The scent of ink and freshly cut bamboo was Akane’s world. It was a world of quiet precision, of delicate brushstrokes that brought to life the vibrant landscapes and mythical creatures on her paper fans. In the heart of Edo, in a small workshop tucked away from the clamor of the main thoroughfares of Nihonbashi, she found a semblance of peace. But it was a fragile peace, one that was often shattered by the ghosts of a life she couldn’t remember. Her shop, a modest space with a single, wide window facing the narrow street, was her sanctuary and her prison, a place where reality and illusion constantly vied for dominance.
Today, it was the scent of cloves and sandalwood, a fragrance so foreign to the familiar aromas of her craft, that pulled her from her work. Her hand, steady moments before as she painted the crimson wing of a majestic crane, now trembled, smudging the pristine white washi paper. A sigh of frustration escaped her lips, a small cloud of mist in the cool autumn air. The visions had been growing stronger in recent weeks, no longer confined to the quiet solitude of her dreams. They bled into her waking hours, disorienting and persistent, like phantom limbs of a past self.
She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against them, and for a fleeting moment, the cramped workshop dissolved. The rough wood of her worktable became smooth, cool silk beneath her fingers. The workshop’s earthy smells were replaced by a vast, tatami-matted hall. The scent of cloves and sandalwood was thick in the air, emanating from ornate incense burners shaped like golden dragons. She was draped in layers of silk—a jūnihitoe, heavy and intricate—the weight of it both comforting and constricting. Sunlight streamed through a distant shoji screen, illuminating dancing dust motes. A man’s voice, low and resonant, murmured her name—a name that was not Akane. Chiyo.
The vision fractured as a cart rumbled past on the street outside, its wooden wheels groaning against the packed earth. Akane gasped, her eyes flying open. She was back in her workshop, the scent of ink and damp wood once again dominant. The crimson smudge on the fan was a stark, bloody reminder of her distraction. With a heavy heart, she set it aside. It was unsalvageable, another casualty of a war being waged within her own mind.
“Another one for the discard pile?”
The voice, calm and deep, coming from the entrance of her workshop, startled her so badly she nearly knocked over her inkstone. She hadn’t heard anyone approach. A man stood there, silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun. He was tall for a man of this era, with broad shoulders and a presence that seemed to fill the small space. A ronin, by the looks of his travel-worn kimono, a simple, dark blue garment, and the two swords—the daishō—tucked into his obi. His lack of a clan mon marked him as masterless, a wanderer.
As he stepped into the light, out of the glare of the sun, Akane’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t just his handsome features—the sharp line of his jaw, a small, faded scar that nicked his left eyebrow, or the intensity in his dark, intelligent eyes that captivated her. It was the unnerving, gut-wrenching sense of familiarity, a feeling that resonated deep within her soul, like a temple bell struck centuries ago. It was the same feeling the visions gave her, but this was no fleeting ghost. This was a man of flesh and blood, his gaze steady and real.
“I… yes,” she stammered, gesturing to the ruined fan with a paint-stained hand. “My mind was elsewhere.”
The ronin’s gaze softened as he looked from her flustered face to the fan. “A shame. The crane’s other wing is a masterpiece. It looks as if it could lift off the paper and take flight.” He then met her eyes again, and a flicker of something she couldn’t decipher—confusion, recognition, a shadow of an old pain—passed through his expression. “Forgive my intrusion. I was drawn in by the beauty of your work. The dragons on display… they have a fire I have not seen before. I am Kenjiro.”
“Akane,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. The name felt foreign on her tongue, as if she should be introducing herself as someone else. Chiyo. The name echoed in the silent corners of her mind, a persistent whisper on the wind.
Kenjiro’s smile was a gentle, unexpected curve of his lips. It transformed his stoic face, making him seem younger, less world-weary. “Akane. A beautiful name. It means ‘deep red’.” His eyes flicked to the crimson smudge on the fan. “Fitting.”
He stepped closer, his gaze falling upon a finished fan resting on a display stand, a piece depicting a fierce, golden dragon coiling around a storm-wracked mountain peak. “You have a remarkable talent. Your art… it feels ancient, as if it carries stories from a time long past.”
His words struck a chord within her, a validation of the feelings that had haunted her for so long. For the first time, she didn’t feel like she was losing her mind. She felt… seen.
