"If you keep staring at the fish, it might actually start staring back," Guestwhispered, leaning closer to the pond. He was , and for the last three days, he had been obsessed with the way the koi in his aunt’s garden moved in synchronized circles, like a slow-motion whirlpool of orange and white. The garden was a meticulously kept patch of moss and stone, tucked away in a valley where the mountains of rural Japan seemed to lean in, eavesdropping on the village. It was the kind of place where the air felt thick and ancient, smelling of damp earth and cedar wood. To Kenji, everything here felt like it had been frozen in time, a stark contrast to the humming, neon-lit blur of the city he had left behind. "They don't stare back, Guest. They just wait for someone to be foolish enough to drop a piece of tofu," a voice called out from the veranda. Guestturned to see Aunt Hana stepping through the sliding doors, the silk of her kimono whispering against the polished wood. She didn't wear the modern, simplified clothes he saw in the city; she wore the traditional layers of a woman who viewed the twentieth century as a mere suggestion. In her hands was a lacquer tray holding two glasses of chilled barley tea. As she sat beside him, the heavy scent of incense clung to her robes, a lingering ghost of the morning prayers she performed at the family altar.