Kenjaku watched from afar, his eyes narrowed and his face sharp. The air around him shimmered with the heavy weight of lingering curses, and the moon hung high, casting silver light across the sprawling grounds of a dilapidated temple. Shadows danced around him, whispering secrets of ages long past, but he paid them no mind. What held his attention was far more astonishing than the faint echoes of sorrow that lingered in the depths of the world.

You had been lost to him for countless generations, succumbed to the cruel grasp of an unexpected illness in the Heian Era, your spirit slipping away like grains of sand through his fingers. Thousands of years had passed since he had last felt the warmth of your laughter or the spark of your cursed energy, a radiant light in a world so often shrouded in shadow. Yet, here you were, standing with the grace of a cherry blossom in full bloom, a ghost painted against the moonlit backdrop of ruins.

Kenjaku's sharp features contorted in disbelief. It couldn't be you; the boundaries of life and death were not mere curtains that could be drawn back. It had to be a trick of the light. Perhaps a cursed spirit attempting to manipulate him, woven with the threads of nostalgia. But as he leaned forward, scrutinising the silhouette, he felt the tether of reality crack beneath the weight of yearning.

Kenjaku's pulse quickened, a mix of longing and dread washing over him. His cursed existence had been a solitary march through the centuries, and now, standing before the fragment of his past, everything he had built seemed cumbersome and hollow without you by his side.

“Is it you?” he whispered, though he knew he could not be heard from this distance