Chapter 194: Eating Together

  The sun was already dipping low when the first streaks of twilight painted the sky. Birds glided back to their nests, wings catching the last blush of the day, while clouds at the horizon glowed with hues of crimson and gold. The entire world seemed wrapped in that fleeting moment between light and dark—when day gives its final sigh, and night stretches her fingers across the land.

  Half of the sun disappeared below the horizon, its fading light spilling across the lake like molten copper. In the east, a slender crescent moon quietly rose, silver and shy, its light mingling with the deepening blue of dusk. The wind carried the faint scent of damp grass and wildflowers, brushing through the reeds with a whisper.

  The hillside was awash with rippling green, bending in soft waves under the evening breeze. Occasionally, a traveler passed along the dirt path—head bowed, steps hurried—oblivious to the beauty unfurling around them. Crickets began their nocturnal song, blending with the distant murmur of the river.

  But near the riverside, one man stood unmoving. A canvas rested on an easel before him, and the rhythmic scratch of his brush was the only sound he made. Each stroke was patient, deliberate, almost reverent.

  He looked to be in his thirties—tall, with glasses that caught the faint reflection of the dying light. His white shirt was worn thin from countless washes, but neatly pressed and clean. His eyes, behind the lenses, were calm yet faintly sorrowful as they gazed upon the lake, its surface shimmering like glass beneath the moon.

  On the painting board, a woman’s figure was captured mid-motion. The brush had frozen her at that tender instant when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the soft light of dusk outlining her face with gentle warmth. Her expression was serene, almost eternal—a beauty that would never fade.

  Kouya, standing nearby, slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of spiritual cookie. He extended it toward the ethereal woman beside him. “Here. Eat.”

  Hotaru blinked, her soft eyes shimmering under the moonlight. “Yes,” she whispered, accepting the offering. She bit delicately into the cookie, and the effect was immediate. Her faint glow brightened, then steadied. The blurred outline of her body grew clearer, and her once-fading aura of youki began to flow anew. Within moments, the ghostly mist around her vanished entirely, revealing her true face—beautiful, gentle, and unmistakably human.

  It was the same face that the man was painting.

  Kouya wasn’t one to hand out favors easily. But something in Hotaru’s eyes—so pure, so painfully sincere—made it impossible to refuse. To him, who had taken an interest in studying what “liking” truly meant, this small act was worth it.

  “I heard from that silver-haired girl,” Hotaru said softly, her voice like a drifting melody, “that Kouya-sama is kind and gentle. Now that I’ve met you, I think she was right.” Her lips curled slightly, teasingly. “Though… I also heard you like collecting girls’ tears.”

  Kouya’s eyebrow twitched, and he exhaled sharply. “Collecting tears,” he muttered under his breath. “Do I look like a fetishist to you?”

  Hotaru laughed quietly, her voice as faint as the breeze.

  He grimaced inwardly. Did she think he was some kind of pervert? His collection of tears wasn’t some strange hobby—it was for research, a perfectly respectable study of emotional purity. Still, he couldn’t quite defend himself without sounding guilty, so he said nothing more.

  “I don’t have anything else to give you,” Hotaru continued after a pause. “So… please accept this.”

  She held out her hand. Resting in her palm was a single tear, pure and crystalline, glimmering faintly with spiritual light.

  “I’ll take it,” Kouya said quietly.

  The moment his fingers brushed the tear, the air seemed to shimmer. A cascade of memories unfolded before his eyes—not his own, but hers. He saw the story of their meeting, their companionship, the gentle warmth that had blossomed between them.

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  It had begun in another twilight like this—dim, wistful, painted in gold and shadow. She, a youkai bound to solitude; he, a man searching for beauty and meaning through art. Two beings from different worlds crossing paths by accident.

  She had feared her nature would repel him. But he only smiled, eyes full of kindness. “It’s alright,” he had said. “I can tell—you and I are both lonely people.”

  From that moment, their fates intertwined. They shared the same roads, the same sunsets. Through cold rain and silver moonlight, they had walked together, speaking of dreams and fleeting memories. To Hotaru, who once believed her existence held no meaning beyond survival, his company was like warmth after centuries of winter.

