, breathing like a sleeping heart. Somewhere within that quiet, he thought he heard a bell — not the clang of iron, but the clear tone of a temple calling back its name.
He let the sound settle inside him. It was neither joy nor sorrow, just the simple truth of being alive again.
The Maiden closed her eyes. The thread of light between them pulsed once, gently, like the last ripple of a prayer. Night settled around the mountain.
Ren sat beside her and listened to the wind.
For the first time since Yomi, silence felt clean.