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Winter. Full Moon. The End of a Successful Hunt.
Nanami Kento tapped his shovel over the fresh dirt, flattening the space, before clasping his hands in prayer for the corpses that were buried underneath. Thanks to their unwilling sacrifice, he and his wife will survive for another few weeks.
He leaned the shovel against the wall of the farmhouse and entered. There, he saw his wife seated on the floor, frozen and still, snared by what she just saw.
“Darling, come look,” you said, and he followed.
Beneath the open floorboards, cushioned and surrounded by animal manure, was a sleeping baby wrapped in soft, white cloth.
“The manure must have masked the scent,” you continued.
“Leave it,” he replied. “Perhaps a neighbor will come and find it tomorrow.”
“There’s no one out here for several ri .”
You plucked the baby from its hiding place. Then, with a long, cold finger, checked the baby’s sex and poked the plump flesh of its cheek. It gurgled and squirmed to your touch, but never woke.
“The nerve of you to stay asleep in a monster’s presence,” you teased her, smiling. Nanami opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, “I know.”
Since you began your union as vampires, your husband have created a thousand rules to protect your secrets—never stay too long in a single place, never speak too loudly, never mingle, never answer questions from strangers, never draw attention…
Never develop a bond with humans.
And the result was a lonely, nomadic existence, where your roots stayed shallow every ground you stepped on, and every face you encountered were forgotten as soon as you left.
Not to say your lives were boring, however. Nanami tried his best to keep your lives rich and entertaining.
A scholar from the Muromachi period, Nanami would often fill your head with poems and stories of the life he’s lived before meeting you. Though there was only so much he could say about the same four seasons and the same proud daimyos he once served, and soon you developed a curiosity with how society has changed. Your marriage has been delicate ever since.
(There was even a decade when you separated after a fight about visiting a ‘city’ to see the country’s first ‘western building'—though it drove you both insane because all you had were each other. Since then, he has become less restrictive of your whims.)
So with a resigned sigh, Nanami grabbed a wooden hammer and made his way outside.
“The sun is rising soon,” he said. “I’ll go and seal the windows.”
Vampires do not need sleep, but they do need some silence.
Since the baby woke up screaming, you and Nanami scrambled around the house figuring out how to make it stop. (It’s obvious that the baby’s hungry, but its mother was dead and the cows were out grazing under a sunlit field.)
So you continued to rock the baby side to side, shushing her, soothing her, cursing your frigid, undead tits for their uselessness, while Nanami scavenged the kitchen for something edible.
“Try this,” he said, as he handed you a thin cloth and a bowl of rice porridge. “Use your finger.”
You wrapped the cloth around your pinky, dipped it in the porridge, and brought it to the baby’s lips. She quickly latched to your finger, sucking eagerly. Silent at last.
“I think it’s working,” you said, giggling from the ticklish sensation. But Nanami crossed his arms and shot you a pointed look.
“This baby is a liability,” he said.
“Still, it would be cruel to leave it,” you added. “We agreed to prevent any needless death.”
“Then we leave it in the nearest town.”
“Do you think she would survive the trek?”
“Why wouldn't she? It’s only for two months.”
His tone grew sharper and the weight of weariness dropped on the back of your neck. You dip your finger in the porridge to feed the baby once again.
“Why don't we think about this for a little bit longer?” you said. “You know I don't like arguing with you.”
A sudden tenderness washed over Nanami’s expression. He leans down to press his forehead on your shoulder in consolation. He never liked arguing with you either.
“Of course, darling,” he said. “We have all the time in the world.”
By the time the baby could walk and eat solid food, you and Nanami had agreed on what to do with her.
- You will take care of the baby to prevent its needless death. (Rule 1: Do not kill humans without reason.)
- You may stay in the farmhouse until the baby is old enough to travel. (Waived Rule 42: Do not stay too long in a single place.)
- You will leave the baby in the nearest village as soon as she is able. (Rule 4: Do not form bonds with humans.)
Feeding the baby was easier this time. The field was fertile and game was plentiful. You and Nanami would take turns hunting for meat and blood while the other stayed at home to farm and care for her.
