Yoru

From the Rainbow Line overlook, Wakasa Bay opened wide beneath the winter sky.

At his feet lay the Mikata Five Lakes. Beyond them, the bay opened toward the sea, and farther still, the Sea of Japan moved beneath a dark horizon.

White waves broke offshore.

The winter sea was rough.

Each gust of wind spread white across the surface. The waves carried weight, moving as if pushing back anything that tried to approach.

A low roar of the sea reached him through the wind.

The scent of winter salt climbed all the way to the overlook.

Even deep inside Wakasa Bay, the unrest of the sea could not be hidden.

Gabi stood there for a long time.

To see the world.

That was how he had understood Kodama Takano’s words.

“Look at the sea.”

But the sea before him was different from what he had imagined.

The waves breaking in the distance were heavy.

Rather than a road leading toward the world, it felt like a place asking back whether he was truly ready to enter it.

The wind rose again.

White waves spread.

Without realizing it, Gabi strengthened his footing.

Something was still missing.

Not yet.

The thought surfaced quietly.

—

The night before.

—

Gabi had opened the map on his phone in his room.

“If your Shisui carries the color of the sea, then go and listen to the sea.”

On the day of the ritual, Kodama Takano’s words had opened the idea of the world before him.

The Philippines.

Japan.

And beyond that, the world.

The thought had stirred an immediate desire to see the sea.

He looked down at the map.

He searched for the nearest sea he could reach.

Wakasa.

The northern sea of Japan.

When he enlarged the map, he saw the land embracing the sea, forming a bay, with several lakes gathered beside it.

The Mikata Five Lakes.

Their complicated shapes rested close together.

To Gabi, they resembled the shape of his homeland.

—

But the sea before him now was not the sea he had imagined.

The waves broke heavily, pushing back anything that tried to reach the shore.

It was not an entrance to the world.

It was something that tested those who approached.

Gabi did not look away.

The wind rose again.

White waves spread.

As he continued watching the sea, Gabi understood.

Not yet.

He had been thinking about stepping into the world.

But this sea would not allow it so easily.

As he was now, he was not enough.

Gabi slowly lowered his gaze.

The Mikata lakes lay before him.

Unlike the sea, their surface was calm.

But it was not still.

Fine ripples spread across the water, answering the wind.

The wind could not be seen.

But the water responded.

As he watched the ripples, David’s voice came back to him without warning.

“Gabi.

In aikido, ‘ki’ means Qi.”

At the time, he had only heard it as a sound.

But now, watching the water answer the invisible wind, the word quietly settled into his chest.

The ma he had touched in Kyoto—the hush before the music, the breath held before the ink—quietly overlapped with it.

Gabi took the small bottle of Shisui from his pocket.

Until now, he had never opened it.

He always carried it with him.

But touching it had felt enough.

Not anymore.

He removed the cap.

The sea-colored liquid moved quietly inside.

He placed a single drop onto the back of his hand.

Cold.

But the sensation soon settled into his skin.

He spread it with his fingers and touched his cheek.

The winter air had tightened his skin.

Now, something softened.

“Shisui is the water of a Kewaishi.

A Kewaishi is one who tends life back into balance.”

Kodama Takano’s words finally began to settle.

—

Gabi looked at the lake once more.

Ripples spread across the surface, answering the wind.

As he remained in the cold air, the chill stayed on his cheek.

Without thinking, he folded his arms.

His sleeve slipped.

He pulled it back slightly.

The tattoo on the inside of his arm caught the winter light.

よる

Yoru.

The character Kazan had written.

Gabi had engraved that word into his skin.

He had not thought deeply about it.

He only wanted to keep something of his mother with him.

His mother had written yura-moji.

He had watched as the ink moved like a tremor before becoming words.

The “Yoru” Kazan had written carried the same movement.

That was why he kept it.

And now, he looked at the moon reflected on the lake.

In the Philippines, he had never really looked up at the moon.

He had never thought about being supported by something unseen.

After his mother died, he believed he had been left behind.

He thought that was simply how things were.

But the moon reflected on the lake was not shining by itself.

It received light.

Then returned it to the night.

The lake was the same.

It received the light of the sky, trembled with it, and returned it again.

Light did not end there.

Someone received it.

Someone returned it.

Someone else was illuminated by it.

Through that connection, a world of light continued.

For the first time, Gabi understood that he had always been part of that flow.

But without night, light could not appear.

Night was where light became visible.

Gabi looked at his arm once more.

Yoru.

Only now did he understand.

Perhaps Kazan had known from the beginning.

—

The moon trembled on the surface of the lake.

“Keep it with you.”

The Shisui his mother had entrusted to him.

Gabi looked at the bottle.

Return.

To his homeland.

He looked at the label.

The word “Kiyouto” was written there, receiving the moonlight.

He had no pen.

But he wanted to leave something behind.

Gabi pressed his fingernail into the paper.

A faint sound.

Slowly, he carved:

き
す
い

Gabi traced the letters with his fingertip.

The first sound quietly overlapped with the Qi David had spoken.

The moon trembled on the surface of the lake.

And the night continued.