The sky witnessed the sun set aside for the second time —
the heavens now washed in hues of red,orange and twilight, a quiet flame surrendering to the night.
I lay on my futon, eyes tracing the faint cracks of the ceiling, mind turning over the lessons Dōngzhì had spoken with such calm certainty. You do not ascend, she had said. You drown in knowing.
At the time, it had felt poetic, albeit grim like a poem by Poe. Now, it felt like a warning like a blade slick with blood of fools and one I'd already ignored like stories from history.
Like an insect drawn in by a pitcher plant, enchanted by sweetness, unaware of what awaited once the nectar ran out.
The room glowed in the dying breath of sunlight, its golden-orange reflection painting the wooden walls like the inside of an ember. Shadows stretched long and soft, swaying gently as if alive.
Dōngzhì had ended the lesson early, saying she needed to prepare the night meal, and had politely refused my offer to help.
"Rest," she had said. "The mind must sit before it stands again."
Knowledge — my boon and my unmaking, it seemed.
The heavens soon drew the curtains closed on the sun's play, and in the hand of time, the evening was born.
"Victoria, dinner is ready."
The voice called softly through the paper door, snapping me from a half-dream I hadn't realized I'd slipped into.
"Huh—ah!" I jolted up, as if the futon had betrayed me by turning so comfortable.
"Dinner," Dōngzhì repeated from outside, voice calm but carrying that amused undertone of someone used to coaxing dreamers back to reality. "Tidy up and come join us."
By the time I looked out the window, the world had changed again. The second sun had vanished beyond the mountains, and the crimson moon now hung like a bleeding pearl above the shrine roofs. Thin clouds veiled it in passing, giving the night a restless shimmer. The crickets had begun their music — a familiar, earthly rhythm that somehow made the alien beauty of this world feel bearable.
I adjusted my kimono and hurried out, guided by lamplight and moonlight mingling in uneven harmony.
"There she is," a voice said warmly when I entered the dining hall.
Everyone was back. The air carried the smell of steamed rice, grilled fish, and warm sake. The paper lanterns swayed gently, their glow wrapping the room in amber calm. I bowed slightly and took the only open seat — beside Dōngzhì, of course.
The meal passed with laughter, quiet conversations, and the occasional clink of chopsticks. I'd finally learned everyone's names — or rather, remembered them properly this time, now that my mind wasn't fogged with exhaustion or fever. There was Himitsu,her hair as dark as night under the lamplight, her eyes sharp yet soft; Haru, who had a laugh like running water;Danpung who ate slowly, as she stared at the moon her fox tail swaying and stopping. Like a person so lost in thought they were forgetting to breath at some point and Hinata , the youngest, who ate in silence but smiled with her tail.
After dinner, we lingered outside the hall. The air had cooled, perfumed by the scent of incense and maple. The moon had climbed higher — no longer crimson iron but almost pearly like it was before the second sun, its light spilling across the courtyard like spilled milk and red wine.
It was only the three of us now — Dōngzhì, Himitsu and I — sitting under the veranda with steaming cups of tea between our hands.
Himitsu broke the silence first. "Victoria," she began, her tone light but deliberate, "I was able to get you your identification papers — like we discussed."
I turned toward her, blinking. "Huh?"
Her gaze flicked between my confusion and the teacup in my hand, her indigo-black pupils reflecting both the moonlight and my bewilderment. "We talked about it earlier," she said slowly, testing whether I was joking or truly lost.
My mind, ever the unreliable narrator, chose that moment to recall fragments — a late-night conversation—right after the festival, paperwork, the need for a legal name to exist in this world. "Ah—yes," I said at last, a little embarrassed. "Now I remember."
Himitsu smiled faintly, her fox ears twitching. "Good. Here."
She handed me a thin stack of folded parchment. The texture was unfamiliar — softer than paper, heavier than cloth. My fingers brushed over the wax seal before breaking it open.
The document was simple, yet official-looking enough to convince any bureaucracy. I read it aloud in a whisper.
Name: Lastrone Victoria.
For a moment, the name didn't register. My eyes looked at the stranger in confusion. Then it did.
And with it came a strange silence — the kind that blooms when something inside you realizes it's no longer whole. Took a sip of my coffee to sooth my throat and ease my eyelids.
I smiled. Not out of joy, not exactly — but out of that quiet disbelief that comes with realizing you've become someone new, and the old name has already turned into a gravestone.
Dōngzhì watched me, her expression unreadable, tail resting neatly across her lap.
Himitsu said nothing either. They both seemed to understand something I didn't — or perhaps, didn't dare to.
The silence stretched just long enough to turn heavy, then Himitsu rose gracefully to her feet. "I'll prepare more tea," she murmured, leaving the two of us beneath the moonlight.
Dōngzhì's gaze stayed on me, though softer now. "Does it not please you?"
"It does," I said after a pause. "I think it does."
I ran my fingers over the new name again, tracing each letter like a scar.
Victoria Lastrone.
The sound of it was beautiful, foreign, wrong — like a melody played on the wrong instrument but still haunting enough to linger.
"It feels like wearing another person's skin," I admitted quietly.
Her lips curved in that slow, knowing smile of hers. "Perhaps it is," she said. "A Phoenix does not rise by denying its ashes," "And who said you could not visit this ash with flowers from time to time" she continued, taking a sip of tea
"But even borrowed names carry life, if worn long enough." she added.
I looked up to the sky then — the crimson moon half-veiled by drifting clouds. Somewhere in its glow, I thought I saw the faintest shimmer of feathers and rain, like fire catching on the wind and little drizzles.
"It never crossed my mind," I murmured, "that I'd need red poppies for Camille Victoria's grave."
The words came out uninvited — but honest. The kind of truth that can only be spoken under moonlight.
The night thickened around us. The foxes near the gates began their eerie, playful cries, like laughter carried through the leaves. Himitsu returned with a teapot, her eyes soft with that knowing sympathy only old souls can wear.
And so we sat — three women under the gaze of the second moon — the phoenix, the priestess, and the newly named ghost.
The tea steamed between us, its fragrance like memory — fleeting, sweet, and impossible to hold.