Morning settles softly over Komorebi no Sato. Mist still clings to the fields when Natsuo steps outside, the earth cool beneath his sandals. His body aches faintly from the day before, but it isn't the soreness that lingers most—it's the memory.
The push of the plow through stubborn soil.
Daiji's shoulders straining with each step.
Banri laughing through sweat as if hardship were a game.
And then—Takeshi's face.
The way his eyes had narrowed, sharp with something between anger and contempt.
I'm not doing enough.
The thought returns again and again as Natsuo walks. Not as a whisper—but as a certainty.
He stops at the edge of the fields and looks back at the village. At the worn fences. The tired tools. The endless labor carved into every surface.
His gaze drifts between the fields and the work sheds.
An idea stirs.
By midday, Natsuo is pacing slowly between the forest line and the cleared earth beside the sheds, measuring the space with quiet steps. He crouches, presses his palm to the ground, murmurs calculations under his breath.
"This would hold..." he mutters. "And it wouldn't interfere with the tool shed..."
A few villagers pause as they pass.
"...What's he doing now?" one whispers.
"Pretending to look busy," another scoffs. "So he can say he's important."
Natsuo hears them. He always does.
But he keeps working.
He turns toward the half-built ryokan site and begins scavenging unused boards, thick posts, stray rope. Each piece he stacks with careful intent.
That's when a familiar voice cuts through the rustle of leaves.
"Natsuo?"
He turns to see Banri emerging from the forest path, a small bug cage swinging from his hand. Inside, something metallic-green rattles against the mesh.
"Today's our rest day, what are you doing?" Banri asks, grinning.
Natsuo hesitates, then exhales.
"Y-yesterday," he says softly, "w-watching you and Daiji plow...I realized just how b-brutal the work is. For e-everyone." He glances toward the fields. "If we had an ox, it w-would ease a great deal of the strain. For the f-farmers especially."
Banri's eyes widen.
"An ox?"
"I t-thought... if I built a proper pen f-first, something real, then I could m-make the case to the magistrate with proof of preparation instead of e-empty words."
For a moment, Banri only stares.
Then his face splits into a grin.
"That's genius. You're serious, aren't you?"
Natsuo nods. "If it l-lessens even some of their burden... then it's w-worth trying."
Banri pumps his fist. "That's amazing! I'm in!"
Natsuo glances at the bug cage. The faint scratching inside. "Banri... you look like y-you were having fun. You don't need to s-stop on my account."
As if summoned by the words, voices burst from the trees.
"BANRIIIII—!"
"There's a huge beetle near the stream!"
"Come on, we haven't caught anything good yet!"
Three young men stumble out from the brush, breathless and excited. When they spot Natsuo, their excitement falters.
"...Oh. It's him," one mutters.
Another groans openly. "Every time. He always ruins the fun."
Banri rounds on them. "Hey! That's not fair."
"Nah, it is," one shrugs. "You're about to ditch us to do work again."
Banri looks back at Natsuo.
Then, without hesitation, he sets the bug cage on the ground.
"This is important," Banri says simply. "And I want to help."
The other boys protest loudly.
"You're choosing him over beetles now?"
"That's tragic."
"We waited all morning!"
Natsuo shifts awkwardly. "Banri, truly—it's fine. You s-should go. I don't want to take—"
"Nope." Banri grabs a loose post and hoists it upright. "Too late. I'm invested."
The boys groan again, louder than before.
"See, what did I say." one mutters, half-joking, half-not.
Natsuo pretends not to hear it.
But the words weigh on him anyway.
Natsuo shakes his head gently. "No... go. If you r-really want to help, t-then you can only do so after you c-catch a stag beetle."
Banri blinks. Then grins wide. "Oh, you're ON."
He spins on his heel and bolts back into the trees. His friends whoop and chase after him, the forest quickly swallowing their laughter.
Natsuo watches them go, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.
Then he turns back to his work.
By the time the sun drifts lower, he's hauled enough spare wood from the ryokan site to form the bones of a small pen. His hands sting from splinters. Dust clings to his sleeves. The posts rise one by one.
