It rained the following night.
The sound began as a whisper against the roof, so soft I mistook it for the wind at first. But soon, the rhythm steadied — drops threading through the mist, pattering against the wooden veranda like unspoken words.
I sat with the sliding door cracked open, knees drawn to my chest, watching rain blur the garden into watercolor. The silver hairpin lay beside me on the tatami, its wisteria engraving gleaming faintly whenever lightning flashed.
Every now and then, I caught myself listening — not for the rain, but for the bell.
But the mountain was silent tonight.
When the soft tread of footsteps echoed along the corridor, I didn't startle this time. I knew that rhythm now — the deliberate stillness between steps, the light brush of fabric.
Muichiro stopped at the edge of the veranda, his silhouette framed by the faint blue glow of the rain.
"You shouldn't sit so close to the door," he said quietly.
"I wanted to watch the rain."
He looked at me, then out at the mist. "You could have done that from farther inside."
I smiled faintly. "Would it make a difference?"
"Yes." His tone was calm, but his eyes were not. "There are things that linger in storms. The mist attracts them."
He moved past me to close the shoji halfway, careful not to touch me as he did. Even the air between us felt intentional.
"Things?" I asked.
He paused, gaze still on the rain. "Remnants. Fragments of what was left behind."
"Spirits?"
"Something like that."
I turned my face toward the garden. "And you protect this place from them?"
He didn't answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer.
"I protect what the mist doesn't destroy first."
There was more weight in those words than I expected — something too old, too personal, for a boy who looked barely older than me.
We sat in silence for a time. The rain deepened, blurring the horizon into a gray veil. His sword rested across his lap, hand folded loosely over the hilt.
I found my voice again. "You haven't asked why I was chosen."
"I don't need to," he said. "The master sees farther than we do."
"But do you agree with him?"
That made him glance at me. The faintest shift of expression crossed his face — not annoyance, but curiosity. "You think it matters what I think?"
"It should," I said. "You're the one who has to live with me."
For the first time since I'd met him, the corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but something near it. "That's true," he murmured. "I suppose it does matter."
"Then?"
"I haven't decided yet."
I looked down, trying to hide the flicker of disappointment. "You're very honest."
"Would you rather I lied?"
"No." I hesitated. "But you could pretend a little."
"Pretending makes people forget what's real." His tone softened at the end, so faintly I almost missed it. "And forgetting has a cost."
His words stirred something in me — a quiet ache I couldn't name.
The rain grew heavier. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the wisteria archway. I caught a glimpse of movement — a dark shape near the edge of the trees.
"Muichiro," I whispered.
He was already looking that way. His entire posture changed — spine straightening, hand closing around his sword. "Stay here."
Before I could speak, he rose in one fluid motion and vanished into the rain.
I waited, heart hammering. Thunder rolled through the valley.
The minutes stretched too long. Then — silence.
When he finally returned, the edge of his haori was soaked, droplets tracing down his jaw. He wiped his sword clean with the ease of ritual.
"What was it?" I asked.
"A shadow without a name," he said, kneeling to place his sword aside. "It was drawn to the estate. It won't return tonight."
He noticed the worry I hadn't managed to hide. "It's all right."
"You said things linger here. Was that… one of them?"
"Yes." His eyes flicked toward the mist again. "It wore the scent of memory. Someone who once lived here."
"Another bride?"
He didn't answer. His silence said enough.
I swallowed. "How many came before me?"
His fingers tightened slightly around the hilt before he released it. "Enough to fill the silence."
He stood, glancing down at me. "You should sleep."
"I doubt I can," I said honestly.
A faint breath escaped him, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Then don't. But stay inside."
"Will you?"
He hesitated at the door. The mist pressed against the veranda, curling around his ankles like smoke. "I'll be nearby."
He started to leave, then paused, looking over his shoulder. "If you hear anything—anything at all—don't open the door."
I nodded.
"Promise me," he added quietly.
"I promise."
Satisfied, he stepped into the rain and disappeared once more into the mist.
Hours passed. The lantern burned low, shadows bending long across the tatami. I thought I'd grown used to the quiet until the faintest sound broke it — soft footsteps along the veranda.
I froze.
"Muichiro?"
No answer.
The steps stopped directly outside. The paper screen shifted, as if brushed by fingers.
"Muichiro," I whispered again. "Is that you?"
Still silence.
My promise echoed in my head — don't open the door.
The lantern flickered. The hairpin gleamed faintly in my lap. I gripped it hard, knuckles pale.
The sound came again — this time, a voice. Faint. Familiar.
"Bride of Mist…"
I swallowed, heart slamming.
The tone wasn't his. Too soft, too old, too hollow.
"Bride of Mist," it whispered again, closer now. "You shouldn't be alone."
I pressed my palm against my mouth, trembling.
The door remained closed.
Then — in an instant — the sound of steel cutting air, followed by silence so sharp it rang.
The shoji door slid open.
Muichiro stood there, rain dripping from his hair, sword still half-drawn. The mist behind him swirled like retreating smoke.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, scanning the room.
I shook my head, words caught in my throat.
He sheathed his sword with a soft click and exhaled slowly. The faint tremor of tension left his shoulders.
"It was at your door," he said. "You didn't answer."
"You told me not to."
His gaze softened, just barely. "Good."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "It's gone now. It won't bother you again."
I looked up at him. "What was it?"
His eyes met mine — calm, but tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. "Something that forgot who it was. The mist keeps them here until it decides to let go."
"And if it doesn't let go?"
He glanced toward the darkened garden. "Then I cut them loose."
He turned back to me, quiet again. His voice dropped to almost a whisper.
"You did well. You listened."
"Would you have been angry if I hadn't?"
He studied me for a moment, then said softly, "No. Just sad."
"Sad?"
"Because it would mean the mist had taken you, too."
The way he said it — barely above breath — made the air between us change. For a heartbeat, he wasn't the Mist Hashira. He was just a boy who had seen too much and didn't want to lose something else.
He noticed my stare and straightened, mask of composure returning. "I'll keep watch until dawn. Sleep if you can."
"Will you stay here?" I asked quietly.
His eyes flicked toward the veranda, then back to me. "Yes. Just outside."
I hesitated, then whispered, "Thank you."
He tilted his head slightly. "Don't thank me yet."
I frowned. "Why?"
"Because I don't know if the mist listens to gratitude," he said, half to himself. "It might take that, too."
Before I could answer, he turned and slid the door open, settling just beyond the threshold. I watched him sit cross-legged, back straight, sword resting across his lap. Rain lightened to drizzle, silver against the dim horizon.
Through the thin paper wall, I could still make out his silhouette — steady, unmoving, like a guardian carved from fog.
For the first time since coming here, sleep didn't feel impossible.
The last thing I heard before drifting off was his voice — soft, uncertain, almost human:
"Good night, Bride of Mist."