Aiko woke before her alarm, the last fragments of her dream slipping away like mist. For a moment, she lay still, staring at the pale ceiling as dawn crept through the shoji screen. Her heart thudded, slow and heavy, as if it too carried the memory of chanting voices and trembling earth. She pressed her palm to her chest, half-expecting to feel the warmth that had surged through her in the dream. But her skin was cool, her room silent except for the faint tick of the clock. She sat up slowly, the futon rustling beneath her. The dream lingered, more vivid than any she could remember—ancient trees, firelight, the priestess’s dark eyes locking with her own. The memory sent a shiver down her spine. It felt less like a dream and more like a message, something urgent and unfinished.

  Aiko’s gaze drifted to her desk. The pottery shard lay where she’d left it, nestled on its handkerchief. She padded across the tatami and picked it up, turning it over in the soft morning light. The spiral carvings seemed to shimmer, catching the gold of the rising sun. She ran her thumb along the grooves and felt a faint pulse—a gentle vibration, so subtle she might have imagined it.

  She closed her eyes, listening. The silence of the house was deeper than usual, as if the world itself was holding its breath. When she opened her eyes again, everything seemed sharper: the grain of the wood beneath her feet, the cry of a sparrow outside her window, the scent of pine, damp thatch, and faint charcoal smoke from a neighbor’s hearth two streets away. Even the in the cedar rafters tickled her nose. The ordinary world was alive in impossible detail.

  Aiko set the shard down, her fingers trembling. She glanced at her reflection in the window, searching for some outward sign of change, but saw only herself—messy hair, sleep-creased face, wide, uncertain eyes. She dressed slowly, her mind racing with questions. Was it just a dream? Or had something truly awakened inside her? She remembered the way the earth had seemed to breathe beneath her hand yesterday, the whisper that had curled around her thoughts.

  As she tied her hair back and slipped into her uniform, she resolved to talk to Baachan. If anyone could make sense of these strange feelings—of the dream, the shard, the sense that the world was shifting beneath her feet—it was her grandmother.

  Downstairs, the house was still quiet. Aiko paused at the top of the stairs, the pottery shard warm in her pocket, and took a deep breath. she thought, nd she was right. The kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of miso soup and grilled fish when Aiko entered. Baachan was already at the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes closed in a silent morning prayer. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting golden rectangles across the worn wooden floor.

  Aiko slid quietly into her seat, the pottery shard tucked safely in her skirt pocket. Her mother bustled by with a tray of rice balls, humming softly to herself. Aiko waited until her mother turned away, then leaned closer to her grandmother. “Baachan,” she whispered, “can I ask you something?”

  Baachan opened her eyes and smiled, the wrinkles at the corners deepening. “Of course, Aiko-chan. What troubles you?”

  Aiko hesitated, glancing at her mother’s back. “I had a dream last night. It felt… real. There was a forest, and firelight, and a woman with eyes like the night sky. She was holding something—something like this.” She slipped the shard from her pocket and placed it gently on the table, careful to shield it from her mother’s view.

  Baachan’s smile faded as she studied the fragment. Her fingers hovered above it, not quite touching. “Where did you find this?” she asked quietly.

  “At the Jomon site, yesterday,” Aiko replied. “When I touched it, I felt something. And last night, I dreamed I was there, but it was… different. Older. Like I was seeing the past.”

  Baachan’s eyes grew distant, her voice dropping to a hush. “There are stories, very old ones, about the earth remembering. About how the spirits of our ancestors linger in the stones and the trees. Sometimes, the land chooses someone to hear its voice.” She looked at Aiko, her gaze sharpening like flint. “But such gifts are not given lightly. You must listen as you would to thunder before a storm—quietly, and with your whole soul.”

  Aiko swallowed. “Do you know what the spirals mean?”

  Her grandmother nodded slowly. “They are the marks of the old ones, the Jomon. They believed the world was alive, that everything had a spirit. The spiral is a sign of connection between the earth, the sky, and us.” She finally touched the shard, her fingers trembling. “This is very old, Aiko. Older than anything you’ll find in your textbooks.”

  Aiko’s mother returned to the table, and Baachan quickly folded the shard into Aiko’s hand, her expression grave.

  “Be careful, child. If the land has chosen to speak to you, you must carry it with reverence. And you must not let others know—not yet. There are those who would not understand. And some,” she added, voice tight, “who would take such power for themselves.”

  Aiko nodded, her heart thumping. She slipped the shard back into her pocket, the weight of her grandmother’s warning settling over her like a cloak.

  Breakfast continued, but Aiko barely tasted the food. Her mind spun with questions and half-formed fears. She glanced at Baachan, who only offered a small, reassuring nod. Outside, the wind rattled the bamboo in the garden. Aiko pressed her hand to her pocket, feeling the warmth of the ancient clay, and wondered just how much her world was about to change.

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  Aiko drifted through the morning at school as if she were walking underwater. The world felt too bright, too sharp, as if someone had turned up the volume on her senses. She could hear the faintest rustle of paper from the other side of the classroom, the distant hum of the vending machines in the hall, even the soft sigh of her teacher as he wrote on the board. Every sound pressed in on her, layering over the next until she had to fight the urge to cover her ears.

  During lunch, she sat at the edge of the courtyard, away from the clusters of chattering students. The pottery shard was tucked safely in her bag, but she could feel its presence, like a gentle thrum at the base of her spine. She picked at her rice ball, barely tasting it, her thoughts chasing themselves in circles.

