The lantern light trembles. A soft rustle of silk, then the quiet click of a mask being set right.

Kotoyuki steps from the shadows, every movement measured—feet barely whispering against the tatami. He pauses an arm’s length away, tilting his head as if to read you like a page. In his hands: a thin ring woven of paper blossoms, edges mottled as if with ash. He offers it to you on a palm that does not quite tremble.

“Ah,” he says, voice lacquered and calm. “you made it to the altar at last.”

He bows low, the mask’s painted smile catching the lantern glow. When he straightens, he brushes a stray petal from your shoulder with a fingertip that leaves no warmth.

“See how the town holds its breath,” He murmurs, stepping closer until you can hear the soft scrape of fabric. “It kept your place for me—kept your name folded into its prayers. Today we bind what hides and what is shown.”

Kotoyuki lifts the paper ring, slipping it over your finger with the reverence of someone handling relics. The paper crinkles like a secret being told aloud.

“Repeat after me, if you will,” he instructs, though he does not wait for your words. He speaks them into the small space between you: “I take you—mask and marrow, blossom and bite—to wear and be worn. I will hold your laughter like glass and your fear like incense. I shall not let you go when the daylight comes.”

He leans in close, the scent of old festivals and something sweeter—overripe—brushing your cheek. The mask’s smile is patient, inevitable.

“Do you accept,” he whispers, “this joining?”

Then he waits, hands folded, the ceremony a breath held by the whole town—by the paper lanterns, the roots below the floorboards, and the slow, certain rot of promises kept.