Too close.
Sayuri’s fingers trembled against the grip of her bow.
Trying to stop them only made the shaking worse.
Late-afternoon sun spilled across the polished cedar floor, bathing the dojo in warm gold.
All she could hear was her heartbeat.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Ryosuke stood behind her—not touching, but close enough to unsettle her form.
No arrow was nocked.
He had stopped her before she could begin.
His hand entered her view, larger and steadier than hers, and adjusted her hold on the bow.
“Your shoulder is too high, Suzuki.” His voice was calm.
Always calm.
It only made her more nervous.
“Relax,” he said, shifting her hand slightly.
“Inhale…”
Heat prickled beneath Sayuri’s bangs.
She fixed on the white target, yet still registered his hand over hers and his breath near her ear as he checked her posture.
Her bow arm locked beneath his hand.
“Don’t force it,” he murmured.
“Focus only on the center.
The world outside doesn’t exist.” For one perfect moment, there had been only the bow, the target, and his steady presence.
Then the remembered afternoon shatters.
Golden light dissolves into cold blue moonlight.
The air turns still and frigid.
Sayuri’s breath drifts before her in faint white clouds.
That afternoon ended a year ago.
Official practice ended twenty minutes ago.
The club completed cleanup together before leaving.
The floor has been swept, the equipment inspected, and the ground beneath the targets smoothed.
Most of the members have already gone.
Sayuri received permission to remain for extra practice until 6:30 p.m.
The club advisor sits inside the glass-sided office beyond the viewing corridor, finishing paperwork while she shoots.
Sayuri is the only archer left on the shooting floor.
She smooths the folds of her dark hakama.
A black chest protector lies flat over her white kyudogi, secured diagonally from the upper-right side of her chest toward her left underarm.
It keeps the bowstring from catching against her chest or uniform during release.
Sayuri presses two fingers along its lower edge.
It is already secure.
She checks anyway.
She carries four arrows to the shooting line.
With practiced precision, she places one pair on the floor a few inches in front of her stance, their tips aligned with the center of her body.
She keeps the other pair in her right hand.
After adjusting her footing, she nocks the first arrow and secures the second beneath her fingers.
She raises the bow and draws.
Inhale… Exhale…
Twang.
Thunk.
The arrow strikes the black center.
Sayuri maintains her final posture before lowering the bow.
“Concentrate.” Her voice carries across the quiet range.
The center hit feels hollow.
She glances behind her.
No Ryosuke.
Beyond the viewing corridor, the club advisor remains bent over his paperwork.
Sayuri faces the target again.
Only after completing the movement does she bring the second arrow forward and nock it.
She releases without allowing herself enough time to settle.
Twang.
Thunk.
Off-center.
Sayuri lowers the bow and collects the remaining pair from the floor without leaving the shooting line.
The familiar movement should give her time to reset.
She does not take it.
She nocks the third arrow and raises the bow before her breathing steadies.
Twang.
Thunk.
The next arrow lands a fraction farther from the center.
One arrow remains against her right hand.
She brings it forward before her pulse settles.
Twang.
The cluster spreads.
Thunk.
“Stop trying so hard.” The memory of Ryosuke’s voice cuts through the silence.
“Easy for you to say,” she murmurs.
She lowers the bow, but before she can begin correcting everything that went wrong, the temperature plummets.
Ozone and old iron thicken the air.
An ancient pressure gathers across the room, settling against her back.
Sayuri turns sharply, raising the bow before catching herself.
The shooting floor is empty.
Beyond the glass, the club advisor continues writing, apparently unaware.
The metallic smell vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the dry scent of cedar floorboards.
Sayuri lowers the bow and forces her pulse to settle.
You’re just exhausted.
She faces the targets again, drawn in by the familiar frustration of the club’s two ranking boards:
BOYS’ TEAM RANKING
Nakamura Ryosuke
GIRLS’ TEAM RANKING
Suzuki Sayuri
Tanaka Aina
Officially, Ryosuke and Sayuri both hold first place.
Sayuri has never treated the separate divisions as protection from comparison.
Ryosuke releases without chasing perfection and moves on; she carries every flaw into the next shot.
When she looks at the boards, his name still feels like the one above hers.
She wants to surpass him.
She wants to pass the prefectural federation’s first-dan examination before he does and prove—to Ryosuke, to the club, and to herself—that discipline can outrun talent.