“Perhaps it does,” she found herself saying, a newfound boldness in her voice. “Perhaps I am just the vessel for stories that demand to be told.”
Their eyes met again, and in that moment, the world outside the small workshop seemed to fade away. The bustling sounds of Edo—the cries of street vendors, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the murmur of the crowd—it all receded into the background. There was only the quiet intensity of their shared gaze, a silent acknowledgment of a connection that neither of them could yet understand, but both of them could feel in the very marrow of their bones.
The spell was broken by the arrival of a far less welcome presence. A palanquin, ornate and lacquered in black, stopped before her shop, carried by four grim-faced attendants. A samurai, his kimono impeccably silk and his topknot perfect, stepped out. He was followed by a portly, older man whose face was a mask of smug authority. This was Lord Nabeshima, a powerful city official known for his wealth, his ambition, and his predatory appetites.
“Ah, the little artisan,” Nabeshima said, his voice oily as he surveyed her shop, his gaze lingering on Akane in a way that made her skin crawl. “Your fame spreads. I am told you create the most exquisite fans in all of Edo.”
Akane bowed low, her heart sinking. She had heard whispers of this man, of how he used his position to take what—and who—he wanted. “You honor my humble shop, Lord Nabeshima.”
Nabeshima’s eyes swept past Kenjiro with a dismissive air, as if the ronin were no more than a piece of furniture. “I have a commission. A set of fans for a banquet. They must be of a quality fit for the Shogun himself. I will, of course, compensate you generously.” His gaze fixed on her again. “And I require the artist to present them to me personally at my estate when they are complete.”
The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. This was more than a commission; it was a summons. A command. Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at Akane.
Kenjiro, who had been silent until now, shifted his weight almost imperceptibly. It was a small movement, but it drew Nabeshima’s attention. The official’s eyes narrowed.
“And who is this?” Nabeshima sneered. “A new bodyguard, little bird?”
Before Akane could answer, Kenjiro spoke, his voice level and devoid of any deference. “A mere admirer of true art, my lord. One who understands its value should not be rushed or commanded, but inspired.”
A dangerous silence fell over the shop. Nabeshima’s face, a moment ago flush with arrogance, darkened with rage. The samurai beside him placed a hand on the hilt of his katana. Akane’s blood ran cold. A masterless ronin had just insulted one of the most powerful men in the city.
Nabeshima let out a short, sharp laugh, though it held no humor. “Insolent dog. You are lucky I am in a generous mood.” He turned back to Akane, his voice dropping to a low, threatening tone. “I will expect the fans in one week. Do not disappoint me.”
With a final, possessive glare at Akane, he turned and swept out of the shop, his entourage following in his wake. The palanquin was lifted, and soon they were gone, leaving behind only a lingering sense of dread.
Akane felt weak, her knees trembling. She leaned against her worktable for support.
“Are you alright?” Kenjiro’s voice was soft, laced with concern. He was closer now, his presence a shield against the fear Nabeshima had left behind.
“I am,” she said, though her voice shook. “But you should not have done that. He is a dangerous man.”
“Dangerous men only hold power over those who fear them,” Kenjiro replied simply. His dark eyes searched hers. “There was a flicker of… something in his eyes when he looked at you. A hatred. It felt older than a simple disagreement in a shop.”
Akane stared at him, bewildered. Hatred? It had felt like predatory desire to her, but Kenjiro had seen something else, something deeper. Something ancient.
He picked up the ruined fan from her table, his fingers tracing the outline of the crane’s unblemished wing. “I have been having dreams,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of a castle under siege. Of a woman with your eyes, standing on a balcony, watching a battle below. Her name is…”
“Chiyo,” Akane breathed, the name tasting of both sorrow and destiny on her lips.
Kenjiro’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with stunned disbelief. “How… how did you know?”
“I have the same dreams,” she whispered, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Of a samurai, brave and true, who promised to return to me. A samurai with a scar above his left eye.”
In the quiet of the little workshop, surrounded by the ghosts of half-finished cranes and dragons, two souls separated by centuries finally found each other again. But the shadow of their old enemy had found them as well, and the tranquility of Akane’s life had just been shattered forever. The past was no longer a dream; it was a storm gathering on the horizon, and they were standing directly in its path.