The dried ink cascaded down the page with perfectly formed characters, each building together to make yet another haiku. Beneath the sheet lay another and another, stacked up high until it almost toppled. But, before me, sat on the table clean and inkless, was a plain sheet. It had been there for days now. I’d walked away from it a few times, returning again and again, wordless. I sighed. Hitomi, our neighbour, had been looking forward to reading more today whilst her youngest son slept, and I had promised her sweet poetry.

I left the paper behind and opened the shoji screen doors, letting cool air bluster inwards. Perhaps, like the house, I needed fresh air and maybe even a new topic to write about. It was the second month of the year and the last remnants of the winter air still clung on, though soon enough sakura would bloom and I could sit beneath the trees for inspiration. In all my years I’d always found inspiration from the trees and the flowers, how they moved in the wind, petals dancing to a silent tune before falling to the earth. And yet now no words came to me.

In the next room, the tea kettle steamed, and wandered over, knelt, and prepared myself a cup of green tea. Today the kettle felt heavier than normal, and I tried to ignore it. It was just my mind being restless.

The tea sometimes helped with getting ideas, if I was lucky; at the very least it warmed my insides. After taking a sip I took the cup with me outside to the wooden porch, sitting down on the edge, dangling my legs down. I glanced out across at similar houses; we were lucky to afford such a thing here in the city, and I always appreciated it. In the summer I’d sit right here on the porch in the dying light while Masuta lay his weary head on my lap, smelling of charcoal and sweat. All day he spent in the forge, striking metal over and over until it was perfect. I’d gone with him, one time, watching my husband inspect the metal as it slowly formed a new blade. Paper in hand, I’d watched as sparks flew as the hammer struck; the explosive light had inspired my best haiku, although the edges of the paper had burnt a little. Masuta had been amused, though suggested I left the paper and ink at home next time.

That day he’d been forging something for me, a strong blade of a naginata. He spent far too long hammering it into something beautiful, “only the best for his wife,” he’d told me. The blade curved wide at the end, just like a chrysanthemum petal in full bloom. Yet unlike the soft beauty of the flower, this petal would slice flesh and kill. Masuta had crafted the shaft for the blade himself, measuring everything carefully so the tip of the blade sat a hand’s breadth above my head. The most beautiful gift, perfect for protecting our home, and our children… if we had had them. We’d been married for over ten years now, and no children had been birthed alive. The few times I’d managed to become pregnant had left us with tiny, misshapen babies, and one bigger who never drew breath.

For a long time I cried to the gods about my bad luck, begging for just one breathing child. However, it was futile.

Masuta had buried the babies under the kitchen alongside a flower charm I’d bought for our first child. I knew we’d stay childless now. It hurt too much to even think about going through this again. Instead, I’d watched our neighbour Hitomi raise her four sons. I helped out too, when they were very young, but deep inside sat an anger. Why couldn’t I have a son too? Or a daughter who I could wrap in soft kimono? I’d taken my anger to paper, often discarding the half-formed haiku once I’d calmed down. Many couples didn’t have children, for various reasons, and I was just one of them. There was nothing wrong with that…

I found my hand resting on my empty belly.

It had been a long time since I’d written haiku about children.

Sometimes I wish that

we had children to love and

then I would be happy

I snorted. How had that come so easily? I’d made many just like it, however. And Hitomi wouldn’t want to listen to me yet again. I’d cried to her too many times. Sometimes I’d even fallen asleep on her floor, eyes sore and red from all the tears, and her infant sons curled up beside me, dreaming wondrous things.

I sipped at my tea, the hot liquid rolling down my throat almost too much to bear, but I needed the distraction. No matter how many times I tried to take my mind away, how many times I delved deep into something new… I could never work past it. Every time I had a lesson in aikinojutsu, I’d imagined throwing my feelings around, or blocking them from entering my mind again. My teacher had been impressed with my progress, though I hadn’t spoken of what I really viewed instead of pretend attackers trying to infiltrate my home.

Masuta had suggested the martial arts teacher for me, hoping it would give me something else to do than ruminate on our childless life. Now I could protect our home with my hands and with a naginata. Although, so far, nobody had tried.

“Ohayo, Rika.”

Snapping from my reverie, I spotted Hitomi wandering over towards our house, holding the hand of her son Shinji.