It’s been centuries since either of you cooked anything as well, so it’s a surprise that the baby had an appetite this healthy. (So healthy, in fact, that she would put anything she can grab into her mouth. Including rocks and beetles.)
She was also good at entertaining herself, which is a skill that you envied. To merely look at a thing was satisfying for her: the fireflies in the rice fields, the quiet insects on the ground, the flickering lamps, the falling leaves. Once, she reached out to grab the swaying shadow of a tree branch, but the shadow reappeared on her arm. Much to her amusement.
Nanami enjoyed clever games with her. She would often point at something random and he would tell her what it was. A Sickle. A Goat. A Dandelion. The Moon.
Nanami would smile, and you could tell how much he missed teaching children, while the baby enjoyed the sound of his voice speaking softly to her. They would play this game all night if they could.
Then the sun would rise and you would huddle inside the house, and Nanami would speak to you about the lack of space in your lives to care for someone else. That you should hurry and find a suitable town that would take care of her.
“Besides, it has only been a year,” he often said, as he gripped the sleeping toddler against his chest. “A short breath of time. It would not hurt us to let her go.”
Of all the skills he had developed over the centuries, lying to himself was his weakest.
Summer. Waning Moon. A clear yet humid night.
No place was good enough for the child.
Each time you set foot in any reputable town, Nanami would immediately find something to complain about. So, you would turn back and spend the next few weeks traveling to the next one.
Trips like these were often silent, quick, and purposeful. You and your husband could only travel at night, when humans are most sensitive to outsiders. And with the summer sun rising earlier than usual, there was no time to linger.
Talking and idling was reserved for darker, safer spaces.
Which is why it surprised you that neither forest nor river nor deadly ravine could stop Nanami’s ceaseless yapping to the child, and how often you would take detours to show her something interesting.
Perhaps he realized that his time with her is near, and his scholarly instinct compelled him to pass her all the knowledge that he had.
But the child didn't mind. She loved to listen and babble back. And Nanami's large, cold body gave her relief during the searing summer days. They would travel pressed together body-to-chest, and would talk and talk until she fell asleep in his arms.
You would have joined in if you weren’t so out of breath.
Nanami turned to you, “are you alright, my love?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’ve barely hunted since we left. It shows.”
He must have been talking about hunting in the towns you visited. You found it difficult to tell him that you've barely hunted at all since the child came into your life. It was hard to reconcile the hypocrisy of taking one life while caring for another.
“I'll be fine. I'll just need more rest than usual,” you replied.
To your relief, your husband doesn’t push it.
“We're getting close to the caves. Let's hold on for a little longer.”
For the first time in almost a century, you had fallen asleep, and your life as a human swept into your dreams like a cresting wave—your peddler father, your mother who handmade sweets, the cold gaze of the moon as you laid dying, and the constant, burning hunger that followed.
Then the child. Soft and sweet and bright. With honeyed blood and tender flesh. The child. The child.
Nanami’s voice pulled you from your sleep, “Darling. Darling, the child.”
You startled awake. Nanami was kneeling before you, a panicked look in his eyes.
The child was nowhere to be found. How could he have lost her? Did he fall asleep as well?
Suddenly you were running, tracking down her warmth like a serpent. You wanted to yell for her to come to you but your tongue hesitates.
How do you call out for a nameless child?
Her trail led you to the mouth of the cave, where the midday sun lashed down the earth like a column of fire.
There she was, five steps away, picking moss from the foot of a tree.
And not too far from her, the pounding hooves of a rushing boar.
You opened your arms. “Come to me, child! Run!”
She turned to you, beamed, and showed you her clump of moss.
Then a figure rushed out into the sun like a slingshot, sweeping the child from the ground and into your arms.
The stench of burning flesh was instantaneous. With a wet thud, Nanami fell to his hands and knees, his skin stripped away, leaving nothing but muscle and bone.
“Kento,” you choked. “My darling.”
He raised his hand, urging you to look away as he recovers. With the sleeve of your kimono, you covered the child’s eyes.
She did not dare to peek through. The look on your face was horrific enough.
