The night had bled into stillness. Behind them, the House of Crimson Fans dimmed its lanterns one by one, like fireflies surrendering to sleep. The scent of sake, incense, and memory lingered in the air, heavy as dew. And above, the sky darkened further — clouds spilling slowly across the pale moon like a silken sleeve wiping away tears.
Lady Kiyo stepped through the lacquered doorway, her geta clacking softly against the stone. A hush followed her, as it always did.
Her attendants, three in total, flanked her like petals around a blossom — Ayame the stern, Risa the gentle, and Naho the ever-chattering. They fussed over the hem of her outer robe, adjusted her sash, murmured about the damp air.
But then —13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZNSh7VoEVC
a droplet fell.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVO9wbebs5z
Then another.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaVBjo19Utp
And another.
The rain returned, soft as whispers on skin. It tapped gently on paper lanterns and rooftops, slid down the eaves, and dimpled the surface of puddles forming along the cobbled lane.
"Oh no, Lady Kiyo!" cried Naho, lifting her sleeves as she dashed toward the palanquin to fetch an umbrella. Risa and Ayame did the same, scattering like startled cranes.
But Kiyo...13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWL0QijvkDM
Kiyo stayed still.
The rain beaded in her hair, kissed the camellia still nestled behind her ear, and traced a glistening line down her pale throat. Her painted lips parted slightly—not in protest, but in wonder. She closed her eyes.
It was a rare sound: rain in Yoshiwara when the lanterns were still burning and the streets weren't yet emptied of life. It didn't roar or rage. It whispered, gentle and steady, like a lullaby from a mother the world had long forgotten.
Kiyo began to walk.
Slowly. Gracefully. Her wooden sandals made soft clicks over stone, her sleeves dampening at the edges. She did not rush, did not flinch. Each step was a note in a melody only she could hear.
Raindrops tapped against her lashes. The rain washed away the smoke of the teahouse, the breath of lustful lords, the weight of too many eyes. For a moment, she wasn't the Nightingale of Yoshiwara. She wasn't a girl marked by divinity or chained to her voice.
She was just Kiyo. A woman walking beneath the stars she could not see.
From the shadowed alley just ahead, someone watched.
Hidden beneath a wide-brimmed bamboo kasa, a tall figure stood unmoving as the rain soaked through his black robes. The water didn't cling to him — it fled from his skin, as if unwilling to touch something so old. So unnatural.
His golden eyes didn't blink.
He watched her walk. He watched her listen. He watched her hum — a soft, drifting tone with no words, no purpose, just presence.
And in that moment, the god who had once brought kingdoms to ruin felt the strange ache of something he did not recognize at first.
Regret.
She passed him without seeing him.
But something made her pause. A breath. A pull.
Kiyo turned her head slowly toward the alley.
Empty.
Only shadows and silence. And rain falling on stone.
Risa returned, breathless and holding a parasol. "My lady! You'll catch a chill!"
Kiyo took the umbrella with a gentle nod, but her eyes lingered on the place where the shadows had thickened.
For just a second, it had felt like the air itself had coiled.
Like a serpent watching.
She said nothing. Only smiled faintly and resumed her walk.
But in the pit of her chest, where the final note of her song still echoed, a strange warmth had bloomed.
As though the story she had sung earlier... had sung back.
Kiyo's residence was tucked away behind a quiet shoji-lined garden in the western quarter of Yoshiwara — modest by the standards of great oiran, but elegant in its simplicity. The building breathed peace: low walls of polished wood, bamboo fencing wrapped in silken cord, and a small koi pond that rippled faintly as rain fell like blessings from the eaves.
The sliding doors whispered open as her attendants ushered her inside, shaking the water from their sleeves and giggling nervously about the sudden storm. Paper lanterns glowed softly in every corner, their amber light pooling like honey on the floor.
"You stood in the rain like a spirit," Naho murmured as she removed Kiyo's wet outer robe. "If Lord Arimura had seen you like that, he might have fallen to his knees on the spot."
Kiyo smiled but said nothing. She let them work in silence — they were good girls, careful with every ribbon and fold, reverent in their handling of her body. As if touching her too roughly might cause the songs to vanish from her skin.
Ayame began brushing out her long black hair, smoothing it in careful strokes as Risa loosened her undergarments. The room was warm, but Kiyo's skin held a coolness — a stillness — that the women never quite understood. She never shivered. Never sweated. Even in the depths of summer, she carried a strange calm.
As Risa turned to fetch a cloth, the loose silk slipped from Kiyo's shoulder.
And there it was.
A mark — curving like a crescent of smoke just above her left shoulder blade. Dark, faintly iridescent, and shaped like a serpent coiled in upon itself, its tail looping into the shape of a half-moon.
None of the girls spoke. They had all seen it before, since her earliest days at the teahouse. But they never spoke of it. Not even in whispers. Some believed it was a blessing. Others feared it was a curse.
Ayame cleared her throat softly and pulled the robe back up. "There," she said, as though the mark had never been revealed. "All dry."
Kiyo offered a gentle nod. "Thank you," she said, her voice low and musical. "You may rest now."
The girls bowed, each one stealing a last look at their mistress, their beloved songbird — mysterious, beautiful, unknowable — before slipping quietly from the room. The door slid closed behind them with a soft thunk.
Silence returned. Save for the rain.
Kiyo remained seated on the tatami floor, her robe loosely draped around her, hair cascading like ink across her shoulders. The paper walls did little to block the sound of the world outside — the rhythmic pattering of droplets, the gentle hiss of wind through pine, the occasional groan of the settling wood.
She slid open the outer door.
Cool night air flowed in, bringing with it the scent of wet earth and old stone. The garden beyond glistened in the moonlight — every leaf jeweled with silver tears. The koi stirred faintly in the pond, sensing her presence.
Kiyo sat at the open threshold, her legs folded beneath her, and tilted her face toward the sky.
The clouds had begun to part.
Through a break in their cover, the moon emerged — waning, but bright. And stars blinked into view, distant and sharp, as though peering down through a veil.
Her gaze lingered on the stars. But her hand drifted unconsciously to her shoulder, to the place where the serpent coiled.
She had never understood why she was born with it. The old midwives called it the mark of Hebi-no-kami, the ancient snake spirits — beings long forgotten by the shrines, but still whispered about by the woods and rivers.
Some said such a mark meant she had lived before. That she had loved something too deeply, too dangerously. That the gods had punished her by letting her be born again — with only the voice of that sorrow left behind.
She didn't know if it was true.
But as she sat there, listening to the steady fall of rain and the hush of the garden, she could not shake the feeling that something — someone — had stirred tonight.
That somewhere in the shadows, a pair of golden eyes had watched her not as a performer, not as a priestess of song...
...but as a mirror. A memory.
She reached out a hand, letting the rain brush her fingers.
And in the hush of the world, she whispered a verse — soft, wordless, like a lullaby meant for someone long, long lost.
Above, the stars listened.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEs7IvWyVaU
Below, something in the earth stirred.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfKlhnIghem
And the serpent curled a little tighter in her skin.
13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv8ftqjDDJk
