Chapter Text
Mukashi, mukashi, once upon a time– no, it couldn’t have been that long, could it? Surely the Edo period was just a few decades ago, not even a century. But the Edo period had ended, and the Meiji era too. Two eras have already passed within the blink of an eye, and this landscape was starting to become unrecognizable.
The nights were becoming too bright. Countless red lanterns and flickering electric lamp posts reflected off of paved streets, bouncing off stone buildings and glossy windows. The city seemed to glow, despite this late hour. And it was loud. People rushing into dance halls, the music inside playing fast and boisterous, foreign and new. Men with their drunken laughter, women with their new shoes, the heels clicking with each step. Their clothes are new too, pants and overalls, loose dresses from the west. Even the kimono were in brighter, bolder patterns.
It felt as if centuries of tradition was being swept away overnight. Even the kami, the spirits who often watch millenia pass by with a nonchalant sigh, were unnerved by just how fast things were shifting.
Tonight, one kami in particular was starting to feel the change. In bustling Osaka, he leaned against the fence that separated his shrine from the city streets, rubbing his temples as he faced the overstimulation of lights and streetcars and music and people.
Damn Meiji , the kami, Sukuna, cursed. As if he could blame a single era, a single emperor for everything. The floating world he had known for centuries seemed to have drifted further and further until it was no longer in his grasp.
But not everything was forever gone and changed. Not yet, at least. The cherry blossoms above him were still blooming as they always have. Somehow, the small little flowers brought with them a soft comfort. Sukuna watched as the branches swayed with the breeze, the delicate pink petals dancing beneath golden artificial lights. At least those remained the same, the cherry blossoms. Those had been there for centuries and now seemed to be the only boundary between Sukuna’s little sanctuary of peace and the maddening world outside of it.
“Ella!” A sharp voice pierced through the air. It made Sukuna grimace. He scowled in the voice’s direction.
Two girls were in front of one of the nearby residential buildings, one on the ground, the other with her hands on her hips, glowering. He recognized them, though only due to their foreigner status. Occasionally, they would walk past his shrine and he had always taken notice of their hair. The angry one had auburn hair, the red mimicking the lanterns that hung above them. The other girl had blonde hair, yellow as the electric lights that were now so prominent.
In Japanese, the word for blonde was kinpatsu, and to write it one would use the Chinese character for gold. And as he stared at the scene before him, Sukuna was beginning to understand why that was so. This girl’s hair, despite the obvious layer of dirt and soot covering her, was shining as if the sun had touched it.
The golden haired girl was scrambling for the things she had dropped, bags and boxes of new clothes and shoes from the looks of it. Sukuna managed to spot a western style dress that broke free of its box, now thrown across the dusty pavement.
“How could you be so careless?” Cried the red headed girl, the owner of the sharp voice, “Now look what you’ve done! This dress is soiled and I didn’t even get to wear it! It’s as dirty as you now, stupid, stupid Cinderella!”
Cinderella. It was clear the pair spoke Japanese, fluently at that, but the name was foreign. The sounds were strange, a miniscule difference in tones and pronunciation that Sukuna struggled to put a finger on. How annoying.
“I’m sorry.” The blonde girl, this strange Cinderella, spoke in a defeated voice.
She bowed deeply in apology. Strange. From what Sukuna knew, foreigners didn’t bow as often as they should.
“Ugh, why do I even bother?” The redhead groaned, turning and leaving Cinderella to the dirt. “Hurry and pick up your mess. You’re cleaning that dress until it looks like how it did on the mannequin.”
She walked into the building, cursing something in another language. It was only now that Cinderella began to move, rising from her bow and picking up what was dropped. She carefully placed the dresses and hats and shoes in their rightful boxes before stacking them. And, with much effort, she carried the stack into the apartment building, not saying a word as she did so.
Sukuna rolled his eyes. At least someone in this city still knew how to be quiet, even if it was a foreign maid.