Tap… Tap… Tap…
Footsteps approach along the wooden corridor.
Sayuri lowers her bow and steps away from the shooting line before the door opens.
Ryosuke waits at the edge of the viewing corridor in his school uniform, his shoes left at the entrance.
“You’re still here?
You’ll wear the floor out at this rate.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“You’re never finished.”
Sayuri places her bow in the stand before joining him in the viewing corridor.
“You left,” she notes.
“I changed.”
“That doesn’t take forty minutes.”
“I had something to do.” He studies the targets through the open partition.
“You’re overcorrecting.”
Sayuri folds her right hand behind her back, concealing the faint tremor in her fingers.
“I hit the center.”
“Not naturally,” he replies.
“You forced it.
You won’t repeat it when it matters—not after shooting until your hand starts shaking.”
“My hand is fine.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“You implied it.”
Their familiar argument loosens something in her shoulders.
Then the air turns cold again.
A sharp visual flash tears through her mind—
Crimson hair swept through a doorway.
Aina—no, a girl with Aina’s face—caught the frame with one hand.
Her clothes belonged to another time, and the room beyond her was one Sayuri had never seen.
Sayuri reached after her.
Or someone inside her did.
She could not hear the words, but she knew the girl’s name had been called.
Sayuri clutches her chest and pulls in air.
Ryosuke steps closer, his attention sharpening.
“What?
You look like you saw something.”
Her heart stumbles.
“I didn’t.”
He watches her for a moment longer before turning toward the storage bench.
He picks up a black notebook resting beside his schoolbag.
“You shouldn’t use extra practice to wear your hand down.”
“I know when to stop.”
“You’re going to injure it again.”
“I won’t.” Sayuri looks away.
“Why did you really come back?”
Ryosuke pauses.
“Aina asked me to.
She is worried.”
The answer lands badly.
Of course Aina noticed.
She always notices when either of them pushes too far.
“She worries too much,” Sayuri says, though the words carry no conviction.
“She does.” He tucks the notebook beneath his arm.
“Get changed.
We’re going to the dining hall before it closes.”
“You could go alone.”
“Aina will blame me if you collapse.”
Sayuri almost smiles.
“That does sound like her.”
Sayuri waits until the club advisor confirms that the range is clear.
Only then does she cross to the targets and retrieve her four arrows.
She unstrings her bow, stores her equipment, and changes back into her school uniform.
When she and Ryosuke are ready to leave, they bow toward the dojo.
The club advisor checks the range, switches off the lights, and locks the doors behind them.
Sayuri carries her long bow beside her in its fabric case as she and Ryosuke cross the dark school grounds toward the dining hall.
“The dining hall closes in twenty minutes,” Ryosuke says.
“Which means we’re getting whatever leftover rice is dry.”
“I do not complain about rice,” Sayuri replies, adjusting the case against her shoulder.
“I simply point out culinary facts.”
“Right.
Culinary facts.”
They eat quickly, their usual back-and-forth fading between them.
As they step onto the covered pathway leading toward the dorms, Sayuri pauses.
Leaves rustle near the line of trees bordering the walkway—a slow, deliberate cadence of weight shifting against the earth.
Sayuri turns toward the concrete pillars.
For an instant, the outdoor light catches crimson hair beside the shoe lockers.
The figure retreats behind a pillar.
Sayuri’s knuckles turn white against her bow strap.
“Aina?”
Ryosuke stops.
“What?”
“I thought… I thought I saw someone.” Sayuri checks the pillar again, but the shadow is empty now.
Her hand falls from the strap.
“Never mind.
It was nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Come on,” he says softly.
“I’ll walk you to the dorms.”
✦ ✦ ✦
After their footsteps fade, Aina steps from behind the pillar.
She presses both hands to her chest and watches Sayuri disappear.
She tells herself she came only to make sure Sayuri was safe.
The explanation feels thinner now that Ryosuke is walking beside her.
Aina remains hidden until their voices vanish into the dormitory grounds.
Then she turns toward home.
✦ ✦ ✦
Back inside the empty dojo, moonlight stretches across the floorboards.
Tap.
A human-shaped shadow emerges beside the viewing corridor.
A smooth hollow rests where its face should be.
It does not follow Sayuri or Ryosuke.
Its attention remains fixed on the pillar where Aina had been hiding.
Watching Aina watching Sayuri.
Waiting.