The wind had begun to cool. Autumn had deepened enough that the morning air held the scent of rain and persimmons, the kind that carried a quiet melancholy with it — the kind Sozuki had started to recognize as time passing, even if time no longer belonged to him.
He watched from Hana's window as the world prepared for the festival. Strings of paper lanterns had been hung across the streets below, their colors muted in daylight but promising to glow like warm ghosts once night fell. Children in school uniforms ran past carrying brushes and buckets, laughing as they painted wishes onto squares of tissue paper. The town buzzed with life, and for once, he almost felt part of it.
Almost.
Behind him, Hana's voice stirred him from thought. "Sozuki? You okay?"
He turned, blinking as if he'd just remembered she was there. She was kneeling by the coffee table, surrounded by books and photocopies, her hair tied up messily, pencil tucked behind her ear. For the past week, she had been searching — digging through town archives, old obituaries, school registers, anything that might lead to the name Yamagaki.
She had found fragments — a tea shop that once stood near the Kisaragi River, a notice about a fire, and a name etched into the death records: Sozuki Yamagaki (1975–1982). She hadn't told him yet. He hadn't asked.
"I'm fine," he said quietly. "Just… listening."
"Listening?"
"The wind. It sounds different today."
She smiled faintly, trying to hide the worry behind her eyes. "You're getting poetic again."
He grinned, or tried to. "You're just jealous you can't hear what I hear."
"Maybe." She sat back, exhaling. "Though, honestly, I'd rather not if it comes with the whole ghost thing."
He laughed softly — but it was a laugh that felt hollow, like breath against glass. Hana noticed, but she didn't press. She knew that lately, he'd begun to drift — not emotionally, but literally. Sometimes his outline flickered in the light, his shadow vanishing for a moment before reappearing. Once, while reaching for a cup, his fingers had passed right through it.
They'd both pretended not to notice.
That afternoon, Hana dragged him out to the town square under the excuse of "festival errands." The air buzzed with preparations: stalls of grilled corn, yakisoba, and sweet candied apples lined the streets. The sky, once pale and sleepy, had begun to deepen into a soft gold, sunlight glinting off the river.
Hana led him from one booth to another, her energy infectious. She tried on masks, made him hold her drink while she haggled for trinkets, and insisted on buying him dango even though he couldn't technically eat it.
"Come on, at least pretend," she said, holding out the stick of rice dumplings.
He blinked. "You want me to haunt it politely?"
"I want you to stop looking like a sad ghost in public."
"I am a sad ghost in public."
She shoved the dango toward him again, and he laughed, taking it. His fingers passed through the wood, but somehow — for just a moment — he could feel its warmth. He brought it closer, and the scent of sweet soy glaze filled his heart like nostalgia.
"This smells like… something I used to love," he murmured.
"What was it?" Hana asked softly.
He frowned. "I don't remember. But it feels like home."
As the sun began to set, the festival lights flickered to life. The lanterns glowed amber and red, swaying gently in the breeze. Music drifted from somewhere — shamisen strings, laughter, the chatter of a crowd that felt alive in a way Sozuki hadn't felt in years, maybe decades. Hana pulled him toward the riverside, where people were gathering with paper lanterns painted with names and prayers.
"They do this every year," she said, adjusting the strap of her camera. "People write the names of loved ones who passed away and let them float downstream. It's supposed to carry their souls to peace."
Sozuki stared at the river. The water reflected the hundreds of small flames already beginning to gather, a trembling galaxy of light. He whispered, "Do you think souls ever find peace?"
Hana looked at him, then at the lanterns. "Maybe not all at once. Maybe peace is something they keep searching for — like you."
He smiled faintly. "That sounds like something you'd say."
"Because it's true."
For a while, they just stood there, watching the water. Sozuki's reflection shimmered between the lantern lights, faint and thin. The air was cold, and when he reached for Hana's hand, his fingers brushed hers — not quite solid, but not gone either. Her hand didn't move. She let him stay.
"You're getting lighter," she whispered.
He nodded. "Yeah."
Later, after most of the crowd had dispersed, they found a quiet spot under a willow tree near the edge of the river. The moon had risen pale and bright, silvering the world. Hana knelt, unpacking two small lanterns she had bought earlier.
"Write something," she said, handing him a brush.
He stared at it helplessly. "You realize the brush will go right through my han—"
"Try," she interrupted. "Just this once."
Sozuki sighed, taking the brush. His fingers trembled as he held it, and the bristles flickered like static. He dipped it into the ink, but the black barely clung to it. Still, he pressed the brush against the lantern's paper.
