Chapter 130: Birthday Gift • Part 2
Makomo turned her head, her gaze meeting Akira's. He offered a gentle, affirming nod. Taking a deep breath, she trotted toward the courtyard gate, her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
The heavy double-leaf elm doors stood slightly ajar, freshly coated in a rich layer of dark paint. A pair of brand-new iron pull rings hung from the wood, forged in a style identical to the ones that had lingered in her childhood memories.
She pressed her fingertips against the wood. With just a gentle push, the heavy doors swung inward. They moved silently on their hinges, lacking the heavy, drawn-out creak typical of aged rural homes.
It looked exactly as she remembered, yet the craftsmanship was undeniably superior. In the past, the moisture-proof and insect-resistant lacquer on her family's gate had flaked away, chipped by years of harsh weather. The old pivot hinges had been rusted and stiff, forcing her mother to lean her entire body weight against the frame just to force it open.
Yet, that old door—sturdy enough to keep the mountain's wild beasts at bay—had been reduced to splintered kindling in mere seconds under the crushing blows of a demon.
Stepping over the threshold, she took in the sight of the simple brick-and-tile house resting in the center of the yard. The bluish-gray bricks were pristine, laid with careful care, while the roof tiles caught the afternoon sunlight, gleaming with a fresh polish. At first glance, it was the exact home she had grown up in, but the materials were of a far higher grade.
The front door of the main house was crafted from cedar, a much lighter wood than the dense elm of the outer gate, designed for easy daily use. Freshly cut cedar had been chosen. As Makomo drew closer, a sharp, crisp woody fragrance washed over her senses. The scent was potent, yet deeply comforting.
It was the scent of her childhood. The only difference was that her original home had weathered years of use, requiring her to press her small face directly against the grain to catch that faint, earthy perfume.
She pushed the cedar door open, stepping directly into the main hall. This was the heart of the home, the space where her family used to share their evening meals and welcome the occasional neighbor.
Her eyes traced the layout, guided by ingrained memory. The main bedroom sat to the left, flanked by a smaller side room dedicated entirely to storing grain. Every autumn, the freshly harvested crops would be dried in the sun and piled high inside that cramped space. As a little girl, she used to sneak peeks through the crack in the door.
Back then, she hadn't understood the complex adult concepts of bumper harvests or famine years. She only knew one simple truth: if that little room was packed to the ceiling, her family would be safe from the biting ache of winter hunger.
Now, that small storage room stood completely empty. Yet, Makomo knew she would never have to face that kind of hunger again.
Drifting toward the bedroom, she took in the familiar arrangement of the modest furniture. A wave of nostalgia hit her chest. She could almost feel the warmth of nestling into her parents' arms, the heavy pull of sleep dragging at her eyelids as their gentle voices hummed traditional mountain lullabies into the quiet night.
Her breath hitched. A framed portrait hung on the bedroom wall. It depicted a grown-up Makomo standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her parents. Their faces were captured with stunning accuracy, matching the fading images she had guarded in her mind for a decade.
The family of three wore brilliant, carefree smiles, painted as though they had never been parted, as if they were still living out their quiet, happy lives in this secluded mountain village.
Staring up at the canvas, the corners of Makomo's lips curled upward. Her vision blurred, the painted faces swimming in a sudden pool of moisture. 'How strange,'she thought, brushing a knuckle against her cheek.'Why am I crying when I feel so happy?'
Taking a slow breath to steady her emotions, she stepped out of the bedroom and crossed the main hall. The kitchen occupied the right side of the house, ending at a small side door that opened into the attached woodshed. This had been her absolute favorite spot for childhood games of hide-and-seek.
A specific memory surfaced, bright and clear. She had once squeezed herself into the narrow gap beneath the cooking stove, curling into a tight ball. Her playmates had searched the entire property, eventually panicking and running to the adults in tears, convinced she had wandered off into the forest. It wasn't until her parents frantically scoured the kitchen that they finally dragged her out from the soot-stained alcove by her ankles.
Aside from the terrifying afternoon she had nearly tumbled headfirst into the village well, that incident was the closest she had ever come to receiving a synchronized scolding from both her mother and father.
A soft, airy chuckle escaped her lips, echoing in the empty kitchen. It was true that the shadow of tragedy often loomed over her childhood memories, but the pure, unadulterated happiness of those early years was just as real, and just as worthy of being cherished.
When the deep, jagged scars of the past were finally soothed by time and the unwavering devotion of those who loved her, only faint silver lines remained. Now, she could look back on those innocent days and smile from the very bottom of her heart.
Stepping back out into the sunlit courtyard, she found Akira waiting exactly where she had left him. The moment he heard the door click shut, he closed the distance between them.
His sharp eyes immediately caught the faint redness rimming her eyes. Raising a hand, he gently brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, catching a stray tear before it could fall. "How is it?" he asked, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "Does it look the way you remember?"
