The Dream-Weaver's Grave: Arai Tsuruki's Hidden Heart - The Girl in the Storehouse

That's wrong, he thought. Something had been caught in his chest for a long while now, lodged deep and refusing to budge. Arata closed his eyes quietly, the letter from the Imperial Household Agency spread before him. The remnants of that night's dream still clung to the backs of his eyelids. A dark storehouse. The sound of crying. A small, small back. (That was only the entrance.) Arata exhaled slowly and picked up the letter. Three days ago, an urgent notice had arrived from the Imperial Household Agency. It stated that fluctuations in dream-weaving power had been detected and ordered an investigation. Since then, his mind had known no rest. He had written "no abnormalities" in his report. But that wouldn't hold forever. The sky over the imperial capital of Miyabi had been leaden since morning. A damp wind stirred the trees in the Kudou estate's garden. Arata passed through the gate of the Kudou residence and stepped into the garden. (Today I have to speak to her directly.) On the surface, Arata was an aberrant-ability monitor for the Imperial Household Agency, operating under the name Tsuruki Arata. He belonged to the Aberrant Ability Management Division, and his duty was to monitor dangerous ability users. Aberrant abilities were powers rooted in bloodline, manifesting in only 0.3 percent of the population. Anyone who manifested one was required by law to register with the Agency. Using an ability without authorization carried penalties. Arata himself was an ability user — his power was illusion-craft. The garden was in bloom with flowers of every color. The hedges were immaculately tended. The surface of the pond caught the overcast sky and glimmered dully. Then he saw a small figure crouched down, pulling weeds. It was Miyo. Her soft black hair was loosely tied back, and she wore an unadorned robe of pale pink. Her downcast profile was so still it seemed almost otherworldly. She was small and delicately built. Her hands moved carefully, plucking weeds with quiet precision. Arata stood watching her for a while. (She hasn't changed.) The scene rose up from childhood — the garden of the Saimori estate. A girl crying alone in front of the storehouse. Unnoticed by anyone, unable to ask anyone for help, her small shoulders trembling. Back then, Arata hadn't been able to call out to her. The laws of the Usuba family had forbidden it. He approached slowly and spoke. "Good morning, Miyo." Miyo's shoulders jumped, and she scrambled to her feet. When she turned, her face was slightly pale. Her light-brown eyes caught him and wavered. "Ah... Lord Tsuruki. Good morning. I'm so sorry — I didn't notice you..." Miyo bowed deeply, her hands folded together in front of her chest — a habit of hers. Arata smiled. "No, I'm the one who should apologize for dropping in so suddenly. You were tending the garden, weren't you?" "Yes... but someone like me can't do anything worthwhile. I'm sorry." She apologized again. Something in Arata's chest gave a small, sharp ache at those words. She believed that doing anything at all was something to be sorry for. That was how she had been raised. "That isn't true at all. The garden is beautiful. That's because you're the one caring for it, Miyo." At his words, Miyo lowered her head, looking troubled. "No, that's... I'm just a burden..." Her voice was so faint it seemed about to vanish. Arata spoke as if to cut through it. "Miyo. Would you join me for some tea? I have time today." Miyo hesitated, then gave a small nod. The two of them sat side by side on the veranda facing the garden. The scent of the tea Miyo had prepared drifted through the damp air. Arata accepted the cup and took a sip. A gentle bitterness unfurled across his tongue. "Your tea is as delicious as ever." "No, someone like me... I'm sorry." She apologized again. Arata set down his cup and looked at her steadily. Miyo noticed his gaze and lowered her head even further. "Miyo." He dropped his voice and spoke slowly. "Miyo — what is it that you want to do?" Her shoulders went still. The face she had bowed slowly lifted. Her light-brown eyes were wide open, as though his question had dropped a stone into the depths of her heart. "Wh... what?" Miyo had lost her words. Her lips trembled faintly. Arata watched her reaction without looking away. (So it's as I thought.) She had never been asked what she wished for. No — she hadn't even been permitted to have wishes. In the Saimori house, she had always been "the unwanted child." Having a will of her own was scolded as selfishness. That was why, when asked what she wanted to do, she couldn't answer. The silence stretched on. At last, Miyo shook her head weakly. "Someone like me... has nothing... nothing at all..." Her voice seemed about to disappear. Arata felt his chest tighten. (This question will stay in her heart like a thorn.) He didn't press further. Cornering her wasn't the point. He simply wanted to leave a single question there, inside her. "What do you want to do?" He wanted that question to take root in her, slowly. "Forgive me — that was a strange thing to ask." Arata smiled gently. Miyo was still watching him, her face bewildered. Just then, footsteps came from the corridor. "Well, well — having tea out here, are we?" Yurie poked her head out onto the veranda. She was a small, straight-backed old woman with sharp eyes. She had served the Kudou family for many years and had known Kiyoka since he was a child. Arata gave her a slight bow. "Yurie — thank you for having me." "Oh, not at all. Miyo always seems so happy when you visit, Lord Tsuruki." Yurie wore a knowing smile. Miyo hastily ducked her head. "Yurie, I... that's not..." "Oh, there's no need to be shy. Come now, Lord Tsuruki — do stay for lunch. Miyo has outdone herself with the cooking today." With that, Yurie looked back and forth between Arata and Miyo. Arata glanced at Miyo. She was still looking down. (Her cooking, is it.) Arata felt a slow warmth spread through his chest. At