The train rumbled softly through the mist-veiled countryside, its windows streaked with faint trails of rain. Outside, rice fields lay half-flooded and shimmering, the narrow dirt roads beside them winding like veins toward the hills. In the dim reflection of the glass, Ren Amakusa stared at his own face—older, maybe, than the last time he was here. His eyes carried the quiet weight of someone who had left too much unsaid.
Across from him sat his twin sister, Sayuri. Her hands rested neatly on her lap, white-knuckled around the handle of a small blue umbrella. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulder like a curtain, hiding her expression, but he could tell she wasn't asleep. Her breathing was too steady. Too deliberate.
"We're almost there," Ren said quietly, more to break the silence than anything else.
Sayuri gave a small nod. "Hoshigahara Station… next stop," she murmured.
Neither of them moved for several seconds as the countryside slowed and blurred, pulling back into memory. It had been six years since they'd left this place—six years since the accident. Since Tokyo. Since everything.
The train hissed as it came to a stop. Rain drummed softly on the platform roof, and steam rose from the tracks. Ren stepped out first, the cold air brushing against his face, the scent of wet earth and old wood thick around them.
Sayuri followed, opening her umbrella without a word. Ren did the same. Two umbrellas—one black, one blue—gliding side by side through the misty station, toward the road that wound into the town like a forgotten thought.
---
The walk home was quiet.
The town hadn't changed much. The shuttered convenience store still leaned slightly to the left. The bridge over the canal still sang with frogs. And the bus stop—the one they used to race to after school—still stood crooked under the same rusting sign.
Sayuri paused there.
Ren stopped beside her, watching the small trickle of water run along the gutter.
"I had a dream about this place," she said softly.
Ren looked at her. "Recently?"
She nodded. "You were standing right here. It was snowing. But your umbrella was broken, and you didn't notice."
Ren offered a faint smile. "Sounds like something I'd do."
Sayuri didn't smile back. Her eyes lingered on the bench, then on the puddles. Then, quietly, they began to walk again.
---
The Amakusa house stood at the edge of town, past a field of yellowing grass and a cluster of persimmon trees. It was an old house, even by countryside standards—built before the war, grandfather used to say. The wood had darkened with age, and the roof tiles were spotted with moss. The front gate creaked like a tired sigh as Ren pushed it open.
Inside, everything smelled of dust and rain.
The rooms were empty now—no grandfather, no father, no mother. Just the weight of silence and the groan of old floorboards.
Ren dropped their suitcases in the genkan and took off his shoes.
"Should we clean tomorrow?" he asked.
Sayuri stepped in after him and nodded. "It's… not as bad as I thought it would be."
Ren smiled faintly. "You were expecting cobwebs and ghosts?"
"No," she whispered. "Just ghosts."
---
They spent the rest of the afternoon in slow motion. Ren aired out the futons while Sayuri unpacked their clothes. He opened the sliding doors to the garden and watched the rain fall on the stone path, tiny ripples forming in the mossy basin near the persimmon tree.
Sayuri made tea—too strong, but warm—and they drank it in silence.
By sunset, the sky had turned a muted orange, the rain falling in gentle curtains.
---
That night, Ren lay in his futon in the tatami room, staring up at the ceiling. The house creaked and shifted with every gust of wind, like it was still trying to breathe after being left alone for too long.
His thoughts wandered. To school starting next week. To the empty room down the hall. To the small box of old photographs he found in the bottom drawer—photos of their parents smiling under the maple tree. Back when things were still whole.
The door slid open with a soft shhhh.
Sayuri stood in the doorway, her bare feet pale against the wooden floor.
Ren sat up slightly. "Sayuri?"
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
He hesitated, then moved aside. "Come in."
She stepped quietly into the room, her long white nightdress brushing against the floor as she knelt beside him. She curled up on the futon next to him, facing his back.
"Is it okay?" she asked softly.
Ren didn't answer right away. Then he nodded. "Yeah. It's fine."
The rain tapped softly on the window.
He felt her hand brush against his.
"You're warm," she whispered. "You always were."
Ren turned slightly. Her eyes were open, gazing at the ceiling.
"I thought… if we came back here," she said slowly, "maybe it would stop hurting."
"It might take time," Ren replied.
"Everything does," Sayuri murmured. "But some things never really change."
Ren looked at her. She was so close now, her breath barely brushing his shoulder. For a moment, he wanted to pull away—something about this closeness felt too fragile. But he didn't.
"I missed this," she said. "Just… being beside you."
Ren swallowed. "Yeah."
Sayuri's fingers curled gently around the sleeve of his shirt.
"Don't leave me again, Ren."
"I won't," he said, not sure if it was a lie or a promise.
Silence lingered, long and thin.
Outside, the wind sighed through the persimmon leaves.
---
Morning came slow, with pale gray light sliding through the paper doors.
Sayuri was already gone when Ren opened his eyes. Her futon was folded neatly, her scent still lingering faintly in the room.
He sat up, stretched, and walked toward the kitchen.
Sayuri stood there, in her oversized cardigan, struggling with the gas stove.
"I think it's broken," she said, poking at it with a wooden spoon.
Ren chuckled. "You have to turn the dial first."
She looked over her shoulder. "I was testing you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Sure you were."
She smiled this time—small, but real.
---
Later that day, as they walked into town to pick up cleaning supplies, the umbrellas came out again. Two umbrellas. One black, one blue.
A woman on a bicycle passed them, nodding politely.
A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The smell of wet stone and tree sap filled the air.
Ren looked up at the gray sky.
It was quiet. So quiet, it almost hurt.
Sayuri walked beside him, humming a song he didn't recognize.
He didn't say anything, but something inside him whispered:
This is how it begins.