"Come, see the true
flowers
of this pained world."

— Bashō

There is a shop at the foot of the hill kept by a beautiful woman who never ages. The neighbors talk about her all the time, about the long black hair framing her figure like a silky curtain, about her white skin and scarlet lips, about the strange feline yellow-ish green of her eyes. Nobody is quite sure what she sells.

Most of the residents in the area, though, have never seen her or her shop. It is rumored that only those who wish for it hard enough can see her and the small, peculiar house at the bottom of Shirokoyama, the "white hill", where the Tsuruta monument towers over the miniscule village of Shinkon. Those who have seen the woman swear that she hasn't changed in over 50 years. The others think her a witch or yōkai. All of them come to our shrine a lot to gossip, speculate and ask the gods for advice.

"Maybe she's a kitsune," some say.

"No, no, she's much too powerful. Kitsune can't survive in the mountains nowadays," others argue.

I never cared much for these old folktales. I'm only here by blood and obligation, to renew the sutras, sweep the yard and pray for fortunes I don't want from deities I don't believe in.

"Our strong points are our weak points."

— Japanese proverb

Lately, there's been a boy from my school around, sacrificing countless coins to the temple and clapping his hands more fiercely than any other pilgrim I've ever seen. He never talks to anyone and always disappears as swiftly as he's come, a gangly storm of skinny, long limbs. Sometimes I catch him staring at me, but every time I try to approach him he's already gone.

I overhear that the boy is called Watanuki Kimihiro. He's a frequent topic with the old ladies in the village because of the gruesome car accident that claimed his parents' lives a few years ago. Apparently, he has no other relatives, so he's been living alone ever since. I'd heard about it but never cared until he began visiting the shrine. He goes into a parallel class of mine, I think. We have gym together sometimes. I vaguely remember a loud, flailing mess of a person yelling at me after a game of soccer for being "the most incompetent keeper" he's ever come across.

Watanuki Kimihiro. A strange name. "Names matter," my grandfather used to say. "You must treasure every one you know." I liked my grandfather, so I decide to heed his advice and store this "April first" in a safe place in my mind from now on.

"Once you miss the opportunity to say something, the words become increasingly toxic."

— Yuyuko Takemiya, Golden Time

He's stopped going to the shrine. For two months Watanuki came by at least three times a week. He hasn't been here in ten days. On my way home from school, I chew on my lower lip, imprisoned in the same frustrating cycle of thought for the past week, even though it makes no sense that I'm stuck on this boy in the first place.

As I leave the shrine grounds, it starts to rain. I don't have an umbrella with me, so I take the shortcut down the hill. With my grandfather's generation, our family has moved from the temple compound atop the hill to a regular single-family house in the village.

At the other end of the slope, I can see a silhouette, foggy and blurred by the rain. I slow down and try to make out who it is: a boy wearing the uniform of my school, clutching something small and brown to his chest. Though I'm not sure how, I know that it's Watanuki right away.

At first, I hesitate to go over and talk to him, but then I think of how soaked he must be, alone in the rain on the back of the hill, just a stone's throw away from the infamous witch's shop, and, ironically (inevitably), this is what sets me off.

As I make my way through the wet, uncut grass and weeds, I hear Watanuki talking to himself, or rather to the thing he's holding.

"You're just like me," he says. I'm close enough to see now what he's carrying. It's a puppy. Some kind of terrier. "We are both alone in the world."

I halt. It's absurd and incredibly melodramatic, but Watanuki seems to mean what he says. He thinks it's true.

For another couple of minutes, I continue to stand there and watch him, unsure of what to do with what he just said, until he leaves, dog in tow.

I wonder if he's seen me. I wonder if he knows that he's headed directly to where my aunt says the witch's shop is. I wonder if he's going to buy something from her. I wonder why I can't see the witch although I'm the son of a priest. I wonder if he'll keep the dog.

"Chance encounters are what keep us going."

— Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

A few days later I spot Watanuki in school during lunch. He's sitting on his own by the narrow pathway that leads away from the main building to the science wing. The image of him, forgotten and lonely in the rain, flashes through my head, and I decide to talk to him this time.

"You aren't going to the shrine anymore," I blurt out. I don't mean to, but it sounds accusatory.

"Huh?" He swallows a bite from his lunchbox and looks up at me. Glares. "Oh, it's you."

That surprises me. "You know who I am?"

Watanuki snorts. "Who doesn't? The whole school's fawning over you just because you're captain of the soccer team."

"I didn't want to be captain. Coach insisted."

"Yeah, I don't get why he did that, either. You're a horrible keeper and an even worse captain."

I smirk although I agree with the last part. "Is that why you didn't make a single goal against me last week?"

"You're just as arrogant as I suspected," he says, disgusted but apparently content that he's assessed me correctly. He picks up another bite of rice with his chopsticks, pauses, puts them down again, suddenly boggled about something. "What was that about the shrine?"

"You aren't going anymore," I repeat. "You used to. I saw you praying sometimes."

Watanuki eyes me warily. "You've been watching me?"

