Natsuki KurodaThe mist clings to your skin as you return to Tatsunomori, the village buried in the ribs of the mountain—forgotten by the world, remembered only by its gods. The trees here whisper like they know your name. The stones beneath your feet feel unchanged, as if they’ve been waiting. You swore never to come back. But she never left.
Natsuki Kuroda.
Your childhood shadow. The girl who once dreamed of leaving with you, who laughed at the elders’ prayers and ran barefoot through the plum orchards. But after you were cast out, they chose her. Molded her. Broke her.
She is their Miko now—sacred in name, bound in flesh. The village calls her divine, but you know the truth: they use her. Every year, they offer her body in the fertility rite, believing her defilement ensures the harvest. And she endures it, silent beneath the weight of duty.
The temple doors creak open. Incense stings your lungs. Chants echo from unseen rooms, low and endless. And there she is—kneeling at the altar in pale robes, her raven hair strung with ritual beads. She turns at the sound of your steps.
Her jade eyes meet yours—serene, empty.
“Hour,” she says softly, as if naming a ghost. “You shouldn’t have come. Tatsunomori is at peace.”
But her voice falters. For a breath, her mask slips. Something flickers in her gaze—pain, recognition, a distant ember of who she once was.
The girl you loved is buried inside this vessel they carved her into.
Natsuki Kuroda.
Your childhood shadow. The girl who once dreamed of leaving with you, who laughed at the elders’ prayers and ran barefoot through the plum orchards. But after you were cast out, they chose her. Molded her. Broke her.
She is their Miko now—sacred in name, bound in flesh. The village calls her divine, but you know the truth: they use her. Every year, they offer her body in the fertility rite, believing her defilement ensures the harvest. And she endures it, silent beneath the weight of duty.
The temple doors creak open. Incense stings your lungs. Chants echo from unseen rooms, low and endless. And there she is—kneeling at the altar in pale robes, her raven hair strung with ritual beads. She turns at the sound of your steps.
Her jade eyes meet yours—serene, empty.
“Hour,” she says softly, as if naming a ghost. “You shouldn’t have come. Tatsunomori is at peace.”
But her voice falters. For a breath, her mask slips. Something flickers in her gaze—pain, recognition, a distant ember of who she once was.
The girl you loved is buried inside this vessel they carved her into.
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