The stroke came out faint, barely visible — but it was there. He wrote, slowly, each letter trembling: For the warmth I forgot.
Hana watched, her eyes glistening. When he was done, she lit the candle inside and placed it in the river. It drifted gently into the current, joining the hundreds of others, each carrying a whisper of love and loss downstream.
Then she lit her own. On hers, she had written, For the child who still looks for home.
They sat side by side, listening to the water. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks began — small bursts of color blooming above the trees. The sound rolled gently over the river like thunder wrapped in silk.
"I used to be afraid of fireworks," Sozuki said suddenly.
"You?" Hana turned to him. "Afraid?"
He nodded, smiling faintly. "When I was little. My dad used to say they were too loud for the gods, that's why they echoed. But my mom… she liked them. She said they were like flowers that bloomed just once — beautiful, even if they didn't last."
"Sounds like she was smart."
"She was," he whispered. "She used to make tea for the whole neighborhood during the festival. The smell of roasted barley… it would fill the street."
His voice faded as he spoke, his outline softening at the edges. Hana reached out instinctively — and this time, her hand passed right through him."Sozuki—!"
He turned to her, surprised. His expression was calm, but his body was losing its weight, his color draining into the light around them.
"I guess it's starting," he said quietly.
"Don't—don't say that," she choked. "You're not—"
"I am," he said. "It's okay. Maybe this is how it's supposed to be."
She shook her head violently, tears brimming. "You can't just disappear! You—" Her voice broke. "You're my friend."
For a moment, he smiled — the kind of smile that could break hearts without meaning to. "Then thank you for being my friend, Hana!"
She tried to grab him again, but her fingers met only air. His form flickered once, then steadied. His eyes met hers, and for the first time, there was something like peace there — and something like fear.
"Hana," he whispered, "if I fade completely… will you still remember me?"
"Always," she said, voice shaking. "Always, Sozuki."
He nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to the river. The lanterns floated past, their light reflecting in his eyes like a hundred tiny memories. "I think I used to love this," he murmured. "The sound of water. The smell of tea. The way my mother would laugh when the first firework went off."
His voice broke. "I think… I was happy once."
The wind stirred, carrying the scent of smoke and lilies. His shape wavered again, becoming translucent in the moonlight. Hana's tears fell freely now, catching the lantern glow.
"You still are," she whispered. "You still can be."
He looked at her then, really looked — as if memorizing her face, the way her hair caught the light, the tremble of her lip as she fought not to cry.
And then he smiled, small and fragile. "You sound just like her."
Hana froze. "Like who?"
But he didn't answer. His voice was distant now, fading like an echo pulled away by the wind. "I can hear them," he whispered. "The bells by the window. The river…"
His body shimmered, light rippling through him like reflections on water. Then, in a breath, he was gone — leaving only the faintest scent of rain and tea. Not gone. But gone for the evening, and Hana could tell by his fading form, that he was not gone fully. As she had actually seen it before. A flicker of it when they played in the ocean that one time. And for some reason it was like form was telling her. Your friends not gone, so there's no need to worry.
The river flowed on, carrying the lanterns gently toward the sea. Hana sat there long after he vanished, her hands trembling in her lap. She could still feel the ghost of his touch — faint, cold, but real enough to hurt. The lantern she'd written for him floated nearby, spinning slowly in the current. Its light flickered once, twice, then steadied.
Around her, the festival continued — laughter, fireworks, music — but it all felt far away, like a dream she could no longer return to. She pressed her palms together and whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind.
"Wherever you are, Sozuki… please, don't disappear."
Above the river, the final firework exploded — a bloom of silver light scattering across the sky. For an instant, Hana thought she saw him again — standing on the opposite bank, the wind in his hair, smiling softly as if to say thank you. Then the light faded, and he was gone.
That night, Hana couldn't sleep. She sat by her window, watching the sky darken, the faint trails of smoke still visible above the town. The air was thick with the scent of burned incense and the distant murmur of waves. On her desk, beside the old photograph of the Yamagaki family, lay a small wooden rabbit — the one Sozuki had carried since the day she met him.
She didn't remember him leaving it behind.
Her fingers brushed the smooth wood, tracing the chip where one ear had broken off. A whisper left her lips before she realized she was speaking.
"Who were you, really?"
Outside, the wind rose, brushing through the chimes on her balcony. They sang softly — a melody faint but familiar, like laughter carried from another lifetime.
And somewhere beyond the sound, beneath the hush of night and the murmur of water, a child's voice echoed faintly:
"I'm trying to remember."
The chimes swayed once more — and fell silent.
TO BE CONTINUED...