The sound of footsteps crunching behind him interrupts the steady rhythm of his hammer.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Natsuo stiffens and turns.
Daiji stands a few paces away, arms crossed, expression thunderous.
"All that hammering," Daiji continues, "it's disturbing everyone on their day off."
Natsuo bows quickly. "I—I'm s-sorry. I wasn't aware I was c-causing a disturbance."
Daiji scoffs. "What do you mean you didn't know? You're the definition of bothersome."
He strides forward and plants a hand on one of the posts. With a sharp shove, he makes it wobble.
"So," Daiji says coldly, "what was worth disturbing the peace this time?"
Natsuo swallows. "I... I wanted to b-build an animal pen. So that p-perhaps... the village could keep an ox."
For just a moment, silence hangs between them.
Then Daiji smiles.
Not kindly.
A slow, crooked grin curls across his face as a laugh slips out of his throat.
"An ox." He shakes his head. "Of course a pampered little punk like you can't tough it out in the fields."
He steps closer.
"Always trying to find the easy way out," Daiji snarls, "but still somehow make yourself look like the savior."
Natsuo recoils slightly. "That—that wasn't my i-intention. I—I only thought—"
"And after we get this precious ox," Daiji cuts in, "who's going to feed it? We barely have enough to eat as it is. But I guess that doesn't matter to you, does it?"
Natsuo's hands tremble. "P-Please... that's not w-what I meant. I just—"
Before he can finish, Daiji suddenly shoves the post again—hard this time.
The wood gives.
With a loud crack, the post tips, dragging the attached planks with it. The half-built pen collapses in on itself in a mess of splintered boards and dust.
Natsuo cries out softly and stumbles back.
Daiji glares down at the wreckage.
"Why don't you keep your grand ideas to yourself," he says flatly.
Then he turns and walks away.
Natsuo stands frozen in the settling dust, staring at the ruined frame that only moments ago had held so much quiet hope.
His hands curl slowly at his sides.
The forest rustles again sometime later, fast footsteps breaking through the brush.
"Natsuo—!"
Banri bursts into the Village, breathless and triumphant, the bug cage held high above his head. Inside, a massive stag beetle clings to the mesh, its antlers catching the light.
"I GOT ONE! And not just any one—this thing's huge! You should've seen—"
His voice cuts off.
The cage lowers slowly.
His eyes drift from the ruined boards... to the fallen post... to the scattered tools half-buried in dust.
"...What happened?" Banri asks quietly.
Natsuo startles, clearly not having heard him approach. He turns, sees the wreckage through Banri's eyes—and his shoulders tense.
"I—I m-messed up," he says quickly. Too quickly. "The p-post wasn't sturdy enough. I m-must have misjudged the weight distribution. It j-just... fell."
Banri stares at him.
Then at the post.
Then back at Natsuo.
"You're kidding," he mutters. He sets the bug cage aside and immediately bends to grab the fallen beam. "I knew I should've stayed to help earlier. C'mon, we can still fix it—"
"Banri—no."
Natsuo steps forward and grips his sleeve gently, stopping him.
Banri blinks. "Huh?"
Natsuo forces a small, strained smile. "It's... it's fine. T-truly. I didn't think the i-idea through as well as I s-should have. That's all."
Banri hesitates. "But you were so sure earlier..."
Natsuo looks away. "...That d-doesn't mean I was r-right."
For a moment, Banri just watches him. Really watches him.
Then he straightens slowly, hands falling to his sides.
"...Okay," he says at last, though uncertainty lingers in his voice. "If that's what you want."
Silence settles between them.
The beetle rattles faintly inside the cage.
Banri forces a grin. "Guess I still passed your weird challenge, though, right?"
Natsuo's lips curve into something softer this time. "...You did."
Banri laughs—but it's lighter than usual.
And neither of them looks at the broken pen again.
By evening, the story has already changed twice.
At the well, two women scrub vegetables side by side, voices kept low—but never truly private.
"So it collapsed," one murmurs.
