Kyoto was at its most beautiful that day.
The streets were alive with laughter as the Sakura Matsuri—the cherry blossom festival—filled the air with the scent of roasted chestnuts, sweet dango, and incense from the shrine on the hill.
Among the crowd of tourists and locals, Aiko Tanaka, seventeen, adjusted her pink-and-white yukata and smiled up at the drifting petals. Her grandmother had sewn the cranes on it by hand, saying they would carry good fortune wherever she went.
Aiko loved traditions. She adored how Japan blended the old and the new—ancient shrines standing quietly beside glowing convenience stores, monks walking past students with earbuds. But even in this beauty, she felt a small ache—something missing.
Her friends were taking pictures near the koi pond, but Aiko wandered toward the quiet path leading up to the torii gate. The red arch was dusted with petals, and for a moment, the world felt still.
She clasped her hands together and whispered,
"Please, let me find where I belong."
A soft wind brushed her cheek. Then—
Gonnnng.
The temple bell wasn't supposed to ring at this hour.
Another strike echoed, deeper, more ancient—like metal grinding against time itself.
Aiko looked up.
The air above the torii shimmered, bending like water under sunlight. A spiral of light burst open, swirling pink, gold, and blue. People screamed. The ground shook.
Petals lifted into the air, dancing upward toward the vortex.
Aiko stumbled backward—then a sudden pull yanked her forward. She reached for the torii gate, but her hand passed through light and wind and sound.
Everything became white, silent, endless—
and then, darkness.