Mai was gazing at the moon, and that profile of hers still lingered behind Yuuki's eyelids. Last night, she'd pressed her forehead against the window frame of the veranda. How long she'd stood there watching that figure, she couldn't say. In the moonlight, Mai's long tail had gleamed white and blurred. The usual carefree manner was nowhere to be found—it was the quiet profile of a creature carrying something deep within itself. Was that the real Mai, or was it something visible only because of the night? While those thoughts circled endlessly in her mind, the night had faded to gray, and Yuuki had greeted the morning without proper sleep. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror with sleep-deprived eyes. Dark shadows pooled faintly beneath them. (Today is the day I go to the community center.) Two days had passed since she'd told Seo Chuuji of the Kagaribi-ya that she would participate. The Risshun festival of Mizukagari Village—the Sakura Lantern Festival—lit paper lanterns along the village's cherry blossom avenue to pray for safety in the new year. The preparation the day before involved making lanterns at the community center, or so the elderly shopkeeper had said. Everyone together, he'd said. The phrase "everyone together" had resonated in Yuuki's chest with a weight she kept to herself. ◆ The community center was a single-story reinforced concrete building, and despite being forty-five years old, it was well-maintained. When she opened the sliding door at the entrance, the village elders were already gathered around long tables, beginning their work. Bamboo strips, thin washi paper, glue, and small scissors were arranged for each person. "Aren't you from the Kabasaki household?" A woman in her seventies looked up, and her expression immediately softened. Her round face was etched with fine, deep wrinkles. When her eyes smiled, her entire face smiled—that kind of expression. "I'm Kazama Yuuki. Thank you for having me." "Don't be shy, come sit over here. It's faster to learn from someone than to do it alone." When Yuuki sat down beside her, she was handed a set of bamboo strips and washi paper. She accepted them and looked at the finished sample in front of her. A hexagonal frame with thin washi paper pasted on it, a candle placed at the bottom—a simple structure. (This much should be easy enough.) For five years at a law firm in the city, she'd handled document processing and information organization. Understand the procedure, execute it efficiently. That was what Yuuki was good at, and handmade lanterns should be manageable if she approached them methodically. She picked up a bamboo strip. She tried to bend it. It snapped with a dry crack. "..." The woman beside her glanced over and said nothing. Yuuki took a second bamboo strip and this time bent it slowly. It bent halfway, then snapped again. The strips were thin but stubbornly rigid—the slightest misalignment in pressure and they'd crack mercilessly. Third strip. Fourth strip. "...Huh?" The sound escaped her. She couldn't do this at all. Without even completing a single frame, broken bamboo strips accumulated on the table. She hadn't progressed even a millimeter to the stage of pasting paper or using glue. Diagonally across from her, a man in his seventies was already finishing his third lantern frame. The elderly woman beside her looked at Yuuki's hands again. This time, she laughed aloud. "Ahahaha! That's right, that's how it goes!" "Huh?" "Tomoe was the same way! She'd redo it over and over, asking why it kept breaking, glaring at the bamboo strips!" At the name Tomoe, Yuuki's hands stopped. It was her mother's name. "...Did my mother come here?" "Come here? She was born and raised here. She came to the Sakura Lantern Festival every year since childhood. I recognized you right away because you look so much like Tomoe. Your eyes have the same shape." Yuuki tried to respond but found no words. These people knew things about her mother's childhood. It was natural, and yet it felt strangely unfamiliar. "Let me see that. I'll teach you the trick." The woman took the bamboo strip, dampened it slightly with water, then bent it slowly and carefully over time. It didn't break. It bent softly, flexibly. "If you apply force while it's dry, it breaks. Dampen it a little, and bend it slowly without rushing." "I see..." (Without rushing, huh.) Yuuki dampened the end of a bamboo strip slightly and bent it slowly. This time it didn't break. She angled it, bent a little more. It didn't break. It bent properly. "That's it, that's it! Tomoe could make them properly by the last day too." ◆ As they worked, the elders' conversation gradually shifted to stories about her mother. How she'd fallen trying to catch insects in the garden. How she'd fallen at the Sukikawa Shrine—the small shrine in the village center dedicated to Mizukagari-hime, who presided over water and seasons—scraped her knees, and came home crying. How she'd run along the paddy field paths and fallen into the rice paddies, shoes and all. The stories were all about failures, but each time the elders laughed, and there was no malice in their laughter. It was warm, nostalgic. (Mother grew up in a place like this.) Yuuki listened to the stories while her hands moved. She'd only known her mother as she was in the city apartment—in the neatly organized living room. Particular about interior design, meticulous with cooking, a person who didn't show her emotions openly. The child who'd fallen trying to catch insects didn't quite connect with that mother. "Say, why did Tomoe leave the village...?" Just as she was asking, the bundle of washi paper on the edge of the table fell. An elderly man picked it up and said, "Oh, this paper is leftover from last year," handing it to the person next to him. The conversation shifted to "The lanterns from that year were beautiful," and before she knew it, they were