#yonipponichi

     The bitter cold of autumn was just beginning to set in, paving the dirt road with crisp leaves and dried up mud; the sheen of ice gluing what remained of the grass to the earth in the early morning chill. While this path itself was never frequently traveled, not when there were trains that cut through Hokkaido and tours that strayed away from the more treacherous paths for the safety of its members. They remember, though, back when this road had once been full of visitors - young and old, that all whispers a silent prayer to them for safe passage as they tugged on their boots and gathered their children to their bodies to keep them warm as they made the trek into the livelier parts of the region. It’s been decades - no, likely longer, since those days but they’ve lost track of the time. It all seems to blur together these days and they no longer truly recall how long its been since they’ve taken up this post. But they don’t mind the quiet; they enjoy it, in fact. The company of the few birds nesting upon their aged shrine is welcome, more so than the chaos and spite that always seems to cling to humans no matter how kindly they speak or how politely they carry themselves. 

       Humans are almost always selfish, cruel creatures they have learned. Yet the owls that take shelter beneath their crudely polished stones, clean their feathers, and chirp amongst themselves are innocent - animals are incapable of cruelty and they wish it were possible to truly touch them. But when they lean forward upon the roof of their meager shrine to ghost their icy fingers over the bird’s soft feathers, they feel nothing - their hand passes through its solid form and the owl lets out a screech of surprise as it lifts its frozen wings and attempts to fly away only to fall upon the frozen earth. With a series of screeches echoing through the mountain that rattled their formless body they watched; cold, blue eyes twisting open in concern as the bird continued to struggle. Leaping onto the ground, they made their way over to the bird, hand lingering above its form like they wished to help it. But if they touched it again, they would only hurt it more. 

        Lips curing downward into a frown, they returned to the shrine, rummaging through the offerings for something anything that might warm the bird - pulling out an old scarf at the bottom. Carefully taking it between their thumb and index finger to prevent from freezing too much of the cloth, they went back to the bird, kneeling down beside it and dropping the scarf upon its wing before rubbing the thick cloth against its feathers to thaw out the tiny bits of ice clinging to its body. It was still for a long moment - unable to see them and unable to touch them; confused and dazed, but seemingly comforted by the warmth. Yet, the moment the poor creatures hears the sound of footsteps echoing off of the shrine’s old, wooden walls, it wiggles away from the scarf, stretches its trembling wings and takes off. At first it dips several times, but it eventually regains its balance, much to Haku’s relief. 

                   This was the place, right ? After a short bus trip and a bit of walking, Katsuie had ended up in front of an old Japanese-style compound. He gazed up at the tall gates —– it had been a while since he had visited a place like this. There were only newer, more modern buildings back in the city. He glanced to his left, and then to his right, but he did not spot anyone nearby. 

                   Had he come at a bad time ? Katsuie had not heard anything on television about the Shiranui home being closed. But then again...had anyone ever mentioned that it was open to the public ? Katsuie might have come here when he should not have. But...how could he know for sure ? Well, there was only one way to find out. He hesitated for a few moments, before gathering his courage and knocking on the gate.

ᴬⁿ ᵘⁿᵉˣᵖᵉᶜᵗᵉᵈ ᶜʰᵘᶜᵏˡᵉ ˢᵘᵈᵈᵉⁿˡʸ ˡᵉᵃᵛᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵒˡʸ ʷᵒᵐᵃⁿ’ˢ ˡⁱᵖˢ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ˢʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ʰᵉˡᵖ ʰᵉʳˢᵉˡᶠ, ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃʳᵐ ʰᵃⁿᵈ ˡᵃⁱᵈ ᵃᶜʳᵒˢˢ ᴵʳⁱˢ’ ᵗⁱⁿʸ ˢʰᵒᵘˡᵈᵉʳ ᵃ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ʷᵉˡᶜᵒᵐᵉᵈ ᶜᵒᵐᶠᵒʳᵗ. ᴴᵒʷ ᵉᵐᵇᵃʳʳᵃˢˢⁱⁿᵍ, ᵃ ˢⁱˢᵗᵉʳ ʳᵉᶜᵉⁱᵛⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᵛᵉʳʸ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ⁱᵗ ʷᵃˢ ʰᵉʳ ʲᵒᵇ ᵗᵒ ᵖʳᵒᵛⁱᵈᵉ. ᴬⁿᵈ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵃ ᵖᵉʳᶠᵉᶜᵗ ˢᵗʳᵃⁿᵍᵉʳ ⁿᵒ ˡᵉˢˢ? ᴵᵗ ʷᵃˢ ᵃ ˢⁱᵍⁿ─ᵗʰᵃᵗ ˢʰᵉ ʷᵃˢ ˡᵉᵗᵗⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉˢᵉ ᵈᵒᵘᵇᵗˢ ᶠᵉˢᵗᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᶜᵒⁿˢᵘᵐᵉ ʰᵉʳ.