The "Tokyo–Kyoto" train came to a gentle stop at the final station, the soft screech of the brakes signaling the end of our journey. As soon as we stepped off the train, the city, steeped in history and tradition, immediately pulled me into its rhythm.

The first thing that caught my attention — naturally — was the station itself: the hustle, the blur of faces, the sound of footsteps, and snatches of conversation floating through the air. It felt like the city had a heartbeat of its own, alive and breathing with a unique tempo. My mind kicked into overdrive, processing the sights, sounds, and even the smallest details of the station's interior like a high-speed processor. Data flooded into my brain — colors, lights, voices — until it all condensed into a single, almost childlike realization: even a mundane, ordinary place like a train station was drenched in the unmistakable vibe of vacation.

We quickly grabbed a taxi, and as the car turned onto the street, a whole new world opened up before me.

The "inner otaku" in me could barely contain itself! Don't get me wrong — the holiday vibe in Kuoh or Tokyo was always nice. In fact, I loved everything about Japanese festivals, except for the oppressive summer heat. The festivals, even in a small town like Kuoh, were always full of life and charm. But Kyoto… Kyoto was something else entirely.

Even though New Year's and Christmas didn't carry the same weight here as some of the more traditional holidays, they still felt different from anything I'd ever seen before. Maybe it was because Kyoto is a place where the past and present are seamlessly woven together. Looking at the streets lined with colorful lights and traditional Japanese decorations, I felt like scenes from the feudal era were coming to life, blending effortlessly with the rhythm of the modern world. The vibrant mosaic of the present combined with the elegance of the past in a way that was simply incomparable.

Street stalls selling treats and souvenirs beckoned with their warmth, while the festive booths radiated a welcoming glow. Authentic decorations transported you to another world. It almost felt like magic hung in the air — thicker than what I was used to in Kuoh. But I'm talking about something else...

I won't deny the obvious — what I was experiencing was a classic case of the novelty effect. This phenomenon can be described quite accurately from a neurobiological standpoint. When someone encounters something new and unfamiliar, a complex network of neural pathways activates in the brain, marking the experience as unique. The main culprit behind this is dopamine receptors. When exposed to something novel, they ramp up dopamine production — the hormone of pleasure and motivation.

As a result, familiar things take on new characteristics; they seem brighter, more vivid. Ordinary elements of reality suddenly become exceptional, searing themselves into our consciousness as something special. These moments often leave lasting imprints in our memory — we forget the mundane events of everyday life, but the bright flashes of the past stay with us forever. The first trip to the beach or that one family gathering where every relative showed up — all of it gets rooted in long-term memory thanks to the novelty effect.

This ability of the brain, inherited from our ancestors as a survival mechanism, allows us to remember significant events. However, in modern times, it's become a "legitimate" reason to feel nostalgic for what has long passed.

As I rode through the streets of Kyoto, watching the fusion of the past and present, I felt that familiar wave of childlike joy and wonder — the same rush I experienced whenever I first encountered something truly new. Sure, I understood all the neurobiological processes behind these feelings. I knew my brain was intentionally manipulating my perception, making reality seem brighter, more vivid. But even knowing this, I couldn't resist it. Sometimes, it's better to surrender to the mind, to let go of rationality, and just allow yourself to sink into the moment — no matter how illusory it may seem.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

But that blissful moment was short-lived. Something abruptly snapped me out of my daydreaming. My eyes caught sight of a figure, and for a split second, an uneasy thought flashed through me. There was something off about him. The man, at first glance ordinary, had details that didn't fit into the familiar picture of reality. Behind him, I distinctly saw a swaying dog's tail, and perched on his head — ears that definitely didn't belong to a human.

The car sped past too quickly, and the image vanished from sight just as fast as it had appeared. But that brief moment was enough for a realization to hit me: that wasn't a human.

The energy that vibrated through his body was so thick and tangible that it seemed to permeate even into those inhuman parts — the tail and ears. This could only mean one thing: a Youkai.

My first Youkai. And, as I was soon to realize, not the last.

As the realization settled in, it felt like reality itself started to crack around me. As if a veil had been lifted from my eyes, I began noticing more and more strange beings. In a matter of seconds, my gaze locked onto another figure — a person wearing a traditional yukata, their face obscured by a mask. The energy radiating from them left no doubt in my mind. Another Youkai.

My eyes darted across the crowded streets, now unable to stop themselves from spotting the anomalies that had been hidden from me before. A figure with the head of a crow — long beak, black feathers absorbing the light. I could only see the upper half of its body, but it was obvious. And yet, no one around seemed to notice.

Then, another creature with a tail and animal-like ears flickered at the edge of my vision, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only the faint echo of its energy.

The closer we got to our destination, the more of these beings I spotted. Every few meters, another strange figure appeared — each unique, with distinct features — but they were all connected by one detail: the flow of energy surrounding them.

Youki.

It was dark, restless, and, most strangely, turbulent. That was the word that came to mind as I tried to describe the feeling that accompanied my growing awareness of this energy.

"What's wrong, honey?" Mom asked from the front seat, turning to glance at me over her shoulder.

"Um…" I hesitated, unsure how to explain what I had just seen. Glancing between the back of the driver's head and Mom, I finally spoke up. "Is there a festival today? Or why are there so many people wearing masks, with ears and animal heads?"

Mom's gaze lingered on me a moment longer than usual, as if she was either displeased or confused by my question.

"Kyoto has festivals all the time. I don't keep up with them," she shrugged, turning away.

But then the taxi driver, who had been silent until now, slightly turned his head towards us.

"Sorry, ma'am, but you're mistaken. In Kyoto, traditions are followed strictly, and the holidays here are celebrated with respect for the culture. Christmas is more of a Western tradition; it doesn't carry much religious significance for most of us, so there aren't any festivals or masquerades. Perhaps the people your son saw are just enthusiasts, having a little fun late at night…"

I shot a surprised look at the driver and quickly turned to Mom. When did taxi drivers in Japan get this chatty? Just then, I heard a quiet whisper near my ear — my sister.

"You can see them?" Tomoe leaned closer to me, her eyes gleaming in the dim light of the car.

"What?" I blinked in confusion, not understanding what she meant.

"Youkai," she said, her tone carrying a hint of disbelief, as if I had just said something absurdly naïve.

"But… they're just walking around the streets, in plain sight. How could you not see them?" Now it was my turn to look at her like she'd said something strange.

Tomoe rolled her eyes, as if she were dealing with the densest person on the planet.

"Uh, I don't know what's going on in that head of yours, but all Youkai hide their true forms with illusions when they're in human areas... And not just them. To see them for what they really are, you'd have to break the illusion. Regular people can't do that."

Pure Eyes see what's meant to remain hidden…

The description of my ability flashed in my memory, making it clear why I was the only one who could see the Youkai in their true forms. It brought me a sense of relief. For a second there, I was seriously starting to wonder if everyone around me had lost their minds for not noticing such obvious things happening right in front of them.

Our conversation came to an abrupt halt. Tomoe didn't press me any further, probably understanding that this wasn't the time or place for a deeper discussion. And I appreciated that. I knew we'd have to talk about my strange abilities eventually, but that conversation could wait — today definitely wasn't the right time, especially not in the cramped confines of a taxi.