He was in there.
Somewhere inside Tokyo, hidden among the buildings and the candlelight, my Dragon was waiting.
I smiled.
Alright. Let’s find the Dragon.
I stepped onto the raised platform of the display, moving carefully between structures. My gown brushed against tiny intersections.
I was an elegantly dressed giant walking through a sleeping city.
A goddess dressed in fire, hunting her dragon.
Up close, the craftsmanship was even more staggering than I remembered. Miniature Tokyo stretched before me. Many of the buildings rose to my shoulders. Others rose higher. They were super detailed down to the tiny windows, the rooftop gardens, and the billboards advertising products in Japanese characters.
I recognized Shibuya first. The famous crossing, frozen in miniature replication. Tiny figures no bigger than my fingers, caught mid-step.
The Shibuya 109 building with its cylindrical shape.
The Hachiko statue, barely visible near the station entrance.
Then Roppongi, with its cluster of nightclubs and towers. Roppongi Hills rising proud, its observation deck detailed with tiny railings.
Tokyo Tower glowed to my left—a soft amber tonight, lit from within.
And everywhere—the markers.
Dragon heads with curved horns and gold-tipped teeth sat on rooftops throughout the display. Dozens and dozens of them.
Maybe more.
Each one no bigger than my hand, but carved and claiming territory.
Fox heads were placed too, sleeker, more cunning in their design, and clustered in certain districts.
In fact, I noticed many of the Fox heads were concentrated near Ginza, near Shinjuku.
And then I spotted the Lion heads.
Only a few.
Maybe eight or nine total. But they were there—placed on buildings near the ports and certain intersections.
Continuing forward, I tore my eyes away from the markers and followed a path that wound between buildings.
The Sumida River curved through the display, a ribbon of actual water glowing with submerged lights.
Cherry blossom petals floated on its surface, pale pink against the blue.
Bridges arched over the river in miniature. Asakusa rose on one bank, the famous Senso-ji temple detailed down to its red lanterns.
The Tokyo Skytree pierced upward on the other side.
And there, in the center of it all. . .a low table had been set up in a clearing near the river. Silk cushions in deep crimson surrounded the table. White flowers I didn't recognize spilled from small vases.
But I barely saw the table.
Because Kenji was there.