  When she saw him, she smiled. When he was gone, she missed him. She found herself watching him paint for hours, captivated by the calm intensity in his eyes. She wanted to make him laugh again, to keep hearing his gentle voice. For the first time, she understood what it meant to live not just for herself—but for another.

  Only later did she realize the word for this feeling: love.

  But she had never said it aloud. She couldn’t.

  When the land around them was flooded and turned into a lake, her spiritual energy began to wane. Her form weakened, and she could no longer maintain her body. She had become a fading light, a faceless silhouette made of mist. How could she let him see her like that? She was terrified he would be frightened—or worse, pity her.

  So she chose to disappear silently.

  Now, standing beneath the crescent moon, she felt her time had finally run out.

  …

  The two walked slowly down the gentle slope, side by side. The night hummed with the songs of frogs and the faint chirps of crickets. The moonlight poured over them, soft and silver, painting their shadows long upon the ground.

  The air was cool, carrying the smell of earth and water. They spoke in quiet tones, words drifting away in the wind before either could truly grasp them. It felt less like conversation, more like memory made real.

  When they reached the riverbank’s end, Hotaru stopped. She turned toward the man she had once loved, her gaze luminous, reflecting a thousand unspoken words.

  “May I hug you?” she asked.

  He hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded. “Yes.”

  Hotaru stepped forward. Her faint form shimmered like moonlight on water as she wrapped her arms gently around him. It was a fragile embrace—warm, trembling, full of longing. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against her fading body.

  “I missed this,” she murmured.

  Then the wind stirred, and her body began to dissolve. One by one, her fingers lost substance. Her form broke into a scatter of glowing lights that danced upward into the air.

  A voice, light as a sigh, drifted past his ear:

  “Please… be happy.”

  And then she was gone.

  The man stood there for a long time, tears trailing down his face, though he was smiling. The last of her lights rose and scattered across the river, mingling with the fireflies that had awakened under the moon. In that instant, the world seemed to hold its breath, as if mourning—and blessing—their parting.

  From the hillside, countless fireflies emerged, flickering into the sky. They gathered, swirled, and spread until the night looked like a sea of stars had descended upon the earth. Passersby stopped to watch, whispering in awe, unaware that this dazzling scene was the farewell gift of a youkai named Hotaru—the gentlest of all.

  Kouya stood at a distance, watching quietly. The weight of her story lingered within him. Humans and youkai—no matter how strong their connection—were bound by the cruel divide of time. Even if they met, even if they loved, one would always fade before the other.

  He glanced toward the grieving man, then stepped forward.

  “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked softly.

  The man blinked, startled. “What?”

  Kouya reached into his sleeve and drew out a slender red thread. “Here,” he said, placing it in the man’s hand. “If fate truly exists, it will find its way again.”

  He turned before the man could speak, the wind lifting his hair as he walked away.

  Behind him, the man looked down at the string, then tied it carefully around his wrist. The wind blew once more, and the other end of the string fluttered outward, as though searching for the unseen hand that waited somewhere far beyond.

  …

  By the time Kouya returned home, night had settled fully. The streets were quiet except for the faint hum of streetlights. He walked up the steps of the apartment complex, his mind still lingering on the image of the fading fireflies.

  As he passed the door next to his, it clicked open. Out stepped Gabriel—still in her pink sweater, hair slightly messy, holding a trash bag in one hand. Her golden eyes were half-lidded with boredom.

  When she saw him, she froze for a moment, then frowned. “Move. You’re blocking the door.”

  Kouya stepped aside, glancing at the bag. “Throwing trash out at this hour?”

  “None of your business,” Gabriel muttered. “You were gone all day. Not that I care, but it was suspiciously quiet.”

  “How do you even know I wasn’t home?” Kouya asked, a small smirk forming.

  “B-because I was going to use the Broken Smile Fist on you, but you vanished, coward!”

  Kouya’s expression darkened for a brief second, then softened. He thought of the man and the fireflies and exhaled slowly. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

  Gabriel blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

  “I haven’t either.” Kouya’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “Let’s go eat together.”