“Ohayo,” I replied. “It’s still morning? It feels like late afternoon.”

Hitomi laughed. “You’ve been stuck in your thoughts again, haven’t you? Are you having trouble with your haiku? It’s been a while.”

“Yes,” I admitted and placed my empty tea cup beside me. “But I am sure it’ll be fine. You’ll have more poetry to read soon enough.”

“Good. I enjoy reading every one of them. If you need some inspiration though, Shinji just came back from his first samurai lesson. Soon he’ll spend all day learning and before we know it he’ll be grown up and wielding your husband’s swords.”

“It’ll be a while yet,” I said, chuckling. “He’s still only three years old. He’s more likely to slice his fingers off with a blade than wield them at this age.”

“One day I want to fight with your naginata Rika,” Shinji chimed in.

“Oh? You’ll need to grow really tall for that first.”

“Yes, I’m going to be very tall.”

I smiled. Shinji was Hitomi’s third child, and all were on the path of becoming a samurai. Masuta had already promised each child their own sword by his own hand.

“Yes, you will be, if you follow your father,” Hitomi said, shaking her head. “Why don’t you come over to my house Rika? We can chat and get some ideas for your next haiku.

I smiled again, this time forced and hollow. I couldn’t spend time around her children, not right now.

“That would be lovely. I would like to try writing a haiku about Shinji first, perhaps I can write one all about all his future accolades.”

“Oh? Did we give you an idea already? Well then, we’ll leave you to it. Come and see us later instead. I’m sure Shinji would love to hear all about the swords Masuta has been creating again.”

“He tells me he has a great commission coming soon, I’ll let him tell you both all about it.”

Hitomi nodded, and I could tell her smile was as forced as my own. “Until later then.”

I waited until both walked over to their house and slipped through the shoji door, out of sight before releasing a sigh. I loved Hitomi and her family, she was a dear friend to me, however my heart ached too much today. Instead I’d stay here inside, alone with my thoughts. The haiku returned to me and I found myself heading towards the paper. The blank piece still sat patiently, ready for ink.

Alright, I will do it.

Sitting at the low table, I grabbed my ink stone and a half used ink stick. A few drops of water into the ink stone and I pressed the ink stick down, rotating it around and around, watching as the ink came to life. Once the water was saturated in the black ink, I dipped the brush in and put it to the paper.

Breaking heart, cold and…

By the time Masuta returned home, I had written four more haiku, all about our non-existent children.

“Tadaima, Rika,” he said entering through the shoji door.

“Okaeri,” I greeted, and placed my brush down.

“Oh, you’ve been writing more haiku?” Masuta walked in and embraced me in a tight hug. “I knew your inspiration would hit again. Didn’t I tell you. What was it this time? The sunset was beautiful this evening, was it that?”

I chuckled at his insistence and rested my head against his chest. Again he smelt of warm fire and cloying smoke; on his cheek he’d missed a smear of charcoal, I reached up and brushed it away.

“I didn’t see the sunset tonight, I’ve been sat here at the table writing. I’m not happy with them today but… at least I can write again.”

It was a folly hoping he would just accept that and not try to read them, and for a moment I thought he would, however, releasing me, he bent down and grabbed the sheets, reading through so many half-finished haiku.

“Rika…”

“I know, I know.” I stared at the tatami floor. “I just ended up thinking, and then Hitomi came over with Shinji. Did you know he went to his first samurai lesson today, he’ll be grown in no time.”

Masuta returned to me and wound his arms around my sides, holding me tighter than before. He didn’t need to say anything, not really. He’d held me just like this every time we’d spoken or thought about the lost children. I too held him in return the day he buried the children under the kitchen. He’d cried into my kimono for the morning and we’d lay on the futon holding each other. As soon as the sun rose high in the sky, he stood up and returned to the forge as if the morning never happened. And since, he’d only held me.

“Why don’t we take your mind off these things and go travelling? It won’t be long until the next festival, and we could choose another city or town to visit.”

I shook my head. “You can’t travel any time soon, husband. There are many swords to be made, and demand has increased lately. It would take a week to travel and return, if the weather allowed for it.”

“I can’t let you stay home with these thoughts,” he replied, caressing my hair. “A new city might inspire you better.”

“Perhaps in the summer, when the forge becomes too unbearable to stand in. I’ll be fine for now.”