Rebuilding this property had been no simple task. After the demon had ravaged the home, opportunistic scavengers had looted whatever remained in the ruins. To restore the courtyard to its exact former state, Akira had poured an immense amount of resources and personal effort into the investigation.
The surviving villagers had long since abandoned the area, scattering like ash in the wind to settle in distant towns. Fortunately, Akira's vast financial backing had proven incredibly persuasive. Without throwing a small fortune at the problem, even using Ubuyashiki Kagaya's intelligence network wouldn't have been enough to track down the scattered refugees just to interrogate them about the specific architectural details of a single house and the faces of Makomo's parents.
A decade was more than enough time for memories to rot away. Worse still, the neighbors who had been closest to Makomo's family had died trying to fend off the demon that night. Finding anyone who could accurately recall the interior layout of the house or the precise facial features of the Akita family had been like searching for a needle in a snowstorm.
Only through relentless inquiries, cross-referenced with historical data on rural living conditions from ten years ago, had he managed to piece the puzzle together. In truth, funding the actual construction had been the easiest part of the entire endeavor. Akira had never lacked the capital to make the impossible happen.
"Yes, it's perfect," Makomo whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I couldn't have asked for a better gift. Thank you, Akira."
She stepped forward, melting into his embrace. She rested her cheek against his chest, a radiant, peaceful smile gracing her lips as his arms wrapped securely around her waist.
"It's a little too early for thanks," Akira murmured, resting his chin gently on the top of her head. "This house is only the first half of the surprise. The rest is waiting for us up on the mountain behind the village."
She pulled back slightly, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "What is it?" This time, she genuinely had no idea what he could have possibly planned.
A faint, mysterious smile touched his lips. "You'll see soon enough. Shall we?"
Given their refined physical conditioning as Demon Slayers, the steep hike up the mountain trail took mere minutes. They soon arrived at a leveled terrace halfway up the slope. It was a serene, secluded clearing, offering a stunning, unobstructed view of the valley below.
In the very center of the clearing sat a neatly packed earthen mound. A pristine stone monument stood at its head, the freshly carved kanji reading: Grave of the Akita Couple.
Akita. It was her parents' surname—a name she hadn't spoken aloud in over a decade.
Reading the inscription, Makomo froze. She snapped her head around to stare at Akira, her teal eyes wide with absolute astonishment.
The horrific memories of that night flashed through her mind. She had watched, paralyzed by terror, as the demon tore her parents apart, consuming them right in front of her. Shortly after, Urokodaki Sakonji had arrived, rescuing her and taking her far away to his sanctuary on Mount Sagiri. With no remains left to recover and not a single piece of their clothing in her possession, she had never been able to build them a proper grave.
"It's only a cenotaph," Akira explained softly, stepping up beside her. "I managed to track down a few old articles of their clothing and a pair of shoes from the village ruins. As for their actual remains... I'm sorry, Makomo. I checked the internal records of the Demon Slayer Corps. The Kakushi cleanup crew who handled the aftermath cremated all the victims together to prevent disease."
"This is more than enough," Makomo choked out, her voice raspy and thick with unshed tears.
She took a trembling step forward. Dropping to her knees in the soft grass, she reached out, tracing her fingertips over the cold stone grooves of the newly carved characters. She traced the surname that tied her to a past she thought she had lost forever.
She knelt there for a long time, the mountain breeze rustling the trees around them. Finally, she rose to her feet and turned back to face Akira.
"Thank you," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his with deep tenderness. "If you have the time... would you mind listening to a story? A story about an ordinary little girl from the mountains?"
Over a year ago, Akira had bared his own soul to Kanae in front of his grandfather's grave, sharing the painful truths of his past. Kanae had later shared that deep moment with the other girls in the Butterfly Mansion, including Makomo.
Now, standing before the resting place of her own family, Makomo felt ready to do the same.
With the sweeping valley laid out below them, she pointed out the distant riverbanks and forest trails where she used to play, painting a vivid picture of her childhood with every word. She spoke of scraped knees, summer festivals, and the warm laughter that used to fill the cedar-scented halls of her home.
A gentle spring breeze swept across the clearing, fluttering the hem of Akira's uniform and lifting the dark strands of Makomo's hair. In that quiet, sacred space, the invisible threads binding their hearts pulled taut, vibrating with a quiet, unshakeable warmth.
This entire journey—the restored house, the portrait, the grave—was Akira's belated confession, fulfilling a promise he had made long ago.
True to his nature, he had bypassed flowery words in favor of obvious, practical action. It was his unique brand of romance, a silent vow that spoke louder than any poem: I have scoured the earth to piece together the fragments of your past, and I intend to be there for every single moment of your future.
And as Makomo stood there, willingly tearing down her walls to share the deepest, most vulnerable parts of her soul, she offered him her answer. It was a complete surrender of her heart, and the only response he would ever need.
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