Cherreads

Hoshino-mura

PyroJack778
14
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 14 chs / week.
--
NOT RATINGS
180
Views
Synopsis
Fleeing the relentless hum of Tokyo and a shattered past, Akari seeks solace in Hoshino-mura, a secluded mountain village steeped in ancient traditions. Her new home, a derelict farmhouse, mirrors the emptiness within her, but through the arduous work of taming the land, she slowly begins to heal, finding purpose in the rhythm of the seasons and the quiet embrace of the soil. As Akari's roots deepen, so too do her connections with the warm-hearted villagers, particularly the quiet, grounded farmer, Kaito. Their shared respect for the land blossoms into an unspoken understanding, a tender love as steady and profound as the mountains themselves.
Table of contents
VIEW MORE

Chapter 1 - Prolouge

The bus, a rumbling metal beast, exhaled a final sigh of diesel and pulled away, leaving Akari standing alone on a narrow, asphalt lane. The sound of its receding engine faded quickly, swallowed by a silence so profound it felt like a physical presence. This was Hoshino-mura. The air, crisp and cool, carried the scent of damp earth, ancient cedar, and something indefinably wild. It was a stark, almost brutal contrast to the relentless hum of Tokyo, a city she had fled with little more than a suitcase and a hollow ache in her chest.

Before her, the farmhouse stood as a monument to forgotten time. Its wooden walls, weathered to a deep, somber gray, seemed to sag under the weight of decades. The roof tiles were a mosaic of moss and faded terracotta, and the garden, once carefully tended, was a tangled wilderness of overgrown weeds and stubborn shrubs. This wasn't the idyllic, sun-drenched cottage of her imagination; it was a derelict shell, a ghost of a home.

Akari stepped onto the creaking porch, the wood groaning beneath her weight. The scent of decay was stronger here, mingling with the faint, sweet perfume of blooming honeysuckle from a vine that stubbornly clung to the porch railing. She pushed open the sliding front door, which protested with a long, drawn-out groan.

Inside, the air was cool and still, thick with the scent of dust and disuse. Sunlight, filtered through grimy windowpanes, illuminated dancing motes in the gloom. The tatami mats in the main room were worn, the paper screens thin and brittle. Cobwebs draped like forgotten lace in every corner, and the kitchen, with its ancient hearth and rusted sink, looked as if it hadn't seen a flame in decades. A wave of exhaustion, deep and bone-weary, washed over her. The journey, the emotional weight of her departure, and now the sheer scale of the task ahead threatened to overwhelm her. 

She dropped her single suitcase with a thud that echoed unnaturally in the quiet space. For a moment, she simply stood, listening to the frantic thumping of her own heart, the only sound in the vast stillness. Doubts, like insidious weeds, began to sprout in the fertile ground of her fatigue. What have I done?

Through a cracked windowpane, she caught a fleeting glimpse of an elderly woman tending a small garden across a narrow lane, her movements slow and deliberate. A child's laughter, bright and clear, drifted from somewhere further down the road. The village was not entirely silent, she realized; it simply hummed at a different frequency. 

She walked to the window, pushing aside a tattered curtain. Beyond the neglected garden, the mountains rose, ancient and majestic, their peaks softened by a veil of mist. The sky above was a canvas of deepening blues, streaked with the last vestiges of twilight. It was breathtaking, a beauty so raw and unadorned that it stole her breath.

And in that moment, a tiny, defiant spark ignited within her. This was not a retreat; it was a beginning. A place where she could shed the layers of disappointment, where the earth itself could absorb the echoes of a broken past. The farmhouse might be derelict, the farm overgrown, but the land was alive, and so, she realized, was she. The weight of silence no longer felt oppressive; it felt like an invitation. An invitation to listen, to rebuild, to finally breathe. Her first act was to find a broom and begin sweeping away the dust of years, one slow, deliberate stroke at a time.