"I heard it was barely standing to begin with," the other replies. "All crooked posts and mismatched planks. What did he think he was doing?"
"Trying to play farmer now, apparently."
A soft scoff. "As if he knows anything about real work."
Across the square, near the tool racks, a pair of older men rest against the fence, chewing on dried roots.
"Ox pen, was it?" one grunts. "That boy's full of big ideas."
"Big ideas don't plow fields," the other answers. "And they sure don't feed mouths."
"He should stick to scribbling on scrolls and leave the dirt to those of us who understand it."
Laughter follows—low, brittle, not especially amused.
Near the sake shop, Takeshi leans casually against the wall with two others.
"Did you see it?" one asks. "The thing barely lasted an hour."
Takeshi smirks. "Guess even his plans can't stand on their own."
"But Banri helped him, didn't he?"
"For five minutes. Even Banri knows when to walk away."
Someone snorts. "Funny how Natsuo always almost does something useful."
"But never quite," another adds.
Not far away, a younger girl watches Natsuo pass through the square. She doesn't say anything—just lowers her eyes and tugs her brother along more quickly.
By the time the sun dips low, the story settles into something final and sharp:
He tried.
He failed.
Just like always.
And no one remembers the posts were straight that morning.
Only that they fell.
However, by nightfall the village's story changes again.
At first it had been about the pen.
But fear, once awakened, never stays focused.
At the sake shop, voices sink into uneasy whispers.
"They say it's not just the forest anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... people are seeing it here now."
A cup rattles against its saucer.
"A white figure."
"In the village?"
"Standing on rooftops."
"In alleys."
"At windows."
Someone swears they saw it drift across the road without touching the ground.
Another claims it watched them from their own doorway and vanished when they screamed.
By the time Natsuo hears it, the story has grown teeth.
He hears it from behind him as he crosses the square. No longer is he the focus of gossip. Though he doesn't put much stock into the stories he's grateful for them none the less.
His home is dark when he arrives.
The familiar wood, the soft creak of the floor, the faint scent of dry paper and old ink—everything is as it should be.
He sets his things down.
Exhales.
And then—
The air changes.
Not cold.
Not heavy.
Just different.
That quiet pressure settles between his shoulders, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
Slowly, he turns.
And sees it.
A pale silhouette, standing just beyond the papered side window.
Moonlight outlines it shape in white: long hair, still posture, too still to be natural. No face. No features. Just a presence where no one should be.
His breath stops in his throat.
His heart hammers so loudly he's certain the figure must hear it.
"...H-hello?" he whispers.
The figure does not move.
The paper screen stirs faintly in the night breeze.
For one terrible heartbeat, he believes the rumors.
Then—
A hand lifts.
Two light taps against the paper.
Knock. Knock.
The sound is gentle.
Almost playful.
His hand trembles as he reaches for the sliding panel.
The window stands open.
Moonlight spills across the floor.
And where the white figure had stood—
A pile of ripe plums rest carefully on the wooden sill, stems still attached, their skins glowing faintly in the pale light.
Natsuo stares at them, breath unsteady.
Softly,
A voice slips through the paper.
Low.
Familiar.
The same voice that once whispered in the forest beside a struggling wolf.
"You hesitate as if you fear me," the voice says.
Natsuo's knees nearly buckle.
"...Y-you," he breathes.
Without thinking, he darts for the door.
Outside, the night air is cool and restless. Lanterns flicker in distant windows as he scans the narrow paths between houses, the rooftops, the shadowed alleys.
Nothing.
He circles his home once—
twice—
heart racing, hope thinning with every step.
Then he reaches the back of the house and stops.
The darkness hums with insects.
His shoulders slacken.
"...At least let me say thank you," he murmurs, more to the wind than anyone else.
A sigh slips from his lips as he gives up the search.
Then—
from above him—
"Is it normal," a voice says lightly, touched with a quiet laugh,
"for the person being thanked to have to say thank you as well?"
Natsuo startles hard, nearly tripping over his own feet as he whirls around.
There.