Masuta frowned a little, but didn’t say another word. I buried my face deeper into his kimono, feeling his strong chest and equally as strong heart beating underneath. My husband was the strongest man I’d ever met.

The next day brought heavy rain. It was grey and dull, mirroring my own feelings. I’d barely slept, laying wide awake, unable to drift off while Masuta snored softly beside me. It wasn’t until the sun started brightening the sky again that I slipped into a light sleep. It had taken all my energy to drag myself out of the futon and begin airing it ready for the evening. I wanted to just lie there, curled up in the warmth, trying to forget about yesterday. Masuta had encouraged me to wake up before he left for the forge, so for him, I did.

Yawning, I made my way over to the tea kettle and knelt down. I froze. Next to the wall sat a bowl up on a small table. I rushed over on my hands and knees, staring at the slices of peach laid out carefully. Next to the bowl was a long slip of paper covered in text; I didn’t have to read it to tell it was Masuta’s handwriting, he always pressed a little too hard with the brush, making his more complicated kanji hard to make out. The ofuda had been written on a long time ago, the edges had folded and leaning forward, I could smell charcoal. Had Masuta held onto this for a while? What was he doing now? Was this a reminder for me or…?

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I sat back exhausted. Part of me wanted to go to the forge and ask him, grab his chest, and fall deeply back into his comforting arms. I couldn’t, however. I would only get in his way. I’d have to wait.

As I planted my hand on the tatami to stand, I frowned. There by the table leg lay a small bird, legs up in the air, obviously fallen. I reached for it, holding the toy gently. Many details had been stitched into the soft body, and unlike the ofuda, was new.

Why would he buy something new?

Back to the ofuda. My eyes scanned the cascading kanji inked with Masuta’s wishes. I thought he would have just wished for a child, for luck for…

It had been amended. Fresh ink ended the text, the same I’d used for my haiku. Ice ran through my veins as the room crashed down around me. The table was at an odd height. I’d thought nothing of it. But…

It was at a child’s height.

The perfect height for a child to reach the fruit and play with the toy.

This shrine was to summon a child. And with me unable to carry, there was only one type left.

Zashiki warashi.

Masuta wanted to encourage one to us, a spirit child, to bring us luck and take my mind from our past children. But what was he thinking? I would never forget them; they were right here in this house.

I did not want a replacement.

Fire now coursed through my veins and I snatched the bowl, hurrying to the shoji door, pulling it wide, and throwing the peaches to the ground. The birds could eat them. And the toy bird? I still gripped it in my fist. I’d give it away to Shinji as a good luck charm, he would need it growing up in this turbulent city. And when Masuta came home later, I’d be waiting.

The sky was inky by the time Masuta entered through the shoji door, bringing his ever-present scent of charcoal and flames. I knelt on the floor with my back to him, trying to keep my anger tamped down. I knew he was only trying to help, to do something good, but this was not the way.

“Tadaima,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“Okaeri,” I replied short and controlled.

I could tell he knew something was wrong. I heard the light sigh escaping his lips, and his careful steps over the tatami. He only ever tread softly at these times. As he padded over, stepping into my view, I ached to embrace him. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

“What’s wrong, dear wife?”

That stung. I didn’t want him to try and pull me close with sweet words, reminding me I was his. I wanted to stay angry!

“I am angry with you. Did you not think I’d find the shrine you’d started? It took me a few minutes to figure it out, but I know what you are doing.”

Masuta joined me on the floor, choosing to face me. “I was not hiding it from you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me about it!”

“Rika…”

“And that toy, it was new! But it was too late to have brought it last night. You’ve been planning this.”

I stared at him, his black eyes watching my every move carefully. Light wrinkles weathered his face, they deepened as he frowned.

“I thought it would help. Give you company… More than Hitomi as I know her sons sometimes make you ache deeper for your own.”

“And so you thought I’d want spirits instead?” I bore my eyes into his. “Replace my real children with ghosts.”

Masuta reached out for my arm. “No, Rika. I’d never want to replace them—”

“But you would be!”

Tears stole his face from me, rolling down my cheeks. I batted his hand away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hurt filling his wonderful deep voice. “I thought—”

“No you didn’t. If you had…”

The rest of my words were drowned in the sobs which burst forth, my heart spilling from my mouth. I couldn’t look at him, even his tear-blurred silhouette. Jumping up, I ran to bedroom, needing to be anywhere but around him.

