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He was only a child, so he doesn't remember much. What he recalls is the smell of garbage, heady and disgusting; the feel of dirt against his face; and the shriek of the train passing centimeters overhead.
He doesn't remember much. He remembers falling and landing on one of the metal rails. It wasn't electrified but it may as well have been—it slammed into his solar plexus and he felt paralyzed with pain.
When his head cleared, he was lying in the groove between the rails and the train was sailing overhead, a metal monster roaring for his blood. He should have died then. But he didn't.
Sometimes he dreams about it. When he wakes up, before the dream is fragmented by the morning sun, he thinks he remembers hands reaching for him. He thinks he remembers the lights of the barreling train reflecting off silver hair. But he can't be sure.
--
Daichi is graduating high school in three days. His life to this point has been largely uneventful, except he has a reputation for clumsiness, often dropping or misplacing things. He's grateful for the normalcy, for all the opportunities his small life has offered him.
He's sitting by the window, which is open to capture whatever stray spring breeze there is to be had. The light bends strangely for a moment, and Daichi blinks. The midafternoon is warm and the teacher's voice is soothing—he must be falling asleep.
The breeze dies, and then the pages of his classical literature book begin to flip at a rapid pace. He jumps in his seat and slams his hand down on his book to stop the pages, and the loud bang makes the classroom fall silent.
"Sawamura-san?" the teacher demands. "Do you have something to share with the class?"
He thinks he hears someone laugh close to his ear, and frowns.
After he's appropriately scolded and class has resumed, he looks down at the page under his fingers. His eyes catch on a tanka poem.
Long last we meet, only for me
to leave hurriedly, for I could
not recognize you, like the
moon hidden behind the clouds.
--
Daichi is a cautious person. Perhaps he would have been that way without the constant tiny episodes of bad luck he encounters on a daily basis: the expiration date on his milk carton inexplicably changes; his favorite tie goes missing only to reappear squashed inside his winter hat, which he hasn't worn in months; gifts for his lovers go missing over and over again.
But his luck comes through when it matters. Daichi is exhausted from a long day at work, and is about to step off the curb when an invisible force seizes his arm and drags him back.
Startled, he turns his head and catches a gimpse of bone-white horns. He blinks and it's gone, replaced by the ordinary traffic of late evening.
"Thank you," he says, because he was raised to be polite. He feels it touch his elbow again and linger, long enough that he cannot mistake it, before it vanishes.
--
His last parent has died and he lingers long after the other mourners have gone home. He sits down slowly, as if unable to stand any longer beneath some weight.
Something lands on the ground beside him. It is, inexplicably, a cluster of camellias.
He picks it up and his eyes catch on another flash of red very close to his face, outlining the shape of eyes. He feels his heart clench with terror and the flowers fall from his fingers.
The flowers don't move; after a few minutes a bird sings outside. Daichi shakes himself, frowning at his own nerves, and reaches to pick them up again. This time nothing frightens him.
"I miss them," he says to the empty air.
The flowers in his hands bob their heads as if listening.
--
At the end of a long life, he sees the source of all his luck. It's everything he imagined: silver hair, a porcelain half-mask with the eyes outlined in red, and horns that end in wicked points.
Daichi is dying, but his guardian cannot shield him from this.
"Why me?" he asks.
Slowly he watches the youkai's head turn towards him. Its mouth is visible beneath the mask, first slackening with surprise before quirking into a kind smile.
"Long last we meet," it says.
Realization dawns. "Only for me to leave hurriedly," Daichi murmurs. "For I could not recognize you, like the moon hidden behind the clouds."
The youkai leans over him, its golden eyes curious and faintly sad. It brushes a hand over Daichi's short hair.
"I have found you one hundred times," it says. "Do you remember my name?"
Daichi shakes his head. His head tingles, the youkai's gesture translating only into a vague feeling.
The youkai sighs, a long sound like leaves rustling. It doesn't say I love you, but Daichi is long used to translating meaning from its silences.
"My name is Koushi," it says. "I will find you again."