the lunch table, Arata tasted Miyo's home cooking. Simmered dishes rich with the fragrance of dashi, brightly colored dressed vegetables, plump steamed white rice. Every dish spoke of careful, patient preparation. "This is wonderful. You really are a skilled cook, Miyo." "No, someone like me... I'm sorry, serving you nothing but this..." She apologized again. Arata gave a wry smile. "Miyo, please — don't apologize. It really is delicious." At his words, Miyo's mouth softened — just barely. It wasn't large enough to call a smile. But it was unmistakably a moment when her expression eased. Arata did not miss that small change. (I want to protect that smile.) He meant it from the bottom of his heart. In the evening, Arata took his leave of the Kudou residence. At the gate, Miyo bowed deeply. "Thank you for today, Lord Tsuruki." "Thank you for the meal. I'll come again, Miyo." When he said that, Miyo looked a little surprised. Then she gave a small nod. "Yes... I'll be waiting." Her voice had a little more strength than it had that morning. Arata smiled and left the estate behind. Night came. Arata sat alone and still in the dim room of his home. Outside the window, rain had begun to fall. A soft, steady patter against the roof. (Tonight, I'll enter her dream.) He had made up his mind. He would use his illusion-craft to intrude into Miyo's dream — not as a monitor on assignment, but to learn what lay at the bottom of her heart. Arata closed his eyes and focused his mind. Illusion-craft was an ability that sent hallucinations into another person's senses. The closer the distance, the higher the success rate. To enter Miyo's dream, he needed to attune his consciousness to the wavelength of her spirit. (Her dream-weaving power is still uncontrolled. That's precisely why I can slip inside.) Arata's consciousness sank slowly downward. When he came to, he was standing inside a dim storehouse. Musty air. The smell of mold. Old wooden crates stacked high, thin shafts of light leaking through gaps in the walls. (So this is the inside of her dream.) Arata looked around. Then he saw it — a small shadow huddled in the back of the storehouse. It was Miyo as a child. She sat with her knees drawn up, her face hidden. Her shoulders trembled faintly. Her robe was soiled, her hair disheveled. "Someone like me... I'm an unwanted child..." Miyo's murmur echoed thin and frail through the dark storehouse. Arata felt his chest would split apart. (This is her memory.) The memory of being blamed for a crime committed by her half-sister Kaya, and locked in the storehouse all night long. The small child had cried here, with no one to turn to. "Miyo." Arata called out to her. The young Miyo slowly raised her face. Her light-brown eyes were wet with tears. "Who... are you?" Miyo looked up at Arata. In that instant, something thick and black began to writhe in the depths of the storehouse. Arata instinctively braced himself. The shadow changed shape and lunged at him. A black, mist-like thing — a grotesque, otherworldly presence. A dream demon. Drawn by powerful negative emotions, it appeared within dreams. (So this is the darkness in her heart.) Arata deployed his illusion-craft, conjuring a wall of phantasm around himself. The shadow struck the wall and was repelled. But it immediately shifted form and pressed in again. "At this rate, there's no end to it." Arata gritted his teeth. The dream demon was Miyo's deep consciousness itself. If he forcibly erased it, he would wound her spirit. (Then what do I do?) Arata positioned himself in front of the young Miyo, shielding her. Miyo stared at his back. "No... run..." Miyo's voice shook. Arata answered without turning around. "It's all right. I will protect you." Arata wove his illusion-craft once more and loosed a phantom blade at the dream demon. The blade tore through its body. But the demon regenerated at once. (If I force it away, her spirit will break. Then—) Arata took Miyo's hand. With his bare hand, having stripped off his white glove. "Miyo — come with me. Let's leave this place together." Arata pulled her by the hand and ran for the storehouse exit. The dream demon gave chase from behind. Arata used his illusion-craft to conjure a phantom light at the exit. He gathered Miyo into his arms and dove into the light. When he opened his eyes, Arata was in his room at home. Cold sweat ran down his back. Arata steadied his ragged breathing and stared at the ceiling. (What I saw was only a fragment.) The dream demon was still there, deep in Miyo's heart. His illusion-craft had driven it off temporarily, but it was no fundamental solution. (I have to unlock the prison around her heart.) That much, he understood — before the grotesque in Miyo's dream could reach out and affect the real world. But at the same time, Arata was caught in a dilemma. (If I report the existence of this grotesque to the Agency—) Miyo would without question be designated dangerous. And then, under the name of the Aberrant Ability Church's Amami Naoshi, or the laws of the Usuba family, she would be handed over. Arata clenched his fist. (I will save her.) That resolve no longer wavered. The next morning, a letter arrived from the Imperial Household Agency. When he broke the seal, he found a series of businesslike lines inside. His previous "no abnormalities" report was being called into question, and he was ordered to submit concrete investigation results by the next report. (So it's come, has it.) Arata crushed the letter in his hand. The Agency regarded Miyo's dream-weaving power as dangerous. Dream-weaving was a mind-manipulation ability that rarely manifested in women of Usuba blood. With mastery, one could invade another's dreams and even manipulate other ability users. Since the Great Dream-Weaving Incident roughly eighty years ago — when a dream-weaver went berserk and hundre

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Episode 2

Name: The Dream-Weaver's Grave: Arai Tsuruki's Hidden Heart
Author: Novelia

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