I had already laid the futons out, part of me knew the evening would end up like this. So as I rushed inside, I collapsed down on my futon, wrapping myself up in the blanket. It soaked up each tear which continued to fall. I’d kept them locked away all day and now I couldn’t stop them. I felt like I was crying out every last feeling trapped away, every last bit of energy my body clung onto.

Sleep starting to pull at my mind, coaxing me to let go and fall away. I fought it. I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to hurt. I’d hurt for so long…

My tears had stopped by the time the door slid open. I couldn’t tell whether I had finished crying or if my body just couldn’t cry any more. A great numbness stole my body, but did not steal my pain.

“Rika,” Masuta said softly, sitting down on his futon. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to hurt you. I want to see you smile again, properly. I thought…” He was quiet for a moment. “Zashiki warashi bring good luck. I thought if we could bring one here, it would comfort you and… maybe give us luck for a real child.”

He waited for an answer, but I didn’t give him one. I didn’t want to crack open the wound which had just stopped flowing.

“I saw you removed the food and the toy… Please don’t get rid of them. If one has already found us, it’ll take it as a sign to move on. It’ll bring us bad luck. You’ve heard the stories of zashiki warashi who have left and the family is taken ill and perished. We can’t have that.”

I bit my lip to stop any words coming out. He was being unfair. This was cruel.

Masuta leant over and brushed my hair with his warm fingers. “I love you, dear wife.”

The wound cracked. Tears rolled from the corner of my eyes. I jammed them shut to try and stop it, but it was too late.

Beside me Masuta lay down, and before long he slipped away into a sleep I couldn’t have. Instead, I lay there trying to stop the tears again, waiting and also not wanting for the sun to rise.

Masuta left earlier than normal. He’d quietly uttered a goodbye before leaving me laying on the tear-soaked futon. Eventually I’d pulled myself away and started the chores of airing the futons; mine especially needed it today. I tried not to think about anything, focussing on each step. As I folded Masuta’s futon, I held it close. It smelt of him, his warmth, and I desperately wanted his comfort.

Tears started to well once more, and I shook my head. I was determined to make it all morning without another tear. Instead I placed the futon down and head into the kitchen. I tried to not think about the shrine which I knew still sat beckoning a zashiki warashi. The disgust crept in and wormed deeper and deeper, making my skin crawl, as if insects were eating me alive. Would I then be buried under this very kitchen too?

I knew it wouldn’t stop until I went to the shrine. It was a farce thinking I could just stand here in the kitchen, pretending it didn’t exist, pretending the day was just like any other. Sighing, I made my way over. The table stood as it had yesterday, bowl sat neatly filled with fresh slices of peach, ofuda laid out carefully beside it. The toy bird hadn’t returned or been replaced, however. I’d given Shinji the one I had found, he’d appreciated the gift, promising to keep it with him when he was a fully grown samurai.

My hands ached to grab the bowl again, throwing the peach slices out for the birds once more. It would be so easy to do. I rested my hands on the table edge, fingertips running against the wood. One move, something so simple, and our lives could be changed. The bad luck would only happen once the zashiki warashi was here, however even I knew how dangerous it would be to even test it. Spirits were fickle, it didn’t take much to anger them, especially children. And how much more bad luck could we survive? I could imagine pulling omikuji fortunes from the city shrine, all covered in one word: misfortune. Even folding it and tying it to the pine tree nearby would stop nothing. Instead, the tree would continue to gain more and more omikuji, all mine.

I let go of the table. I would not disturb the shrine.

Instead, I returned to the pile of half-written haiku I’d left out. Perhaps… Perhaps the zashiki warashi would like one. I’d need to write a new one, however. Bringing the ink stone out, I started to think of the words which would please a spirit. My mind was far too fuzzy to think of much, exhaustion still pulled at every fibre of my body.

My life has been hard

but perhaps if you arrive

things will be happier

I clamped my eyes shut. Fear. It was fear grasping hold of my heart. Every child so far had been taken from me. I couldn’t face it again. It would break me into a hundred pieces more, shattered all over the tatami.