  As the bell rang for gym class, Aiko changed into her uniform and joined her classmates on the field. The sun was high, the sky a brilliant blue, but the light shimmered strangely at the edges of her vision. She squinted, trying to focus as the teacher explained the day’s activity: relay races. When it was her turn, Aiko crouched at the starting line, her heart pounding. She could feel the eyes of her classmates on her, the anticipation and impatience in the air. The whistle blew, and she surged forward, feet pounding the packed earth.

  Each step sent a jolt up her legs, the vibration echoing through her bones—and something else. An ancient drumbeat beneath her soles. The earth was . It was responding. Halfway down the track, she felt a surge of anxiety—a sudden, overwhelming sense of being watched, of expectation pressing down on her. The ground beneath her feet seemed to pulse in response. For a split second, she felt as if she were running on the skin of a breathing creature. Then, with a muffled crack, a shallow fissure split the dirt just ahead of her. Aiko stumbled, barely catching herself. The vibration was more than seismic—it was emotion, rage, but not hers. Something buried and old.

  She glanced back, expecting to see someone who had noticed, but her classmates were too busy cheering and shouting. Only one girl stood apart from the group—Emi

  Aiko finished the race, legs trembling. She rejoined her class in a daze, but the fissure had burned itself into her memory. She kept her head down, avoiding Emi’s gaze. But the rest of the day shimmered with strangeness. In class, she picked up on her classmates’ moods like vibrations in the air—the irritation of a boy with a broken pencil, the nervous quiver in a girl’s voice as she recited a poem, the quiet pride that curled behind her teacher’s smile. It was as though invisible threads were strung between them, and Aiko’s fingers had begun to tug them unconsciously.

  When the final bell rang, she hurried from the building, her mind spinning. She barely noticed Emi watching her from across the courtyard, a thoughtful frown shadowing her face. On the walk home, the world seemed to settle. The overwhelming rush of sensation eased as she left the crowds behind. But the memory of the fissure in the earth, the pulse beneath her feet, lingered. She pressed her hand to her bag, feeling the shard’s warmth, and wondered what she had awakened—and who else had felt it.

  The sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet as the village slipped into evening. In the shadows beyond the last row of houses, a man in a dark coat stood half-hidden beneath the low branches of a cedar, his posture still and patient. He had watched Aiko all afternoon—her hurried steps from school, the way she kept glancing over her shoulder, the nervous energy that seemed to ripple in her wake.

  He pressed a small earpiece deeper into his ear and spoke quietly, his voice barely more than a breath. “She’s showing signs. The report was accurate.”

  A faint crackle of static, then another voice, older and colder, replied, “Describe what you saw.”

  “She caused a disturbance on the school grounds. Minor, but unnatural. The earth responded to her. She’s carrying something—an artifact, I believe.”

  There was a pause. “Continue surveillance. Do not approach her directly. The elders will want confirmation.”

  The man’s gaze flicked back toward the village, where the lights were beginning to blink on one by one. “Understood,” he said, and ended the transmission.

  He melted into the trees with practiced silence. Soon, he reached a narrow footpath that wound through the woods to a hidden clearing. There, beneath the twisted limbs of an ancient pine, stood a moss-covered shrine. Two other figures waited, their faces veiled in shadow. The air tasted like rust and old stone.

  “She’s more sensitive than expected,” the man said. “The artifact is active. It may be the Vessel of the Earth.”

  The woman beside him, her voice rough as gravel, nodded. “The legends speak of a vessel that can awaken the land’s memory. If she’s bonded with it, she could become a threat—or a tool.”

  The third, older, and taller finally spoke. “We must be cautious. The Kage no Kurayami has waited centuries for this moment. If the girl unlocks the vessel’s full power, it could shift the balance. Watch her. Report everything. When the time is right, we will act.”

  The man bowed. “Yes, Sensei.”

  The three faded into the darkness. The shrine remained, still as stone. But something in it stirred, quiet and waiting.

  Sleep eluded Aiko that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the earth’s pulse beneath her, the memory of the dream and the day’s strange events thrumming in her veins. The house was quiet, her family long since gone to bed, but Aiko lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the pottery shard warm in her palm. Unable to bear the restlessness any longer, she slipped from her futon and tiptoed down the hall. She pulled on her jacket and crept outside. The moon hung low, veiled by drifting clouds, and the village was hushed, save for the distant croak of a frog and the whisper of wind. The path to the Jomon site seemed to know her feet. Trees bowed in silence as she passed.

  She reached the clearing, heart pounding, and knelt beside the ancient mound. For a long moment, she sat, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of moss and loam. Then she pressed the shard to the earth. “If you’re there… if you can hear me… please, show me.”

  The silence deepened. Then warmth, a pulse, and the shard grew hot in her hand. The ground hummed in response. The clearing faded, and firelight flared. She stood again in the forest from her dreams.

  The priestess stepped forward, surrounded by elders. Her eyes glinted black, then gold, filled with flame. Her voice unfolded around Aiko like wind in the trees. “You have awakened the memory of the land. But shadows hunger for the heart of this world. Beware those who walk unseen. The vessel’s power is both shield and beacon.”

  The chanting rose behind her, a wall of sound. Aiko reached out, desperate—but the vision shattered like glass.

  She gasped in the dark, the shard against her chest, but only night remained. The warning clung like smoke. Shadows hunger for the heart of this world and something had chosen her to stand in their way.