The afternoon sun streamed through the narrow blinds, casting long golden stripes across the wooden floor. Dust danced in the air, lazily swirling around Ryunosuke as he knelt beside a stack of old boxes in the far corner of the study—his father's study. It had been untouched since the funeral, the door kept closed like a shrine. But today, Ryunosuke had decided to face it.
The room smelled like old paper and sandalwood, faint traces of his father still lingering in the air. He hesitated for a moment, resting his hand on one of the cardboard lids, then opened it. Old receipts, a faded map of Osaka, a broken pair of reading glasses—nothing out of the ordinary. But with each layer he peeled away, something inside him stirred, a quiet tension building behind his ribs.
He moved to the next box. More documents, letters, and a few yellowing photographs. One caught his eye: a black-and-white picture of a younger version of his father, standing next to a group of stern-looking men in suits. They were standing in front of a traditional Japanese building, flanked by stone lanterns and cherry trees in bloom. His father's expression was calm—but his hands were balled into fists.
There was no label on the next box. It was wooden, with dark lacquer and strange floral carvings etched into its lid. The craftsmanship was unlike anything Ryunosuke had seen in their home. He ran his fingers along the edges, feeling the uneven groove of the pattern—an iris blooming behind a serpent. Something about the symbol tugged at the back of his mind.
The box was locked, but a tiny key sat nearby, taped to the underside of the photo album. With a quiet click, the lid opened.
Inside, wrapped in delicate rice paper, was a sealed envelope addressed to him. His name was written in his father's unmistakable handwriting. Below the envelope was a folded cloth—dark blue, with a crest embroidered in gold thread. The same iris and serpent.
Ryunosuke sat back, the box in his lap, and stared at the letter. He hadn't expected this. The weight of it settled in his chest, heavy and real. Something told him that whatever lay within that envelope wasn't just a message from a parent to a son. It was a key to a door his father had tried to keep closed. And now… it had been left to him to open it.
The envelope was thick, its edges yellowed with age. Ryunosuke turned it over in his hands, the paper crisp and dry, and carefully broke the wax seal. The scent of cedar wafted out, subtle but deliberate, like incense from a shrine. His eyes scanned the first line—and his breath caught.
It was written entirely in Japanese.
He blinked, momentarily stunned. His father rarely spoke Japanese at home. He used it only when he was angry, or when something needed to be whispered in secret. To find a letter addressed to him in a language only he could read—it was no accident. This was meant for Ryunosuke, and Ryunosuke alone.
He adjusted his posture, sitting upright on the tatami mat as if instinctively preparing for something sacred. Then he read:
"To my son,
If you're reading this, then I am gone. And the past I buried has clawed its way back into the world."
Ryunosuke swallowed. The next lines flowed like a confession.
"I was not always the man you knew. Before I came to America, I was someone else. My name was known to men who feared it and whispered by those who revered it. I was the head of a family—not the one that raised you, but one that ruled from the shadows. We were called the Hiyashi."
His throat tightened.
"When your mother became pregnant with you, I tried to leave that life behind. I thought I could disappear. But there are things that never forget, Ryunosuke. People. Powers. Promises. And now, if the wheel has turned and you are reading this, it means the shadows I ran from have finally reached for you."
His vision blurred slightly. He blinked, but the tears gathered anyway—quiet and warm against his cheeks.
"I never wanted this for you. I never wanted you to carry my sins. But I fear you will need to understand them to survive what's coming. If you seek the truth, you must go to Osaka. Begin with the dojo in Gion. There, you may find a man named Kenji. If he is still alive, he will know what to do."
A tear rolled down his chin and splashed onto the edge of the paper. Ryunosuke wiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, ashamed at how easily the words had broken through his quiet defenses.
"Don't trust anyone who smiles too easily."
There was no signature. Just that final line. It echoed louder than the rest.
He lowered the letter into his lap, fingers trembling slightly. His father had always seemed so steady, so ordinary—a man of routines, of humming while he stirred soup, of tired eyes behind warm smiles.
But now, that image shattered quietly in his hands.
The room felt still, like the air itself was listening.
Ryunosuke placed the letter back into the wooden box and closed the lid with care. His hand lingered on the carved surface—the iris and the serpent, intertwined in an image that now carried weight he didn't yet understand.
He looked over to his sketchbook, resting on the edge of the desk where he'd left it the night before. It was open, half-filled with studies of hands, storefronts, and half-finished impressions of Emily and Lucas. He didn't remember opening it recently. But something tugged at him—a whisper in the back of his mind, guiding his fingers.
He flipped the page.
And froze.
There, drawn in stark charcoal lines, was a new image. One he didn't remember creating.
A sword, upright in the soil, its hilt wrapped in the coils of a serpent. From the base of the blade bloomed a single Japanese iris, petals unfolding in intricate detail. The style was unmistakably his, but more refined than his usual work. There was something ritualistic about the symmetry—something sacred.
He stared at it, heart pounding. His hand moved to his pencil case, fingertips trembling. He hadn't drawn this. He was certain. And yet… the weight in his chest told him otherwise. Like it had always been there, waiting for him to notice it.
He flipped back through earlier pages—nothing like it. Back again—sketches of Lilith, rooftops, dreams. Forward again. Still the same image. Still just as unfamiliar.
Then his eyes drifted to the wooden box.
The iris and the serpent.
They were identical.
A strange chill ran up his spine, not from fear, but recognition. Like something deep within him had stirred. Like the image had passed through his hand without his knowledge, guided by something older than memory.
He stared at it for several minutes, until the lines began to shimmer faintly under the sunlight.
Then he whispered, almost afraid to break the silence, "Lilith… What are you trying to show me…?"
And for just a moment, he could swear the petals of the iris moved.