The moon came moments later, and new skin crept across his body, spreading from his fingers to his back like frost. Soon, it covered the rest of him, and you were quick on your feet to embrace him at last.
“Kento, my love, you’re alright,” you whimper.
You kissed his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. You would cover his skin with kisses if it would help him forget the pain. Nanami buried his nose in your hair, kissing your head, inhaling your scent, relieved that he could hold you in his arms for another day.
“I'm fine, sweet wife,” he whispers. “No need for tears. Not in front of the child.”
The child reached out for him, eyes softened by guilt. She handed him her clump of moss as an apology. Nanami accepts the gift and laughs.
After all, she picked the exact type of moss that he said was the most beautiful. How could he be mad to a child that listens?
“Let's go home,” you said, and he nodded.
There was no need to tell him where you meant.
Nanami often said that the longer you stay in one place, the more pieces of yourself would take root, and the harder it would be to leave.
But now that you have settled for a home, the three of you have allowed pieces of yourself to decorate every corner.
In the kitchen you would find the child’s favorite food; mushrooms, fiddlehead ferns, and handmade sweets that you spent months perfecting. (She never questioned why you and your husband never ate food. She was glad to have it all for herself.)
Outside the farmhouse is a young garden of moss and stone that your husband would spend months landscaping with the child. They would spend each night with their knees on the soil, shaping each tree and fern and foliage to their liking.
On idle nights, Nanami would sit at home carving dolls out of wood and sewing soft toys from kimonos. Then the three of you would run around the house laughing and chasing each other, making up stories and songs on the spot.
Living with the child gave endless amusement.
She became you and your husband’s favorite topic, and you would spend the day muttering about her quirks as she slept—the way she would squeeze herself between your bodies in the summer, then push you away during the winter. The clumsy way she writes her name. The soft peach fuzz of her cheek. The way she smiled just like you. The way she brooded just like him.
One spring, you gathered in the fields to witness the birth of one of your calves. The child buried her face in your chest, unable to stand the sight of the mother cow in pain.
“You can look now,” Nanami said, petting her hair in comfort. She peeked and saw the baby cow curled up in the grass, sleeping as parent cows attended to their young.
“See?” he said. “The mother and father cows are taking care of her now.”
She watched the adult cows lick and nuzzle their young.
“So the baby is like me?” she asks, pointing to the calf.
You and Nanami looked at each other, smiled, then turned back towards her.
“Yes, sweet child,” Nanami said. “They're a family just like us.”
“You weren’t easy to find,” said a familiar voice.
“It’s by design,” Nanami replied.
You eased your sleeping daughter from your arms and made your way towards the voices.
By the front door stood your husband and a man whose eyes shone like moonlight. Gojo Satoru, the all-seeing head of the Gojo Clan.
“Oh come on, at least act like you missed me! It’s been forty years!” Gojo said.
“That’s barely half a century.”
Gojo grinned when he saw you. “Look at you, still going strong, I see. There really is hope for love in this world.”
You’re quick to notice someone's absence.
“Where’s your…” you trailed off. What was he? A companion? A lover?
“We fell off,” Gojo answered, sighing dramatically. “Started rambling about turning everyone into vampires. Stupid, I know. If everyone’s a vampire, then who do we eat?”
“When did that happen?” you asked.
“Two decades ago.”
You looked away, feeling guilty over bringing up a pain this fresh. But Gojo waved his hand, dispelling the awkwardness like mist.
“Anywho, aren’t you gonna let me in? It’s getting bright out here,” he said.
Uneasy, you shared a glance with Nanami. Your daughter was still asleep inside your home.
“I won’t tell anyone about her,” Gojo said. “Obviously.”
Gojo brought with him several presents from the city—books, clothing, paper, ink, and brushes. He also briefed your husband on a few changes in the country. The new emperor, the latest technology, some news of your vampire comrades.
“Ryomen Sukuna has dawned,” he said.
Your spines straightened from the shock. Dawning . To walk towards the fire or the sun to your death.
“Sukuna of Gifu?” you asked.
