Dawn came slowly, gray and cold.
The rain had stopped, but the sky above the valley remained the color of steel. The ruins of the shrine lay behind them — a scatter of stones half-buried in ash, steam still curling faintly from the ground.
Ren sat beside the Maiden near what had once been the steps. Neither spoke. The world was too still, the silence too heavy to break.
He turned the small golden bell in his hand. Its surface was cracked, faintly warm. Each time he brushed his thumb against the metal, it hummed — almost inaudibly — as though something inside it was breathing.
The Maiden's voice came softly. "It shouldn't still ring. When a seal breaks, its sound dies."
Ren looked down at the bell. "Maybe it's not the seal that's alive."
Her gaze lingered on the bell for a long moment before she spoke again. "You should throw it into the river. Before it remembers too much."
He said nothing.
They began walking shortly after sunrise. The valley path sloped east, tracing the river's curve. Mist clung low to the water, curling around the reeds like pale hands. Occasionally, Ren thought he saw shapes moving within it — not people, but fragments of light, like memories drifting in circles.
Hours passed. The Maiden walked quietly ahead, her robes dragging through the wet grass. Her steps faltered more often now; the exhaustion from the broken seal was beginning to show.
When she stumbled, Ren caught her arm. "You're pale," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
She gave a small smile. "You forget, I've lived with spirits longer than you've known how to breathe."
He didn't smile back. "That's not something to be proud of."
"Maybe not. But it's what keeps you alive."
Her voice wavered on the last word. Ren noticed her hand tremble as she adjusted the lantern strap on her shoulder.
"Rest," he said firmly.
They stopped beneath a cedar tree. The air there smelled faintly of resin and burnt incense. The Maiden sank down against the trunk, sighing. "Even the wind feels heavier here," she murmured.
Ren sat beside her, leaning his sword against his knee. For a while, neither spoke.
Then — a sound.
A soft chime.
Ren's hand moved instantly to the bell. It was glowing faintly, the metal vibrating against his palm.
The Maiden's eyes widened. "Ren—"
"I know."
He held the bell up. The sound was not like metal ringing, but like a heartbeat striking glass. It pulsed once, twice, then began to whisper — faint, melodic, almost human.
"Ren."
He froze. The Maiden's head turned sharply toward the sound. "That's her."
The voice came again — distant but clear, as if carried by water.
"Can you hear me?"
Ren didn't answer.
"The vow still binds you. The bell is only an echo of what you already are."
The Maiden reached for the bell. "Give it to me."
He pulled back instinctively. "Wait."
"Ren, it's a conduit. Every word she speaks draws her closer."
But her voice — Tamashizuna's voice — was soft now, almost tender.
"You've wandered too long between breaths, Ren. The world isn't kind to what's half-alive. Let me show you what waits where silence ends."
Ren clenched his fist around the bell. "You're not real."
"Then why does your heart answer?"
The Maiden chanted sharply, her fingers drawing a sigil in the air. The sound warped; the bell dimmed slightly.
She gasped, holding her chest. "She's feeding from the bond. Every time you resist, she grows stronger."
Ren looked at the bell again. Its glow had faded, but faint lines of light traced his palm, sinking beneath the skin.
"I don't think she needs the bell," he said quietly. "She's already inside."
The Maiden stared at him. "Then we need to contain it before she takes root."
Ren nodded slowly — but his gaze had already gone distant, fixed on the river ahead.
Something in the mist shimmered — a reflection forming just above the water's surface. Two figures walked side by side in the haze, perfectly mirroring them. But in that reflection, the woman was not the Maiden. Her hair streamed pale as frost, her eyes bright with memory.
Tamashizuna.
Ren blinked. The image vanished. Only the ripples remained.
The Maiden rose, gripping her staff. "She's following through reflections now. The bell connects them."
"Then I'll destroy it."
"Wait—"
He hurled it toward the river.
The bell struck the water with a sharp note. For a heartbeat, it sank — then light burst outward, spreading across the surface in golden waves. The entire river lit up, shimmering like molten glass.
The Maiden shielded her eyes. "Ren!"
He staggered back. The glow brightened, and in its center stood a single pale figure — Tamashizuna, her form made of light and water, her expression unreadable.
"You cannot silence what you called by name," she said softly. "The bell was only ever your memory ringing back to you."
Ren's chest burned. His pulse quickened until every beat echoed the faint chime from the river.
"Do you still wish to forget me?" she asked.
The Maiden shouted an incantation — the words tore through the air, splitting the reflection. But the echo of Tamashizuna's voice lingered, fading only after the last ripple dissolved into the mist.
Then the river went dark again.
Ren dropped to one knee, breathing hard. The mark on his chest glowed faintly, then dimmed. The Maiden knelt beside him, pressing a charm to his shoulder. "You can't keep answering her," she whispered. "If you do, the boundary will collapse."