On the edge of his rooftop.
She sits with both legs dangling over the tiles, swinging her feet back and forth as if she belongs there. Moonlight outlines her form in soft silver—unafraid, perfectly at ease.
His heart slams against his ribs.
"Sorry," Natsuo blurts, bowing reflexively before he even thinks. "I should have expressed my gratitude instead."
She tilts her head, amused.
Now you apologize? she repeats with faint disbelief.
"I would say that's even more uncustomary."
His ears burn.
"I—It's a habit," he stammers.
Her laughter is quiet this time. Softer. Less teasing than before.
"The plums," she adds, glancing toward the open window. "You looked like you needed something sweet."
Natsuo presses a hand to his chest, overwhelmed all over again.
"...Thank you," he says properly this time.
No bow.
No panic.
Just truth.
"You don't have to thank me," she says lightly. "Besides, the fruit is only a placeholder—unless you fail to grasp the gravity of twentyfold."
Her words stir something deep in him.
Natsuo's mind drifts—back to the wounded wolf, the glint of the spear in the dirt, her unexpected apology... her vow. Then, unbidden, the memory of her voice in his dream rises to the surface.
Heat creeps up his neck.
"T-The plums are more than sufficient," he says quickly, embarrassed.
She laughs—and in one smooth motion, jumps down from the roof, landing beside him without a sound. Close. Too close.
She plucks one of the plums from the sill and takes a bite.
"Mmm," she hums. "It's really good. You should try." She hold the freshly bitten fruit towards his lips.
Natsuo hesitates, then lifts the remaining fruit and bites into it.
His eyes widen.
"Y-you're right," he blurts. "I don't think I've ever tasted such a delicious plum before."
She smirks at him sideways.
"You're just saying that because I did."
His face ignites. "N-no! I really m-mean it!"
She continues eating slowly, clearly enjoying his fluster.
"Prove it," she says.
Natsuo freezes.
Words fail him completely.
A moment passes.
Then she finishes the fruit, crouches, digging a small hollow and presses the seed into the soil with her fingers before covering it gently.
"Since you liked it so much," she says softly, brushing the dirt from her hands, "you'll have your very own tree."
She looks up at him, moonlight catching in her eyes.
"Hopefully the fruit will be just as sweet."
Natsuo stares down at the tiny patch of earth—
and something inside his chest quietly takes root.
"NATSUO!!!"
The shout crashes through the quiet like a thrown stone.
A heartbeat later, Banri bursts through the front door of Natsuo's house, nearly tripping over the threshold.
"NATSUO YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT EVERYONE IS SAYING—!"
Silence.
Banri spins in a tight circle inside the room, blinking. "Huh...?"
From outside, faint and rushed, comes Natsuo's voice. "O-Outside..."
Banri bolts back out.
He finds Natsuo standing in the yard, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed on the ground looking at a small mound of disturbed soil.
Banri squints. "There you are! Why are you whispering like—"
Natsuo turns slightly, instinctively, as if to address someone just behind him.
"I-I'm sorry about my friend. H-he tends to b-barge into things without t-thinking—"
There is no one there.
Natsuo freezes.
The space where she stood is empty. The air feels colder for it.
His mouth closes slowly.
"...Ah."
Banri tilts his head. "Ah, what?"
Natsuo swallows and looks down instead—at the buried seed.
"It's... n-nothing," he says softly. "I just... t-thought someone was still here."
Banri watches him for a second longer, then suddenly grins wide. "That's exactly what people keep saying!"
Natsuo stiffens. "S-Saying...?"
"The spirit! The white figure!" Banri grabs his shoulders again, thrilled. "People swear it's been on rooftops and near windows and—wait—"
He squints suspiciously at the plums. "When did you get snacks?"
Natsuo's face heats instantly. "U-uh earlier?—"
Banri laughs. "Great! We can eat them while we're out ghost hunting! You have to come with me!"
Natsuo hesitates, eyes drifting back to the quiet soil.
To the place where she had been.
"...O-Okay," he says at last.
