A memory stirred—soft as starlight. Emiko and her mother, side by side, gazing through their old telescope. Above them, constellations traced luminous paths toward distant, colorful spheres, each one a world suspended in ink-black silence. It had been their ritual, a sacred thing shared only between them.
Uncle Riku was always praying in the shrine during those nights. Sometimes he would appear uninvited, lingering at the edge of their quiet world, trying to join. Emiko loved him—they both did—but she wished, just once, he would let them keep this.
"Mother," Emiko whispered, her breath fogging the eyepiece. "What makes the universe beautiful?"
Her mother smiled, that gentle curve Emiko would spend years trying to remember. "Well… it is known to us as 'The Creation.' But more than that, it is the beginning. The place from which our souls transcended."
Emiko frowned. "So we all came from stars?"
"In theory, yes." Her mother adjusted the telescope, pointing toward a faint, flickering light. "It is also the law of cause and effect. Many people have different beliefs to identify themselves. But the beauty of the universe…" She turned to Emiko, her eyes holding the same distant glow as the stars. "…is parallel to the beauty of Buddhism. Both speak of structure. Of time. Of how everything we do ripples across forever."
Emiko didn't fully understand then. But she remembered the warmth of her mother's shoulder against hers, and the way the stars had felt close enough to hold.
"What if someone's causes and effects came from bad intentions?" Emiko asked quietly.
Her mother tilted her head, patient but curious. "Why would their intentions be bad, dear?"
Emiko hesitated, the words tangling in her throat before she forced them out. "It's just… almost everything in my life feels like there's a bad cause that I do, and a bad effect that comes from it."
Her mother's brow softened. "What bad things do you do?"
A long sigh escaped Emiko. "I laugh too weird. I walk badly. I don't meet enough people, and I purposely exclude myself from feeling hurt or disappointed." Her voice cracked. "It makes me feel cowardly, Mother. I know you always say that's not true, but… it's hard to like yourself when almost everything you do feels like it's not enough." She looked up at the stars, her eyes glistening. "It makes me wish I was like those stars up there. Just balls of bright light that contribute to space. They feel more worthy—more useful—than I ever could."
Her mother didn't let her finish.
She pulled Emiko into her arms, holding her tight, her own voice trembling. "Please don't say that, Emiko. I understand where that pain comes from. And even if it doesn't feel true right now… your mother sees your contribution. You matter. You are my true stars. You are my joy."
Emiko buried her face in her mother's shoulder, letting the warmth seep into her bones. "You are my sanctuary, Mother," she whispered. "Thank you."
She had believed those words once. Had held them close like a lantern in the dark.
But now, standing before the shrine where her uncle knelt, Emiko wondered if even stars could be swallowed by shadow.
"Ah, good. You're awake, my dear Emiko." Riku's voice was smooth, almost tender. "Meet Douma. I believe he can help you with your pain."
Then she felt it—an aura so intense, so nightmarish, it pressed against her lungs like drowning. Her eyes lifted.
And by the sight of those rainbow-colored eyes, paired with claw-like nails and a tall, looming figure, she knew with sickening certainty:
He was no human.