"Not really," I lie. I'm glad my skin is pretty dark so it's going to cover up most of my blush. "I just thought it was weird that you came by so often and then stopped all of a sudden."

Nonsensically, he looks crestfallen. "So you haven't remembered anything?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say. His sad expression makes me feel guilty even though I don't recall doing anything to upset him.

Before I can think of something to say that may wipe the disappointment off his face, he leaves.

"Don't get lost. Give it a try. Go find the place that you're wishing for."

— Natsuki Takaya, Fruits Basket

Several weeks pass. Tsuyu, the rainy season, washes over the village and the surrounding mountains, wrapping everything into a veil of humid heat and mist. The usual landslides block the roads, and some of the rice fields suffer under the pressure of the copious rainfalls. The cicadas drill their songs into every part of town. Summer vacation has started.

I haven't seen or talked to Watanuki in one and a half months. I can't tell if that's coincidence or due to deliberation on his part.

It's a muggy night in July. Because I haven't been able to sleep, I sit at my desk next to the open window and read a whodunnit I discovered in a flea market a couple of weeks ago. The streets below are empty except for faint laughter resounding from a few houses over. It isn't a bad book, but I can't concentrate on the words no matter how hard I push myself.

"It's too hot to read," my grandmother would say. "That's why you don't have to go to school in summer." She may be right.

For a while I gaze aimlessly at the familiar darkness outside until something in my peripheral vision catches my attention. A small red light ghosting through the village, wandering toward Shirokoyama.

I glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. Almost midnight. I hesitate and listen for any sounds downstairs. Everything is quiet. My parents and grandmother must be asleep already.

I stand up and rummage for the flashlight in my desk drawers. Once I've found it, I put it into the back pocket of my pants along with my cellphone and keys. I close the window before tiptoeing downstairs and out of the house. Even though doing this will probably amount to nothing but mosquito bites, it's going to keep me occupied for a while, and that's reason enough for me to go.

At this time of night, most of the villagers have already retired to bed, and there is nothing left of the daily bustle and chatter. Only the cries of the occasional night bird and the ongoing echoes of laughter disturb the quiet.

Down on the wet asphalt, I can't see the strange light anymore, but that doesn't matter. I know where it was headed. I follow the street as it climbs toward the hill, a steep, swirling shadow against the navy blue of the sky. Struggling through the knee-high, unyielding flora of the slope, I scan the hilltop for any activity. In the distance the red light flashes a few times as if to send out a signal.

When I finally reach the shrine complex, the light has vanished. Unsure of how to proceed, I resolve to look around for its source. I have to admit I don't feel exactly comfortable roaming through the temple grounds at night, knowing that there's someone skulking somewhere in the shadows.

"You really followed me."

I jump and spin around, but I can't find any irregularity in the dark.

"Can't see me, huh." The voice chuckles. It's more distinct now, like the clearing lead-in of a radio announcer as you try to find better reception of the station.

Suddenly a small, orange lantern appears on the pavement right in front me. Following its shine, my eyes trail upward.

"Watanuki!" I exclaim. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." He sounded amused before, but he doesn't now. "Why were you following me?"

"I wasn't. I saw a weird light approaching the shrine, so I thought I'd go check."

I can't see his eyes because the sheen of the lamp obscures the view through his glasses, but I suspect he's scowling. "Can't you pretend you haven't seen anything and go back home?"

"What?"

"Dōmeki," he says. I don't like the way he pronounces my name—as though hoped he would never have to. It's pissing me off. "This has nothing to do with you. Just leave."

Why does he sound so hurried? "What is going on?"

He steps forward. "I have somewhere I need to go."

I don't understand a thing he says, none of it makes any sense. "What do you mean?" I ask, feeling like a child left out from important grown-up business.

"The Hyakki Yagyō."

"What?" Maybe he's crazy, I think briefly but then dismiss the idea. Life around here is never that simple. "That's just a myth, an old folktale. The 'Parade of 100 Demons' doesn't exist."

He doesn't reply.

"Are you serious?"

His face softens, and he smiles. It's a small, sad thing, the ghost of an expression. It feels familiar somehow.

"I'll show you," he offers, holding out his hand.

I take it.

He picks up the lantern from the ground, and everything around us changes. Light is illuminating the entire area, and hundreds of strange creatures are swarming the place. Phantoms, demons, kitsune, tanuki and other animal spirits, giant ogres, and tsukumogami, the "tool gods." All of them carry lanterns like we do.

"What—," I almost gag on the words, "—what are they all doing here?"

"A lot of spiritual power indwells this region," Watanuki explains, watching the stream of otherworldly beings with cool blue eyes. No, not blue, not exactly. I—

I feel dizzy. I clutch Watanuki's hand, do my best to stay upright.

"Don't be afraid," he says gently. "You haven't done this in a while. It's no surprise you're overwhelmed. Relax."

"'In a while?'" I echo hazily. "What are you—"

"Let's go," he interrupts, and I obey. His tone doesn't allow much of a choice.

We enter the parade and fall in beside its unearthly participants for a while until they stop at a large tree of white light. I have no idea where we are, but I don't feel so weak anymore.

