Chapter 95: Kazuya and Hotarua
After those teasing words, the shrine maiden suddenly realized what she'd said. Her eyes widened, and she turned her head away, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks. The quiet dignity she always carried faltered for an instant before she forced composure back into her voice.
"You misheard."
Kouya stared blankly. Misheard? Not a chance. Every syllable had been clear as crystal. There was no mistaking it.
Still, she pretended calm, gazing out the window as if nothing had happened. Kouya could only sigh quietly. Somehow, he had a bad feeling—if this woman ever met that squinting angel from before, the chaos would be unimaginable.
...
Time passed in silence, broken only by the hum of tires against the road. Finally, after what felt like hours, the car rolled to a stop.
Kouya stepped out into the night air. The landscape had changed entirely. The bright city skyline had vanished; only scattered farmhouse lanterns flickered faintly in the darkness. A faint smell of earth and grass drifted on the cold wind.
"We've arrived," Takeda Koji said softly. "Fukushima Prefecture."
It was a rural village tucked deep within the mountains—quiet, timeless, and steeped in history. The locals had lived here for generations, tilling the same soil, whispering the same prayers, waking with the sunrise and resting with the dusk. Life here moved slowly, untouched by the pace of modern civilization.
"I'm going into the mountains," Takeda Kazuya said, his voice low and heavy with resolve.
Koji nodded without hesitation. He took up a flashlight and walked ahead, its beam slicing through the darkness. Kouya and the shrine maiden followed behind, while the bodyguards spread out, their shadows moving silently between the trees.
They soon entered a mountain path that wound upward from the village's edge. The air grew cooler, scented faintly of pine and wet moss. Crickets chirped among the stones, their song mingling with the soft rustle of leaves.
The mountain wasn't tall, but it carried a tranquil beauty—lush greenery glimmering faintly even beneath the dim moonlight. Spring had just given way to summer; new life was everywhere. Water trickled faintly down the slopes, silver under the moon.
After traveling for hours through the dark, dawn began to bleed across the sky. A faint mist drifted through the valley, turning the mountains into hazy silhouettes. The world looked half-dream, half-memory.
Finally, they reached a secluded valley.
Beneath the pale moonlight spread a sea of dandelions, white and soft as snow. A gentle wind stirred, and the blossoms swayed as if whispering to the past.
Beside the narrow trail stood an ancient tree with roots thick as a man's arm. Beneath it rested a small stone shrine, barely tall enough to reach a man's shoulder. Once it had been carefully tended—flowers laid before it, prayers whispered to the spirit within. Now, it was cracked and broken, its surface weathered by decades of wind and rain. Perhaps time had forgotten this place.
Takeda Kazuya stood before the shrine for a long moment, unmoving. Then, with a deep breath, he lowered himself onto a large flat stone beside it.
Just like he had when he was a child.
...
Year 1957. Kazuya was ten years old.
He had always been frail. Born with a weak heart, his life was one of careful steps and quiet days. While the other children ran and played, Kazuya sat alone, watching from afar, unable to join them.
Every afternoon after school, he would wander to this small mountain shrine. It was peaceful here. The wind sang softly through the trees, and the sound of distant birds filled the air. He would sit beneath the tree, a book open in his lap, waiting for his parents to return from the fields.
He could no longer remember which god had once been worshiped here. There were many shrines like this scattered through the countryside—old, lonely places where forgotten deities still slept. No one visited except during the harvest festivals.
But then came that summer day.
It was hot, the sky endlessly blue, and the valley blanketed with dandelions. Their white fluff shimmered in the sunlight, floating lazily across the warm air.
Kazuya was reading quietly when he felt it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He lifted his head and froze.
A pair of vivid blue eyes were watching him from behind the old tree.
She was about his age, a small girl with fine features and long, pale hair. Her light blue dress fluttered in the wind, and her eyes sparkled like twin stars in a twilight sky.
