The wind sliced through the night like blades. In the rural outskirts of Japan, the gusts howled between twisted trees, carrying dust, fallen leaves, and the metallic scent of rain on the verge of breaking. The moon hid behind a ceiling of heavy, near-black clouds.
Against those ruthless winds, staggering yet unbroken, walked a hooded woman. Her soaked gray cloak clung to her trembling frame.
In her arms, wrapped in warm fabric, shielded as if she were holding a forbidden relic, lay a newborn. Too quiet for a child so young. Too still.
The woman pressed the infant to her chest as if clinging to her final spark of strength.
Her steps faltered. A dark stain crusted along her ribs, dried blood. Every movement carved pain through her bones, but she forced herself forward.
Ahead, a small building emerged in the dim light of a lone lantern swaying under the eaves. A humble structure of dark timber, with a walled garden and plain windows.
The sign creaked in the wind:
青空の家 – House of the Blue Sky.
An orphanage.
The hooded woman halted before the door. She drew a breath that shuddered inside her lungs.
Carefully, reverently, she adjusted the cloth around the baby's face, as if touching something sacred.
Then she knocked. Once. Twice. Thrice.
The sound carried through the empty night.
She looked down at the child one last time.
Her hood hid her expression, but her body trembled, not only from cold or pain…
…but from guilt.
Bending over the small woven basket, she let her voice slip out, thin as a dying flame:
"I'm… so sorry…"
And before the door could open, she vanished into the night, absorbed by the darkness like smoke swallowed by the wind.
The door creaked open moments later.
An elderly woman appeared, her lined face lit by the glow of a hand-held lantern. Her tired eyes widened at the sight of the basket on the porch.
"Oh, heavens…" she whispered, kneeling.
The baby slept soundly. Strangely calm.
The old woman lifted her with practiced tenderness.
"Come now, little one," she murmured. "You're safe here."
Inside, the warm glow of the orphanage lamps illuminated the infant's face. The caretaker coaxed her gently, pressing her tiny back, rocking her, in hopes of hearing a cry.
A small sound broke the silence. Soft. Fragile. Human.
The woman exhaled in relief, rocking her slowly.
As she cradled the child, she noticed a few strands slipping from beneath the cloth.
Silver hair.
Luminous, like moonlight caught in motion.
"My, my…" she breathed, a smile forming. "A little white lily… pure even in a storm like this."
Her smile deepened.
"Sayuri. That will be your name. Our little lily."
Outside, the rain finally fell.
Inside, the silver-haired child drifted back to sleep, unaware that her arrival had already begun to shift destinies, reopening paths long forgotten and never meant to intertwine again.