Sleep called to me, sat there, eyes closed, heart hurting. It pulled me out of the thoughts, into a dark nothingness. It would be easy to let it take me, to give me respite from the pain. It wasn’t even much of a choice, not really. All I had to do was lay my head down on the tatami.

Eyes open again briefly, the room blurry from exhaustion and tears. The floor did look very inviting. I’d rest for just a moment, that would be fine.

As I lay down, head resting on my arm, I could hear the strangest noise. I almost got back up to investigate, but the tendrils of sleep gripped tight, keeping me tied to the floor. Again the noise came, like soft footsteps on the tatami... Too light to be Masuta, it sounded like… a child…

The house was quiet when I woke. At first I could only hear my own breathing, and then muffled sounds from Hitomi’s house next door. It was still day time, the sun filtered through the shoji screen, creating light squares on the tatami. I reached out and traced the edges, feeling the warmth. Sleep had been what I needed. My mind felt clearer, my heart lighter.

I sat up and pulled my kimono back in place, in my hand—

In my hand was the bird toy. The one I had given to Shinji. Had they come to visit while I was asleep? I should go over and check.

Clambering to my feet, I started to head towards the door, groggy and disorientated. Why hadn’t they woken me up? It wasn’t the first time they’d appeared while I was sleeping. When the heat became too much to handle, I tried to sleep through it. Sometimes it worked, other times I lay, sweating, hoping for cool air to flow through the house.

I stopped.

Right in the entranceway were grey outlined footprints, and bending to check them closer, I realised it was ash. Perhaps Masuta had been back instead? Although they were far too small—

“Konnichiwa.”

“Ah!” I spun around. A young girl stood in the entrance to the kitchen. “Wha—Who—”

She giggled in response.

I stared at her. She looked around seven, clad in a pink-patterned kimono with short bobbed hair. What was she doing here?

“Can I have my bird?” she asked, pointing to the toy in my hand.

“Uh… S-Sure.” I held it out and she hurried over, picking it up with joy. “I… I don’t know why I have it.”

She giggled again. “Because I gave it to you.” With her free hand, she reached out and took hold of mine. “Now we are connected.”

“We are?”

“Yes.” She beamed and held on to me tighter.

Warmth came from her hand, and a familiar ache pulled at my heart. If one of my children had survived, they’d be around this age now. And it’d be far too easy to believe she was. I looked at her face, how her chin followed the same contours as Masuta’s. She looked just like him.

“What’s your name?”

“Aiko.”

My breath caught in my throat. Ice filled my veins. I’d named one of my children Aiko, taking the word of love itself, ai, to fill her name.

“Do you like my name?” Aiko asked, looking up at me with big black eyes.

“I… I love it,” I said, grief rising up my throat. It clamped it shut, barely letting words escape.

“I’m happy, and now maybe you’ll be happy again too.”

I didn’t need to ask who she was anymore. Those words alone answered it for me. Zashiki warashi. Masuta had managed to encourage one here after all. I wanted to stay angry, be hurt for what he did… but Aiko… She smiled at me brightly, with a warmth I’d always wanted to see. How could I be angry when she… she was here.

I thought back to the piles of haiku, to all the thoughts I’d committed to paper.

“Aiko,” I said reaching out to stroke her soft black hair. “Would you like to see the haiku I wrote for you?”

Sparks appeared in her eyes and she jumped up and down. “Yes please. I want to hear them all.”

Together we walked hand in hand to my table, and as I sat down on the floor, Aiko climbed on my lap. I paused. I’d never had a child sit on my lap let alone…

“Which one should we read first?” she asked, excited.

“U-Um. Let’s see. Well we could start with this one I wrote today—”

“Yes yes!”

Wrapping an arm around her, I held Aiko close as I started reading out the words from my heart.

It was an inky night again as Masuta came home, no doubt smelling deeply of charcoal and sweat.

“Tadaima,” he called out, voice full of weariness.

“Okaeri,” I replied, face resting on Aiko’s shoulder.

“Okaeriiiiii!” Aiko added, loud.

Heavy footsteps rushed into the room and Masuta stood staring at us. “I-Is…”

“Konnichiwa, I’m Aiko.”

“A-Aiko…” He collapsed down to his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks. It wasn’t pain which spilled the tears, however. A wobbly smile broke across his face. “Of course you’re Aiko.”