"What are we doing here?" I ask, eyes fixed on the bright, wafting branches of the tree. Their fuzzy light creates the impression that they're moving on their own, like lucid arms beckoning the procession closer.

"Look around you," Watanuki says, and that sorrowful smile is back. I hope I don't have to get used to it. Whenever I see it, it feels like something inside my guts disintegrates. Almost like I'm decaying from the inside out. "Everybody has a lantern with them that they give to the tree."

"The tree is made of these lanterns," I realize as I look at it more closely.

"Correct."

"But what for? And why are you here, too?"

"This is my work."

"What? Why?"

"It was my wish."

Everything turns black.

"The answer is dreams."

— Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

I wake up in a big unfamiliar bed with red satin sheets. I stretch, untangle myself from the covers and start to look for Watanuki.

The only door in the room leads to a veranda in front of a yard full of wild flowers that gradually merges into the slope of the hill.

This is where people say the witch's shop is. I'm in the witch's shop.

"Sleep well?"

I whirl around. Watanuki smiles at me from the narrow corridor adjacent to the veranda.

"You're—" I choke. "Are you the witch?"

He laughs. I can't blame him. Then again, I can't exactly blame myself, either.

"Sit with me," he says and settles down next to me on the veranda. As I follow his invitation, I notice that his right eye has changed. It has the same color as my own while the other is still blue.

"What happened to your eye?"

He stops in his tracks and looks confused. "My …" He pauses, and the sad smile is back once again. "Oh, yes, my eye. I wore a contact lens before. People seemed bothered by it."

He looks older now, much older. Doesn't seem like a high school student at all now. I wonder what's going on. That appears to have become my default state these days.

Suddenly, my vision wavers. I squint as the right half of my sight blurs and sharpens again. With my left eye, I see Watanuki, still smiling desolately. With the other I see myself, young and afraid, and I forget to breathe for a moment.

"Why," I hear myself say, my voice like dust. "How do you have part of my eye?"

Watanuki casts his gaze downward, no longer smiling. "You gave it to me."

"No," I protest because I didn't. I didn't. And yet I can tell he's not lying.

"You don't remember," he says, strangely dazed.

"What?" I can still see myself. My eye starts to burn because I haven't been blinking, can't look away. "What don't I remember?"

"This is not the first time we meet," he says. "In fact, it's the third time. I've already met you three times."

I don't know what to say. This is insane. Right?

"The first time you were in high school, too," he recounts. Looks worn and old. "I was a normal human then, just like you, and I was working part-time for the original proprietor of this shop. We, you and I, we were—friends, and when I became blind on my right eye in an accident, you gave me part of yours. Since then our eyesight would align sometimes, and you'd see the same things as I do and vice versa.

"A few years later, the owner of this shop disappeared, and I decided to become her successor until she would return. Time passed, you aged and died."

"I'm not dead. I'm here, and I'm alive."

"I know. You were reborn. Because of me."

"What?"

"All of this," he says, gesturing vaguely at the empty space between us, "is my fault. Fate wants me to make a choice, but I haven't, so we're stuck in this cycle."

"I don't understand," I say, and I'm not sure I even want to at this point.

"There are certain laws in this world. One of them is, 'You cannot return to the past. You cannot bring back what has been lost.'" He inhales deeply. "I'm waiting for the shopkeeper to return, but she's dead."

"Then why are you still waiting?"

"I owe her my life."

"The dead stay dead."

I feel sorry for him. I haven't understood everything he said, but one thing is clear: he's trapped here, not only physically but spiritually, emotionally. Abandoning his humanity, he sealed himself to his shop in order to repay a debt to someone who no longer exists. The sheer scope of his devotion makes my chest ache, almost as if I'm—as if I'm jealous.

"Yeah," he whispers and rests his head against my shoulder. I'm a bit surprised, but I don't mind. "You didn't remember. In your past lives, you always remembered who I was, but this time you didn't. I thought maybe it was some kind of spell, so I kept coming to the temple because I hoped to find a clue. I was so afraid when I didn't find anything that I could undo."

I'm taken aback and try to find the right words. "We'll find her," I say eventually. "We'll find her and bring her here, and then you'll be free."

Watanuki lifts his head. "Are you sure about this? You don't even know me."

"No, I don't," I agree. "But I want to. And I want to help you."

"Why?"

I wonder about that myself. It feels like I have to. When I see my eye behind his glasses, I know I have to. "What do you sell in this shop?" I ask him.

"What?" He stares at me quizzically. "I—I don't exactly sell anything. Not for money, in any case. This is a wish shop. I fulfill wishes for a prize that is equivalent to the cost of the wish. That's why only people with wishes can see the shop."

"That sounds even crazier than the other stuff," I laugh. "I believe you."

"Why are you asking?"

"Maybe I have a wish, too," I say, looking away, afraid he will catch my blush this time because he's so close. "Maybe that's why I met you, to find out what my wish is."

"What is your wish?"

"I already told you."

"Come, butterfly
It's late—
We've miles to go together."

— Bashō