“Who else? The little temple kid joined him too.”
“Why?” Nanami asked.
“I mean, he’d be a hypocrite if he didn’t, like, kill himself,” Gojo replied. He was the only one who laughed at what he said.
Most vampires, weary of both immortality and survival, would often cling to ideals that would bring meaning to their struggle.
Some vampires like Shoko turned to science in search of a cure, some like Higuruma fought for social integration, you and Nanami lived for each other.
The monk Sukuna preached in search of a meaningful death—telling his followers that clinging onto life would only add needless suffering, so much that even living itself would lose its meaning. It is better instead to search for something worth dying for.
The death of the body is preferable to the death of the soul.
Your daughter took a peek from the corner of your home. Gojo smiles and waves.
“Hey there!” he said. “What got you up so early?”
“The voices,” she replied.
“Is that so? Ah, I’m sorry, miss. We'll keep it down then.”
“I’ll be with you shortly,” you add. Reassured, she returns to the bedroom.
Gojo jerks his thumb in her direction.
“Wow. At that age, she should be in high school,” he said.
You laugh, “You and your modern slang.”
Gojo blinks, “Right…”
That night, you came to learn about modern education.
Gojo’s big mouth and even bigger charisma completely sold the idea of a school to your daughter (who, apparently, had been eavesdropping from her futon all this time).
Since then, she has been begging you to let her go to the city and study, day after day, telling you that she is losing time the longer you and your husband sit and contemplate.
It had only been a year since Gojo visited your home. Have humans always been so impatient?
A part of you understood her desire to go out and explore, to meet new people, to spread her roots and wings in newer places. You too wanted the world to see your daughter and to marvel at her talents and her charm.
But each time your daughter asked, you would see the hurt flash in Nanami’s eyes, as if everything that he had ever taught her wasn’t enough. That despite pouring everything he was into her cup, it still came up empty.
You knew that look on his face, because he would look at you that way all those years ago when you would ask about the city.
He had always felt things so deeply, and you could no longer blame him. He just wanted to be enough for the people he loved.
The tension in your home reached its peak one summer day, and your daughter grabbed her things and ran away into the sun. Only for her to return shortly after, when she learned from her uncle Gojo that the schools were actually closed.
Now the three of you were seated around the sunken hearth of your home, waiting for someone to break the silence.
Nanami’s arms were crossed, staring at his rebellious, red-faced, pouting daughter. You hardened your stomach to hold in your laughter. Even though they're not related by blood, they look just like each other when they’re sulking.
“You didn't last long,” Nanami said.
“Actually, it's been two weeks,” she replied. “You didn't even look for me!”
“We figured you might need some space,” you added. “How was the city?”
“Overwhelming,” she replied. “But fun… once you get used to it. I saw a car. It's like if a cow had wheels and was made of iron.”
“We know what a car looks like,” Nanami said, the sparkling conversationalist. Now the three of you are silent again.
“Father,” she said.
“Listen,” he said, at the same time. Then he gestures for her to speak first.
“I wouldn't want to learn anything more about this world if it weren't for you,” she said. “That’s the part of you that you gave me as your daughter.”
Now she gestures for him to speak, but Nanami’s lips tremble.
“I'm sorry,” he said, eventually. “If your mother and I weren't the way we are, perhaps we could have walked this life with you.”
Now he had said it, the guilt that ran in the undercurrent of every moment you spent with her. You look away, trying to dull the ache in your chest upon hearing his words.
Your daughter dragged her legs around the sunken hearth to move closer to him, and Nanami was quick to embrace her.
“You'll always walk this path with me, even if you're not there,” she said. “I'll carry your love and wisdom with me everywhere I go.”
A few nights later, you and your husband watched your daughter disappear in the horizon, making her way into the city, where she would live and study under the protection of your friends.
You closed your eyes and leaned against Nanami’s chest, telling yourself she will be home before you know it.
After all, what’s a few years to spouses that witnessed centuries pass?
Looking at your daughter day by day, week by week, you would think that not much has changed. But when you compared how she looked over the years, it was like she was a different woman.