"Who are you?" he asked softly, unsure if she was real.
The girl didn't answer. Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Then, almost shyly, she turned and vanished behind the tree.
Half a month later, he met her again. And this time, she spoke.
"My name is Hotaru."
"Hotaru?" he repeated. "Why that name?"
The girl smiled faintly, hugging her knees. "Because I am Hotaru."
And from that moment, they were no longer strangers.
They met almost every day after that. Kazuya would sit by the shrine, reading aloud from his book, while Hotaru sat beside him, listening quietly. She rarely spoke, but her presence was warm, gentle, and somehow comforting. The long hours passed softly, and when the evening sun stretched their shadows long across the grass, they would wave goodbye until tomorrow.
Over time, something miraculous happened.
Kazuya's health began to improve.
The color returned to his cheeks; his breath no longer came in gasps. His parents noticed immediately, their joy and disbelief overflowing. They took him to the hospital in the nearest city, desperate to know the reason.
The doctors were baffled. His heart defect remained, yet his body was robust and full of energy. It was as though life itself had returned to him.
But Kazuya understood.
He had begun to see things—tiny motes of light that gathered around Hotaru when she smiled, like fireflies dancing in the dusk. Her very presence seemed to fill the air with warmth and healing.
And there were other things. She had no home, no family. Every evening when Kazuya left, she would stay beneath the tree, waiting for him to return the next day. No one else ever saw her.
And she never changed.
The years passed, and Kazuya grew taller, stronger, older. But Hotaru remained the same—a girl of eleven, ageless and serene. Her hair never grew longer; her face never changed.
Still, he never told anyone. It was their secret. Their promise.
Time slipped quietly by, and the world beyond the valley began to call. With the coming of television, of city lights and bustling streets, Kazuya's heart yearned for something more. He wanted to see the world beyond the hills, to live a life larger than the one fate had given him.
Finally, one golden afternoon, he made his choice.
He told her.
"Hotaru... come with me. Let's go to the city together."
He had practiced those words for days, but when he finally said them, his voice trembled.
Hotaru didn't answer right away. The dandelions swayed around them, their white seeds drifting lazily through the sunlit air. Then she looked at him, and he saw something in her eyes he'd never seen before—sorrow.
"I'm sorry, Kazuya," she whispered. "I can't go. Because... I am Hotaru."
A soft breeze stirred, carrying countless dandelion seeds into the sky. They glimmered like snowflakes as they rose, filling the valley with white.
And then she stepped forward, her small hands trembling as she reached for him.
For the first and only time, she embraced him.
Her voice was faint, trembling. "But... if it's you, Kazuya... I would be willing."
He didn't remember how he made it home that day. His heart had felt too heavy for words.
After that, she was gone.
The girl who had smiled like sunlight simply vanished, leaving behind only the soft scent of flowers and the whisper of wind.
No one else had ever seen her. No one else remembered her.
Years later, Kazuya would return, sitting by the broken shrine in silence. He waited, hoping, listening to the wind rustle through the dandelions—but she never came.
Time moved on. He found success, married a gentle woman, and had a son. His life became full of people and noise, yet deep inside, there was always an empty space—a space shaped like that small, blue-eyed girl.
After his parents passed away, he stopped returning altogether.
Until now.
When he heard her name again, it felt as though something deep within him had awoken from a long sleep. The memories flooded back—sharp, vivid, unstoppable.
Now, sitting once again by that same shrine beneath the same ancient tree, he finally understood.
He understood what she had meant that day. What kind of love she had offered him. A love eternal and quiet, unspoken yet unending.
He looked up. The dawn light was breaking across the horizon. The air smelled of grass and dew.
The sky was bluer then, he remembered. And time... time moved slower.
The cicadas sang. The sunlight poured down. The scent of dandelions filled the air.
The wind carried their seeds into the sky—white, delicate, endless.
That was the day they first met.