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Kyoto, Japan — 9:03 PM
The crosswalk chirped softly, echoing through the quiet streets of Gion. Shops were closed, lanterns swayed in the summer breeze, and a vending machine buzzed to life as if waking from a long nap. The old city had gone to sleep—except for her.
She stepped forward, heels clicking gently against the smooth stone. Her silhouette passed under the warm orange glow of an old temple gate. She wore a simple black coat, her hair tied in a loose bun. In one hand, she carried a paper bag with dried plum candies. In the other, a small folding fan, though the night was far too cool to need it.
To the strangers who passed her, she was simply Akari. Quiet. Refined. The kind woman who always bowed slightly longer than necessary and tended the tiny tea shop near the river.
But tonight, the wind told a different story.
As she approached the intersection, the light turned green with a gentle ping. She began to cross, her pace unrushed. Kyoto Tower glowed faintly behind her, its red lights blinking through a light mist that had started to gather over the rooftops.
Then—she stopped.
In the exact middle of the road.
A chill.
Not from the wind. Not from the temperature. But from something deeper—a pressure she hadn't felt in centuries.
Her fingers went still over the fan.
The world around her blurred—pedestrians still moved, headlights still glowed—but she no longer heard the sounds. It was as if the air had thickened, muffled by an invisible weight. Her gaze slowly lifted, facing southwest… toward Egypt.
> "Yamete..." she whispered, barely audible.
(Stop.)
There was no visible light. No thunder in the skies above Kyoto. But something ancient had shifted—a pulse that only those like her could feel. A signature of power that rattled not the ears, but the soul.
And then—
Headlights.
A car.
Fast.
She turned her head.
The driver didn't see her until it was too late. Brakes screamed. Horns blared. Her coat fluttered.
And then—she was gone.
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Not a blur.
Not a sprint.
Not even a step.
One second she stood in the center of the street.
The next—she did not.
Gasps erupted from the sidewalks. The driver leapt out of the car, frantic, scanning the street. But there was no sign of her. Nothing but a drifting piece of paper—her bag of plum candy had torn open, and one sweet rolled across the asphalt before stopping.
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The small gate creaked open as she stepped through.
Lanterns flickered softly along the stone path leading to the main house, nestled beneath weeping cherry trees that danced in the night breeze. The koi pond was still. The wind was sharp—but the silence was sharper.
She passed under the wood-beamed awning, brushing a stray leaf from her shoulder.
A soft gasp came from the entryway.
> "Akari-sama...?"
Two figures stood near the doorway—Yumi, the housekeeper, and Takeshi, the gardener's grandson. Both looked startled, as though they'd seen a ghost.
Yumi stepped forward, concern laced in her voice.
> "Okawari nasaimase… demo… Akari-sama, doushita no desu ka?"
(Welcome home… but… Akari-sama, what happened?)
Takeshi added nervously, wide-eyed:
> "Kao ga… betsu hito mitai…"
(Your face… you look like someone else…)
Akari paused, lowering her hood.
Her expression was unreadable. Calm, but distant—as though her soul had just returned from walking through centuries.
Then, she smiled faintly. A sad, knowing smile.
> "Yoru wa mada akarukunai no ni… tori-tachi ga tobitatta."
(Though the night is not yet bright… the birds have already flown.)
They blinked, unsure what she meant.
> "Kaze wa shiranai hazu no uta o utatte iru…"
(The wind sings a song it shouldn't know...)
She stepped past them gently, brushing her hand along the paper wall as she walked inside.
Yumi bowed quickly, still puzzled.
> "Akari-sama… nani ga… kuru no desu ka?"
(Akari-sama… what is coming?)
Akari stopped in the doorway, not turning back.
Her voice was soft—barely a whisper.
> "Nagai nemuri kara mezameru no wa… itsumo kaze yori saki ni oto ga suru."
(When something wakes from long sleep… sound always comes before the wind.)
She walked on.
Behind her, the lantern nearest the door flickered—then went out.
---
Her room was quiet.
Tatami mats underfoot. Sliding shoji doors shut tight. A single incense stick burned beside the window, its smoke curling like ink in water.
She stood near the far wall now, unbothered. Her coat still swayed slightly as if it had not yet realized she had stopped moving.
She untied her bun with one hand, letting her dark hair fall loosely over her shoulders. Her reflection in the old mirror wavered for a moment—not because of the glass, but because her form struggled to stay fully tethered.
> "Ima ja nai hazu da…" she said softly.
(It shouldn't be time yet…)
She crossed the room, slid open a drawer, and retrieved a sleek, vintage flip phone. It vibrated once.
Incoming call: Roux.
She answered without a word.
> "Tell me you felt it," Roux's voice crackled on the other end.
"You always were more sensitive than I was."
She didn't speak at first. Instead, she walked to the window, pulled the curtain aside, and looked out at the moonlit city—so delicate, so unaware of what had just awakened far across the earth.
> "I felt it," she said in Japanese-accented English.
"The sky didn't tear here, but the world… shifted."
> "We're gathering," Roux said. "Too early, but no longer avoidable."
> "The others?" she asked quietly.
> "No contact yet. But they'll feel it. That kind of pulse? It echoes. And it's already leaking into the world. Earthquakes. Heatwaves. I saw birds falling out of the sky in Rome."
There was a pause.
> "Will you come, Akari?"
She closed her eyes at the name. She had worn so many over the centuries. Akari was soft. Easy. Beautiful. But it was not hers.
Still, she answered.
> "I will," she said softly. "The seals have spoken. We have no more time."
> "You'll come to London?"
> "First," she said. "Then Egypt."
Another long pause, quiet between two beings who had once lived through the fall of nations.
> "It's good to hear your voice," Roux murmured.
> "It won't be good for long," she replied. "Not if the others wake as they were."
>"It's time. Let's have… a little reunion."
He said.
She hung up.
---
By the time the phone clicked shut, she had already retrieved her traveling coat. She folded the fan, slid it into a hidden sheath along her thigh, and opened a secret panel beneath the floorboards.
Inside sat a leather-bound scroll, a rusted dagger, and a faded necklace in the shape of an ancient symbol—seven intersecting circles with a sun at the center.
She took the necklace and placed it around her neck.
As it touched her skin, the shadows in the room deepened ever so slightly. The incense extinguished itself.
Outside, wind chimes sang a tune no breeze could have played.
And Akari—unchanged by time, unbound by age—stepped into the night as the winds remembered her name.
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