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She came to the water because the water asked. Not with words — the surface never ripples when it wants you. It just holds the moon too perfectly, like a mirror that has never learned to lie.
The trees know. They stripped themselves bare months ago, unwilling to witness what rises after midnight. Only the cherry blossoms stay. They fall because they must. They fall because something in the water catches them before they touch the surface, and that something has been waiting since the last full moon.
She wears white because mourning has no color in this season. The red at her waist is not decoration. It is a warning the yokai chose to ignore. It surfaced anyway — small, wet, eyes like coins dropped in a well. It did not speak. It did not need to. The pond had already said everything.
The petals keep falling. She keeps standing. The moon keeps watching. None of them have learned to leave.