It took two weeks for Shiharu to emerge from his coma-like trance, far longer than Hoshiyuki, who had awakened after only a day. Hoshiyuki had hoped to find Shiharu already recovered and waiting for him, but when he didn't, relief mingled with worry. Where could he be? He decided to ask his mother—she would surely know. Just then, his elder brother Corvael arrived to take him home.
Meanwhile, Shiharu's soul had been switched with Hoshiyuki's. Though he retained all his memories, his demeanor had shifted noticeably from his usual self. He woke with a dull throb of irritation, banging his head lightly against the low wooden treatment bed—a traditional Japanese futon-like mat used in folk healing—before sitting up slowly. He realized he had been lying there for far too long.
Blinking against the dim light, he scanned the room: a modest, traditional space filled with the faint, earthy scent of medicinal herbs. Dried bundles of mugwort, ginseng, and dried chrysanthemum hung from the rafters; shelves held small ceramic jars of ointments and powders, a mortar and pestle, an incense burner emitting thin wisps of sandalwood smoke, and neatly folded cotton cloths. A low table stood near the sliding shoji screen, beside a small kettle still warm from recent use. This was no hospital—it felt more like an old healer's home.
He muttered under his breath, half-annoyed, half-resigned. Either some elderly practitioner had taken him in, or—unlikely as it seemed—his indifferent parents had bothered to bring him here. Tsk. He almost wished he could forget everything.
His head ached. Memories felt hazy and fragmented.
Argh… My head… What's happening? Where am I?
He remembered falling into water, the cold shock, then darkness. But beyond that, details refused to surface.
Haaah! What the hell? Why can't I remember anything?
"You're awake?"
A soft voice broke the silence. Shiharu looked up slowly, trying to place the face.
She had long, silken hair in waves of black threaded with deep purple, cascading past her shoulders. Her eyes were a striking violet. She wore a simple yet graceful yukata in pale lavender, the sleeves tied back for work, her feet bare against the tatami. She carried a woven basket filled with fresh fruit and a few small loaves of bread. She appeared to be about his age.
Shiharu stared at her with guarded disinterest, as though he wanted no one near him.
"Dad! The guest is awake!" she called down the hallway.
A man appeared moments later, a light smile curving his lips. Father and daughter shared an unmistakable resemblance. He had long, thick raven-black hair tied into a neat half-up style—the top gathered into a small bun, the rest flowing smoothly down his back. Soft bangs framed his refined features, and his eyes held the same vivid purple. Despite having a teenage daughter, he looked no older than his early thirties.
"Finally… you're awake, son. You had me worried sick."
Son? Shiharu's real father had been nothing but cruel. This man couldn't possibly be him. Yet the stranger entered with easy warmth, his daughter trailing behind. He placed a gentle hand on Shiharu's forehead, nodding in quiet satisfaction.
"Where… is this place?" Shiharu asked, voice rough.
"My daughter found you beside the village's dreaded lake. She couldn't carry you or call for help alone, so she ran home and told me. We brought you here. You've been unconscious for two weeks. You looked half-dead—I almost thought you wouldn't wake. Thanks to her faith in you, though… you did."
He ruffled her hair affectionately and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She squirmed, trying to push him away, but the doting affection between them was unmistakable.
He chuckled. "You're quite the pretty boy. How did someone like you end up drowned and soaked at the lake's edge?"
The question struck like a blow. Memories surged back unbidden—his family, the cruelty, the lake. Pain lanced through his chest.
"Gah—"
"Here."
The girl knelt in front of him, offering a small plate of neatly peeled apple slices and a few plain rice crackers—simple, gentle food for someone who hadn't eaten in weeks.
"Eat. You haven't had anything solid in all this time. Dad gave you his homemade infusions to keep your strength up, but you still need real food. I don't want to be the one responsible if you starve to death."
Her father laughed softly. "She sounds cold, but she cares more than she lets on. If remembering hurts too much, don't force it. At least tell us your name?"
"Shi… Shiharu," he murmured, accepting the plate.
He ate slowly, gaze drifting to the open window. Afternoon sunlight streamed in on a gentle breeze. This was real. He was no longer trapped with his toxic family. He had no idea whether they had even searched for him—or what had become of the others.
And Hoshiyuki?
The thought jolted him. Long golden-blonde hair, vivid green eyes. He remembered a figure like that rushing toward him in the water just before everything went black. Those rare features belonged only to Hoshiyuki. Where was he now?
Shiharu turned his attention back to the quiet girl, studying her intently.
"Is there something on my face?" she asked, focused on slicing another apple.
He remained silent for a long moment.
"What's your name? Basic courtesy, isn't it? We should introduce ourselves."
"You either dodge questions or go completely silent when you don't want to answer. Fascinating."
How is that fascinating? Shiharu thought, glaring briefly before sighing and running a hand through his wolf-cut black hair. He didn't deny it.
"Hotaru Reika," she said, standing and wiping her hands. "Most people call me Rei. And you?"
"Are you deaf? I said that earlier. It's Shiharu. I don't remember my surname. It doesn't matter anymore. I feel like… I don't need it."
Rei studied him for a moment, clearly sensing the weight of a painful past. She chose not to pry.
"You share a name with one of the two boys who went missing from neighboring families."
Shiharu froze. "Two missing sons?"
"Mhm. Hoshiyuki and Shiharu."
"Wait—Hoshiyuki is missing?"
She turned, noting the raw shock in his expression. "You two disappeared on the same day. His family especially has been desperate for his return. It seems you don't have a good relationship with yours."
"How perceptive," he muttered bitterly.
"If you don't want to go back, Father and I won't turn you in. We live far from your side of the village. As long as you stay here, you're safe."
Shiharu fell silent.
"What about Hoshiyuki?"
"How would I know the whereabouts of the village god?" Rei replied. "I met him once. Everyone revered him. Only the elders remember the stories clearly. He looked so much like the flower of this village—like the male counterpart of the legendary beauty my grandmother described. Golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes full of life. Nothing like his parents."
Shiharu's head throbbed again.
Argh—
"Water," Rei said quietly, handing him a glass along with a small dose of medicine.
"The flower of the village?"
"Yes. A pure, dazzling woman—golden hair, deep green eyes. She brought fortune to the village, worked as a humble healer. Then she was banished for some accusation—whether true or false, no one knows anymore. Grandmother said she even extended her lifespan. Most people still quietly worship her memory. My father and I included. This village holds many secrets—truths and lies intertwined."
Shiharu pressed a hand to his temple, trying to sort the blur in his mind. I've never seen her… so why does it feel like I've known her forever?
"Haa… I need a break."
He leaned back, exhausted.
Rei watched him for a moment.
"I'll make lunch. Please don't fall into another coma."