reminiscing about autumn leaves. The question hung in the air and drifted away somewhere. It was coincidence, she thought. But the second time the conversation approached "why she left the village," someone laughed and started a different story. The third time, the same thing happened. It didn't feel like direct rejection. But certainly, that part alone wasn't spoken of. As if everyone's conversation naturally avoided it. (Not so much hiding it... more like they don't want to touch on it.) Yuuki checked the lantern frame in her hands and swallowed that sensation. A snag remained beneath her skin. Vaguely, there was something. That much she understood. In the end, she made three lanterns. The first had a warped frame and was a failure. The second somehow took shape. The third turned out fairly well. The woman beside her said, "You've gotten better," and Yuuki felt a little embarrassed. ◆ On the way home, walking along the path beside the Sukikawa, Mai appeared beside her at some point. Whether her presence was faint or Yuuki's attention was scattered, Mai always appeared this way—suddenly. Her silver fur caught the evening light and took on an orange tint. "The lanterns broke." When she spoke, Mai's ears twitched. "How many?" "Five or six bamboo strips." "All of them?" "Before I could even make a frame. Apparently I should have dampened them with water, but no one told me at first. Once someone taught me, I could do it." Mai fell silent for a while. The sound of the river continued. The Sukikawa—a clear stream running north and south through the village, so transparent year-round that you could see the stones on the bottom—glowed in the twilight. "You seemed happy." She said it softly. "Huh?" "Passed by the community center. Could see through the window. You were laughing." Yuuki was slightly surprised and considered her own face. Had she been laughing? Breaking bamboo strips, listening to stories about her mother, making lanterns—had she been laughing? "...I was laughing?" "Didn't you know?" "I didn't know." She hadn't noticed she was laughing until someone told her. That fact seeped slowly into her chest. For nearly half a year, she'd laughed little. Or rather, she had laughed. But when had she last laughed in a way that someone would describe as "you were laughing"? (Mai was watching the whole time.) Through the window. Not calling out, just watching. Come to think of it, she'd been alone under the moonlight last night too. She'd pull away when touched, yet she was always there from a distance. The moment Yuuki noticed that asymmetrical distance, an inexplicable warmth ran through her chest. It wasn't quite happiness. Something softer, a little uncertain—that kind of sensation. "Can I tell you about my mother?" "What about her?" "Everyone talks about her, but when I ask why she left the village, the conversation changes. Naturally, casually. It's not like they're directly refusing—but there's something there, isn't there?" Mai paused for a moment. While walking, she lowered her gaze to the river surface as if looking at a stepping stone. "That happens sometimes." "That's all?" "That's all." It wasn't a clear answer. But the way she said it—it sounded like she knew something and was choosing not to say it. It might have been her imagination. But it wasn't something she could dismiss as imagination. (Does Mai know too?) The doubt was small but certain, taking root. ◆ Night fell. The cherry blossom avenue—the two dozen old trees stretching from the Sukikawa Shrine to the Kuchiba Bridge—began to glow with orange lanterns. The candlelight seeping through the washi paper cast soft shadows beneath the branches. Two of the three lanterns Yuuki had made that morning were among them, swaying alongside those made by others. People had gathered. Children, elderly, middle-aged men and women. For a village of eighty-seven people, this was nearly everyone. Laughter, conversation, the sound of children running in the distance. Yuuki stood at the edge of the circle, gazing at the lantern-lit avenue. (I don't think I can join in.) The lantern-making that morning had been enjoyable. The elders had taught her, and she'd heard stories about her mother. But stepping into the crowd and joining the circle was another matter. She'd come as an outsider, and it hadn't been long. She didn't know what expression to wear when approaching them. Then she noticed Mai. Somehow, Mai had slipped through the crowd and was sitting beside her. "I was watching." "What?" "The person standing at the edge." "...That's me." "Who else would it be?" Yuuki smiled wryly. Then she and Mai began walking along the edge of the crowd, through the orange glow of the lanterns. After walking for a while, the moon appeared between the trees. In that instant, Yuuki stopped. Mai's tail was glowing. It wasn't the distant gleam she'd seen through the window last night. Now Mai was right beside her. Less than a meter away, Mai's long tail—bathed in moonlight, shining silver-white, glowing as if light were seeping from within. Completely different from the orange lantern light. The lantern light illuminated from outside; Mai's tail light came from within. It didn't look like decoration—it looked like something inside this creature was simply flowing outward. Something caught in her chest. Her breathing rhythm shifted slightly. "...It's beautiful." The words came out. She hadn't thought before speaking. Mai turned away. But her tail swayed slowly. "It's not just appearance." She said it softly. There was no further explanation. But the words didn't fall as an answer—they fell as a question. Not just appearance—what was it then? Where did the glow of these word-bearing creatures come from? Was it connected to the Ayabi no Chigiri—the promise said to have been made three hundred fifty years ago between a village girl and word-bearing animals? Her thoughts began to overlap, but didn't reac