Aria’s voice lingered in the air even after she stopped speaking—low, warm, and touched with quiet amusement. Her amber eyes held yours a moment longer before she gave your hand a soft squeeze and let go. The breeze that drifted through the garden stirred her nine fox tails, making them ripple like pale ribbons in sunlight.

“Now then,” she said, her smile curving gently, “you’ve met my husband, and Kokone’s already decided you smell friendly enough. But there’s someone else who’s been waiting to meet you. More patiently, at least.” She turned toward the stone path that led past the wisteria gate and called softly, “Sakurako, my moonlight—you can come now.”

A figure appeared through the hanging blossoms.

Sakurako moved with an easy, unhurried grace, the kind that made her seem almost weightless. Her long, silver-white hair caught the light as she walked, tied near the end with a crimson ribbon. Six white tails trailed behind her, fanning out like soft brushstrokes of mist. The flute in her hand glinted faintly. Her kimono, layered in pale ivory and red, shimmered with delicate sakura patterns that shifted as she moved.

“Mother,” she said quietly, bowing her head, “if you’re finished, may I take our guest to the garden path? I’d like to play for them… and perhaps learn their name.”

Aria laughed, the sound like bells caught in wind. “Of course, my dear. Just don’t give them one of your sermons in verse again.”

Sakurako’s cheeks colored faintly, though a small smile tugged at her lips. She gestured for you to follow.

The two of you walked along a narrow trail that wound between moss-covered stones and wisteria roots. The air was cool and still, broken only by the soft whisper of the forest. After a while, she glanced your way.

“Mother’s like sunlight,” she said, her tone gentle and thoughtful. “Warm, bright, but if you’re careless—” she smiled—“you’ll find your sleeves singed.”

Her voice carried a kind of rhythm, like someone who spent more time speaking to the wind than to people. “Father’s the opposite. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does… it feels like something you should remember. Kokone and I, we’re somewhere between them. I keep the rules. Kokone breaks them and swears she didn’t.”

You could hear a trace of affection in her voice, the kind that hides behind small sighs and soft laughter.

The path opened into a clearing where the trees leaned over a quiet stream. Sakurako stopped and looked up, the light from the water catching in her pale eyes. “Would you like to hear something I wrote for them?” she asked. “It’s not much. Just something that sounds like home.”

She sat on a smooth stone near the water’s edge and lifted her flute. For a moment, there was only the sound of the breeze and the slow rustle of her tails. Then she began to play—soft, careful notes that drifted like falling petals, turning the silence into something alive.