Ren stared at the water, voice low. "Then what happens when it does?"
The Maiden looked away. "Then there won't be a difference between Yomi and here."
The river went still again, but the silence that followed was wrong.
It wasn't the quiet of peace — it was the silence that comes after something has chosen to wait.
Ren stayed kneeling for a long time. His hand still burned faintly from where he'd held the bell. Beneath the skin, the light had begun to settle — small veins of gold threading through his wrist and up toward his heart. The warmth didn't fade; it pulsed, steady, matching a heartbeat that wasn't entirely his.
The Maiden crouched beside him, studying the faint glow with a healer's care and a priestess's dread. "She's anchoring herself through your pulse," she said quietly. "If it spreads much farther…"
He looked at her. "Can you stop it?"
Her eyes lowered. "I can slow it. But what's begun isn't corruption — it's connection."
Ren's jaw tightened. "Then cut it."
"I can't."
He laughed once, low and bitter. "You always say that."
She didn't respond. Instead, she tore a strip of cloth from her sleeve, dipped it in ash, and wrapped it tightly around his wrist. The movement was quick, decisive, almost intimate.
"Don't remove it," she said. "It'll hold the mark dormant for a while."
Ren watched her fingers work — the way they trembled slightly, though she tried to hide it. The firelight had left her pale, but her expression was steady. He thought of the moment at the shrine — how close they had been, how the world had nearly allowed it — and felt something heavy rise in his chest again.
He said, quietly, "You didn't have to follow me this far."
The Maiden's hands paused. "You didn't ask me not to."
He smiled faintly, without mirth. "You're stubborn."
"So are you."
The mist pressed in around them, carrying the faint sound of distant water — a slow, rhythmic lapping, like breath.
Ren looked toward the river again. "She said the bell was my memory ringing back. What does that mean?"
The Maiden hesitated before answering. "When you first spoke her name, you awakened more than the bond. You stirred the echo of your own past — the soul you were before this life."
He frowned. "You mean I'm remembering someone else's sins?"
She shook her head. "No. You're remembering your own — just a version of yourself that hasn't finished dying."
He stared at her for a long time, then turned his gaze back to the river. The reflection there was faint but visible — his face, his eyes, and, for an instant, hers. Tamashizuna's eyes in the same place his should have been.
He rose abruptly, stepping closer to the bank. "If she's bound to me because of a vow, then I can end it by making another."
The Maiden stood as well. "Ren, don't."
He ignored her. "You said the old shrines still remember voices. Then this river does too. If she's listening, let her hear me."
He knelt at the edge of the water, his reflection trembling. "Tamashizuna," he said.
The name struck the air like a bell tone. The river stirred.
"You came back," her voice whispered.
Ren's breath caught. "Not for what you think."
"Then why say my name again?"
"Because I'm tired of being half-alive."
The water shimmered, and her face began to form — gentle, calm, utterly mournful.
"You can't unmake what you promised."
"Then take it back," he said.
Her reflection smiled sadly. > "That's not how vows work."
The Maiden began chanting, her staff pressed to the earth. The river hissed in reply. "Ren, don't listen! Every word she draws from you strengthens the tether!"
But Tamashizuna's voice softened, almost kind. > "I don't want his life. Only his remembrance."
The words struck something deep in him. "Then what happens if I forget you?"
Her eyes met his. > "Then I vanish."
He froze.
The Maiden fell silent. Even she could not answer that.
Tamashizuna's voice dropped to a whisper. > "All I ever wanted was for you to remember that once, you chose me — not out of duty, but desire."
The reflection rippled. The face faded. The glow beneath the water dimmed until nothing remained but the trembling of disturbed light.
Ren stayed there, kneeling, the river's chill creeping into his skin.
The Maiden touched his shoulder gently. "She's gone."
He didn't move. "No," he said. "She's waiting."
The Maiden's hand lingered. "And if she keeps waiting?"
He looked at her — truly looked — and for the first time she saw the exhaustion behind his resolve. "Then I'll end it before she reaches the living."
They stood together for a long while, watching the mist shift across the river. Somewhere beneath the surface, something pulsed once — faint, golden, steady.
The Maiden's voice was quiet. "If she's listening through your heartbeat, then every choice you make now teaches her what it means to be alive again."
He turned toward her, brow furrowed. "What are you saying?"
"That if you fall," she said softly, "she'll learn how to fall with you."
The words lingered. The wind stirred. Far off, thunder murmured behind the mountains — not of a storm, but of something ancient waking.
Ren took one last look at the river. The water reflected nothing now, not even the sky.
He turned away. "Then I'll make sure she never learns."
The Maiden followed him silently as they left the bank.
When they disappeared into the trees, the river began to glow again — faint threads of light coiling through the current, forming the outline of a single bell sinking slowly into the depths.
And beneath the surface, a voice whispered — soft, patient, eternal:
"Then I'll learn from watching you."