Page 8

Then the family became entrenched in the yakuza, and my cursed duty became considerably more irritating.

Next came Kenji.

Brilliant.

Violent.

Possessive.

Cold when necessary.

Utterly devoted when he chose someone as his own.

A long breath left my broken jaw.

So much fucking pain.

I opened my eyes.

A butterfly landed on the tip of my bloodied nose. Its wings opened and closed.

I stared at it.

The insect appeared remarkably unconcerned with my misery.

Lucky bastard.

A breeze moved through the trees. Leaves whispered overhead. Damp earth filled my nose, along with other scents.

Cedar.

Moss.

Old wood.

Water.

Decay.

Ancient incense soaked so deeply into the structures that centuries had failed to erase it.

Magic.

Ghosts.

Humans.

This shrine had become abandoned and quiet, but never entirely empty. The shide still hung from the shimenawa above the gate, though half of them had rotted to lace. When the breeze caught the surviving paper, they whispered like small tongues, marking sacred ground even the humans could still feel.

During the day, humans still came in a decent number. It was mainly actors, directors, television crews, and theater companies.

All because of Oiwa. Her tragedy had become one of the most famous Japanese ghost stories in the world, turned into plays, movies, and television shows.

But before performing, the sensible people came to the grave near the shrine, paid their respects, and asked for her blessing.

The foolish ones that did not sometimes died on set or stage.

I closed my eyes again.