The dreams did not stop.
If anything, they grew more frequent.
In the days that followed their journey to Mount Osore, Sayo and Ren found themselves waking each morning with whispers on their lips—fragments of conversations they had never had, and faces they had never seen, but somehow knew by heart.
The Book of Remnants now glowed constantly, as if each step they took stirred its buried contents.
But today was different.
Today, it directed them to Kyoto.
Not modern Kyoto. Old Kyoto.
More specifically: to a temple garden that hadn't existed for over three centuries.
---
"I did some research," Ren said, flipping open his notebook. "There used to be a hidden temple on the western edge of Arashiyama, behind the river path. It was called Yuurin-ji—the Temple of Gentle Forests. No records of its destruction exist, but it's absent from all modern maps."
Sayo frowned. "So how do we find something that no longer exists?"
He held up the Book.
It had opened on its own again. Page seventeen. A pressed leaf was tucked between the sheets—a maple leaf, edged in gold.
"It'll show us," Ren said.
---
The path to Arashiyama was choked with summer tourists and the buzzing of cicadas. But once they veered off into the bamboo groves, the world fell silent.
The trail narrowed.
Mist gathered beneath the canopy.
And there it was.
A clearing where no clearing should have been.
Yuurin-ji.
Half-swallowed by ivy, its gates askew, but the inner garden still bloomed with wildflowers—bluebells, lilies, cranesbill. At the center stood a weathered statue of Kannon, the goddess of mercy, her eyes closed in eternal mourning.
"I've been here before," Sayo whispered.
Ren nodded. "Me too."
They stepped forward.
The wind stirred.
And the world changed.
---
This memory was different.
It didn't feel like war. Or guilt. Or fire.
It felt like longing.
They were children.
Sayo looked down and saw her own hands—small, covered in dirt. She was no older than ten. Across from her, a boy with wild hair and a torn yukata grinned, holding a paper fan.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said.
"I'm not," she replied. "But I got lost."
"You always say that."
She laughed.
"Do I?"
He nodded. "Every time you come back. You say you're lost. But you always find your way here."
---
They spent their days in the garden.
Planting trees. Folding cranes. Writing prayers on slips of rice paper and hiding them beneath stones.
They were orphans, both of them, though the reasons differed.
She had been abandoned at the gate of a merchant's house.
He had run away from a home that had too much silence.
At Yuurin-ji, they were safe.
They never told the monks they met in secret.
They called each other by names only they knew: Kiko and Haru.
The memory swelled—warm, thick with color.
Until the rains came.
---
One night, lightning struck the outer shrine.
The fire consumed the prayer trees.
The monks died trying to save the scrolls.
And in the chaos, Haru vanished.
Kiko searched every corner, but found only a single crane—blackened, half-burned.
It bore her name.
She never returned to the temple.
The vision dissolved into tears.
---
When Sayo awoke, she was kneeling at the base of the Kannon statue.
Ren stood beside her, eyes wet.
"You were Haru," she said.
He nodded. "And you were the only person who saw me."
A new fragment floated from the Book of Remnants—a folded paper lotus, tinged with ash.
Ren caught it gently.
The statue behind them glowed.
And then it whispered.
A prayer left unfinished.
They leaned closer.
"Two hearts. One promise. A thousand lives, and still we wait."
Sayo touched the statue's hand.
"I'm ready to finish the prayer."
The light swelled.
And then the garden vanished.
---
They found themselves back in modern Arashiyama.
No trace of the clearing. Only bamboo and buzzing cicadas.
But in Sayo's pocket, the paper lotus remained.
Another life remembered.
Another promise restored.
Ren exhaled. "How many more lives did we have?"
Sayo didn't answer.
Because the Book had opened again.
And the next page was blank.