A week passed with no messages from the gods.
Sayo and Ren, unsure whether to feel abandoned or blessed with respite, resumed their routine as best they could. School became a quiet rhythm again. Their meetings, more careful, more deliberate. The Book remained dormant on Sayo's shelf, its weight a silent promise of more.
But peace, for those who hold fragmented souls, is always borrowed time.
On the eighth night, the cranes moved.
Not just one.
All of them.
Paper wings fluttered like startled birds, scattering across Sayo's room. She and Ren gathered them frantically, only to discover one had changed color.
A deep, earthen green.
Inside it: a map.
---
The location was unfamiliar—an isolated mountain village to the north called Tsuchimura. It wasn't on most maps, and the trail to it was rumored to vanish in fog.
Still, they went.
What greeted them was a single path winding through ancient pines. The silence was immense. When they reached the village, they found only half-built houses, soot-stained shrines, and villagers who spoke in whispers.
"This place is... asleep," Ren murmured.
A woman with clouded eyes approached them. "You've come," she said.
---
The woman led them to a house that should not exist. It had no doors. No windows. No hinges or seams. Just a single black symbol painted on its front: 夢 — dream.
"You must go in alone," the woman told Sayo.
"Why me?"
"Because he's waiting for you."
---
Inside, time unraveled.
The air was thick with incense. The walls shimmered with flickering visions—past lives colliding and merging like ripples in a pond. Sayo stepped forward, each breath dragging her deeper.
And there he stood.
Not Ren. Not Izanagi. Not any boy she remembered from dreams.
But a young man in imperial robes. A prince.
"You remember me as Kaito," he said.
Sayo blinked. The memory surfaced like a broken ship: a girl in the court of Heian-era Kyoto, beloved by the emperor's youngest son. Their love scandalized the court. She was exiled. He died from heartbreak.
She had forgotten that life.
Until now.
"You are my last regret," Kaito said. "And yours."
He offered her a paper lantern. Inside it: an image of a phoenix.
"This flame has not burned out," he said. "But you must choose whose fire to carry."
---
Outside, Ren waited.
He saw her emerge with the lantern cradled like a child. He knew something had changed, though she said nothing.
"What was inside?" he asked.
"A promise," she replied.
He didn't press.
That night, they camped outside the dream-house. Sayo lit the lantern. It didn't burn. It sang.
A melody from lifetimes ago.
And in the darkness, unseen, the prince watched.
Sayo had begun to dream in fragments.
Not just flashes of old lives, but pieces that did not seem to belong—battles not fought, songs not sung, cities never visited. Memories that weren't hers. And within each one, the sound of fire—roaring, whispering, consuming.
The phoenix.
She held the lantern close to her each night, its painted image of the firebird flickering even when no flame was lit. The melody it had sung in the village had vanished. Now it was silent.
But the dreams remained.
---
Ren noticed first.
"You're not sleeping," he said.
They were back in Kyoto, trying to act normal. Pretending homework and exams mattered when gods and ghosts chased their heels.
Sayo looked at him across the school rooftop. "I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I wake up in a world that's not mine."
He hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket.
Another crane. This one red.
"Izanami gave this to me in a dream. She said to burn it if you lose yourself."
Sayo reached for it. Her fingers stopped.
"I'm not lost yet."
---
The sky darkened at midday.
A storm rolled across Kyoto with unnatural speed. Thunder cracked like splitting bones. Sayo stood at her window and saw the cranes stir.
They flew.
Not real birds, but the paper ones. Hundreds of them. Out the window. Into the storm.
She followed.
---
Ren was already outside. "Where are they going?"
Sayo pointed. "The river."
They ran.
Rain lashed down. Lightning split the clouds. And through it all, cranes spiraled toward the Kamogawa. At the riverbank stood a woman cloaked in veils. When she turned, her eyes burned with gold.
Not Izanami.
Not human.
"You carry too many names," she said to Sayo.
"Who are you?"
"I am the one who remembers even when the gods forget. I am the keeper of crossroads."
She held up a scroll.
Sayo reached out. The moment she touched it, the storm stopped.
---
She stood in another life.
The scroll unrolled, revealing an ancient battlefield. Sayo, clad in armor, led a charge. The phoenix soared overhead, raining fire. Beside her rode the prince—Kaito. And in the enemy ranks, eyes full of sorrow, stood Ren.
No. Not Ren.
A soldier. A traitor. A lover from another name.
---
Back in the present, Sayo dropped the scroll.
"I betrayed you," Ren said softly. "In that life."
She turned away. "We both did."
Silence.
Then the veiled woman spoke. "Now you must choose again. The phoenix will rise, and with it—truth. But truth always demands a cost."
"What cost?" Sayo asked.
The woman only smiled. "The cost you are most afraid to pay."
And then she vanished.
The cranes scattered like ash.
---
That night, the lantern flickered once more.
It sang again.
But this time, the melody was not one of love.
It was a song of war.