Billowing dust clouds rise up, capturing the shafts of sunlight filtering in from cracks in the cavern, as the old woman sweeps the cobwebs and pebbles from the two slate plots quietly. When the characters etched into its surface were finally visible, she stepped back and slipped four slim bouquets of lavender and camellias into the lacquered ebony vases on either side of the graves.
She laid out four glazed ceramic platters of delicacies in front of them. One bore crisp apple slices, rosy peaches brimming with sweet juice, ribboned by a cluster plump grapes, peeled lychees and dragon eyes that glistened like pearls. Another one had rice cakes studded with sesame seeds, fresh shrimp and soy sauce. In a bronze glaze, tender roast duck and an assortment of mushrooms, garnished with light leafy greens, lay on the third one. And on the final one, simple steam buns filled with red bean paste were stacked lovingly. The smoky scent of incense darted around her and curled up in her lungs, causing the tension in her shoulders to dissipate slightly. It was a long time since such opulence could make her quiver in fear and awe.
Kneeling, the jade trinkets tied around her wrists with red thread tinkling slightly as she did so, she bows deeply enough that her forehead reaches the ground three times before pushing herself to her feet again, her joints creaking in protest. That afternoon, she dines with her family, and there is the usual soft chatter, sake spilled carelessly, chopsticks clinking. They're particularly good listeners, so she talks on and on about her work, the village, Wataru. When there's finally nothing left to say, after all these years, she makes her excuses and slips out of the sanctuary as quietly as she entered.
They found her body the next morning. She was cremated the following week. Nobody would remember Mizuki Suzume, but nobody would ever have reason to. Outside, the sun rose over a world in full bloom.