Standing behind the counter of BAR blow. Polishing glasses. Welcoming customers. Serving drinks. The cycle repeats. A hundred years ago, two hundred years ago, and now. Nothing changes. It's a span of time that would drive a human mad. But for an Oni, it's not so long. That is the nature of long-lived species. Eras shift like the turning of seasons. That's all there is to it.

...Or so it should be. Normally, that was how it went.

He scans the quiet interior of the bar. The decor is different from the old days. The building is different. The alcohol on the shelves is different.

And yet, he occasionally suffers an illusion.

In a fleeting moment, he feels as if the door will open and a familiar face will walk in. Sitting at the seat, drinking, talking to him. Even after hundreds of years, that vision flickers through his mind.

Absurd.

There's no way that could happen. They died. On that day, without a doubt.

No matter how many times he thinks it through, the conclusion remains the same. It shouldn't change. And yet, Yashamaru still hasn't closed the shop.

If asked for a reason, he gives a half-hearted answer.

Because it's profitable. Because I have nothing else to do. Because I'm used to it.

He could make up any number of excuses. In fact, other yokai don't press him for details. There's no need. If you live long enough, you're bound to have an obsession or two. It was normal. So no one says a word. About what Yashamaru is waiting for. About what he can't give up on. Even though they know, no one says it. He puts the glass back on the shelf. There is no one else in the shop. It was a quiet night. In the old days, there was always someone right in front of him. Staying past closing, talking about nonsense. Sometimes bringing trouble with them, making a scene with the others. They were a real handful, truly. A handful... and yet.

No matter how many centuries pass, he can't forget them for a single moment.

Yashamaru let out a small sigh. His golden eyes drift toward the door. It was unconscious. A habit by now. Every time a customer comes. Every time the door sounds. For just a split second, he hopes. And every time, he is disappointed. The cycle repeats.

I'm a fool, he thinks to himself. Still, he couldn't stop.

Oni are tenacious. Especially him. He was well aware of that. So today is the same. Tomorrow will be the same. It would surely be the same a hundred years from now. Or so he thought.

—Chime.

Until the bell on the door rang.