After she had finished her education, she came home looking much older than you did, and much wiser and more intelligent. She still loved to nag and sulk (she is your daughter after all) but she began to carry the same dignified air you would observe from elder vampires.
Now she would spend her days teaching you what she had learned, new ways to keep your gardens and your livestock, stories about her travels to other countries, the things she realized about her life and yours, the men she had loved and eventually left behind.
And for each cycle of season that passed, her hair would turn grayer, the lines in her eyes would grow deeper, and her body would curve forth like a wisteria tree.
Soon, she needed her father’s help to walk, soon she needed her mother’s help to feed her. It was strangely comforting that the older she became, the more she resembled her infant self from all those years ago.
One night, Nanami was seated beside her as she drank her nightly tea, watching the garden they spent decades cultivating together.
“Sometimes I wonder why you still returned to us,” Nanami said.
“Why wouldn't I?” she replied. “This is my home. This is my family.”
“You could have made your own home and your own family. You are old enough for that.”
“Too old for that if anything,” she laughed. “You ought to learn to see time the way humans do. You'll break an old lady’s heart!”
“Please. I've lived a thousand years. You'll always be a child to me.”
“That brings me comfort. Knowing you and mother are with me through every step of my life. No other human daughters have such privilege.”
She set her tea down and leaned on his shoulder.
“I just can't help but think that you deserve a life where you could bask under the sun,” he said. “Surrounded by those who love you as much as your mother and I do.”
“No one can love me as much as you and mother do,” she replied. “And don't you know, sweet father? The night sky shimmers with the light of a thousand suns.”
Autumn Night. Harvest moon.
Your daughter was lying on her futon, clinging on the edge of life. Her hand, which has withered with age, is clasped in between your palms. Nanami is rooted behind you like stone, his hand placed firm on your shoulder, grinding his teeth for strength.
“It's not too late, child,” you say. “We could still turn you.”
Her cheeks swell into a toothless grin. “Would you be doing this for me or for yourself?”
“For us. As a family.”
“And condemn me to a life of hunger and hunt? Mother, I thought you loved me more than that,” she teases. Though her sense of humor stung. She is your daughter after all.
Silenced by her words, you instead pressed her palm against your cheek, relishing the warmth of her touch. It had only been seventy years since you made a home with her.
How could it all happen so fast?
“It's hard to make anything matter when you have all the time in the world,” she sighs. “I've had a full life and cherished every single moment. I'm ready for what happens beyond.”
Nanami scrunches his nose and turns away, lips trembling. The scent of death was stronger on her now. Earthy, damp, and green, like moss on aging wood.
“It's okay to cry, father,” she said, addressing your husband now. “This is part of love too.”
You and your husband spent the next few nights in solitude.
You ventured out into the mountains, trailing the steps your daughter tread for thousands of days, down to the river where you would bathe together, to the caves where she would hide when she was sad.
You closed your eyes and your smile widened with every step; her scent and warmth still lingered on every stone and ancient tree, telling you that you were right. Not much time had passed. Even when she reached her natural end, she was still gone too soon.
There was still so much life to live with her.
Meanwhile, Nanami stayed at the house with her, preparing her body with all the ancient customs that he knew—salt to cleanse her skin, incense to purify her soul, his tears to show her she was loved. Then he wrapped her body in a white kimono and placed her on a bed of straws.
When you returned from the mountains, he was standing outside of your home, flickering lamp in hand, exchanging glances with the moon above your rooftop.
“Even with her dying breath she scolded us,” you said, laughing fondly. “She got that from you.”
“She was so quick to let go as well,” Nanami replied. “Always so impatient. She got that from you.”
Nanami tossed the lamp, and the house was quick to catch the fire. It swayed upwards towards the sky as it grew, gentle like a lover’s caress.
“Let's find her in the next life,” he said, and his arrogance amused you. It never crossed his mind that you should find each other first. To Nanami, not even the claws of death could rip you away from him.
Smiling, you took his hand, and together made your way towards the fire, embracing its cleansing warmth and light.
In the deep, eternal night, three sets of hands find each other in the darkness, walking to the dawn of a new life.