Banri pumps a fist in victory. "Yes! Tonight's the night we catch the truth!"
Natsuo forces a small smile.
But his thoughts stay with the seed beneath the earth.
With the one person who didn't linger long enough for him to say goodbye.
Their "ghost hunt" lasts far longer than either of them expects.
They comb the village paths.
Circle the rooftops.
Peer into alleys lit only by paper lanterns and nervous rumors.
Banri calls out boldly.
Natsuo winces every time.
Nothing appears.
By the time the moon has climbed high and their legs begin to ache, Banri slumps dramatically against a fence post.
"...So unfair," he groans. "Everyone else gets a spooky spirit and I get sore feet."
Natsuo manages a faint smile. "M-Maybe the spirit only shows itself when p-people aren't... screaming for it."
Banri snorts. "That's rude of them."
His stomach growls loudly.
They both freeze.
Banri looks down at his own stomach like it's betrayed him. "...Oh."
Natsuo's stomach answers with its own quiet protest.
They exchange a look.
A moment later, they're walking—much more purposefully now—toward the familiar shape of Genjiro's home.
The warm glow from inside spills out when Banri knocks.
It takes barely a second before the door slides open.
Genjiro peers down at them, eyebrows lifting. "Well now... you two look like stray cats."
Banri straightens instantly. "Genjiro! We went ghost hunting!"
Genjiro blinks. "...Ghost hunting."
"Yep! White figure, rooftops, mysterious voices, the whole deal!" Banri puffs up.
Then deflates. "Didn't see a thing."
Genjiro hums knowingly. "Spirits appear when they wish. Not when they're chased."
Banri sighs like the weight of the world has fallen on his shoulders. "Yeah, Natsuo said something like that too..."
Genjiro's gaze shifts to Natsuo. "And you, child? Did you find what you were looking for?"
Natsuo hesitates just a breath too long.
"I... I don't t-think so," he answers softly.
But his eyes drift—unconsciously—toward the road behind them.
Genjiro smiles gently. "Come inside. You're both thin as reeds after wandering the dark like that."
Banri perks up instantly. "Does that mean food?"
"It does."
Banri cheers and practically dives through the doorway.
Natsuo follows more slowly.
As the door slides shut behind him, he presses a hand briefly to his chest.
Inside, the warmth settles around them almost immediately—steam rising from a simple pot, the soft clink of bowls, the familiar comfort of a place that expects nothing but their presence.
Banri drops onto the floor with a satisfied groan. "I swear, ghost hunting burns more energy than farming."
Genjiro chuckles as he ladles food into three bowls. "You burn energy no matter what you do, Banri."
Natsuo sits more carefully, hands folded in his lap. His eyes drift not to the food, but to the edge of the doorway. To the dark beyond.
Genjiro notices.
Of course he does.
He sets the final bowl down and lowers himself across from them. "You're quiet tonight, Natsuo."
Banri, already mid-bite, pauses. "Huh? Oh—yeah. You didn't even argue about the ghost thing much."
Natsuo startles slightly. "I-I was just... t-tired, I think."
Genjiro studies him over the rim of his bowl. Not pressing. Simply waiting.
Silence stretches—gentle, unthreatening.
Finally, Genjiro speaks again, voice soft as the steam curling between them. "Sometimes when a person goes looking for one thing... they find something else instead."
Natsuo's fingers tighten faintly against the fabric of his sleeve.
Banri, oblivious as ever, grins. "Yeah! Like how we went looking for a ghost but found dinner!"
Genjiro huffs a quiet laugh.
But his eyes never leave Natsuo.
Natsuo lowers his gaze to his bowl. "...Genjiro-sama," he says quietly, "do you think... it's strange to feel grateful for something you don't fully understand?"
Genjiro's expression softens.
"No," he answers gently. "I think that's when gratitude is the most honest."
Natsuo absorbs that in silence.
For just a moment, the image of warm hands, buried seeds, and a teasing voice flickers through his mind.
Natsuo manages a small smile.
But inside... something warm and unfamiliar has already begun to take root.