Old-Style Scissors

A pair of scissors with a vintage design. Once a common sight in every market decades ago, they have since slipped quietly into obscurity. They once trimmed loose threads from a school uniform. They had sliced through the ribbon of a birthday gift. Fate has a habit of hiding its foreshadowing in the smallest of gestures. With each opening and closing, they marked countless endings and beginnings in her life—snipping threads, ribbons, structures, and loops alike. Every cut was never truly an end, but a quiet herald of something new.

Red Hair Ribbon

Some say a red thread brings protection. Others believe it wards off evil. But in older tales, it is said to bind people with the inescapable pull of fate. An unseen bond, tied to fate, has quietly linked her to others and to some unknown future with irresistible strength. From that moment on, no matter how long or lonely the journey, she continues forward with the echo of companionship.

Protective Charm

She still remembers that day. The rain had just lifted, leaving the sky a flawless blue. Her parents held her hands as they rang the shrine's bell rope together. Amidst the lingering chime, her mother fastened a small protective charm to her wrist. "It will always protect you, Chisa." The little Chisa shook her wrist, watching the tassel sway in the breeze, as though answering a vow she was too young to understand. "No matter how far you go, no matter when, we'll always be here, waiting for you to come home."

The Summer Where the Story Began

She spent her six-year-old summer riding on her father's shoulders. The night breeze carried the mingled scents of fireworks and grilled squid from the festival stalls. With a marshmallow stick in one hand, little Chisa pointed toward the sky with the other. Goldfish-shaped lanterns swayed in the breeze, and fireworks blossomed overhead. She saw red threads tied to people's wrists stretching and intertwining, weaving into a warm, invisible web that softly enveloped the festival crowd. "What wish did you just make, Chisa?" her mother asked, the fireworks reflected tenderly in her eyes. Chisa's cheeks were sticky with apple syrup as she puffed them out and proudly declared, "I want to be like Mom! To make the prettiest paper cuttings so I can keep every precious, happy thing—" Her twelve-year-old summer was different. That year, her world fell into silence all of a sudden. Her father was away on endless business trips, and the refrigerator door was plastered with her mother's shift schedules. Over time, she grew used to their calls ending abruptly in cold beeps. "It's okay. I can take care of myself," little Chisa whispered to herself. With such resolution, she lifted the pot lid and decided to make herself a lemon-scented sukiyaki hotpot. The prepared meal package on the table read in bold print: a healing dish for a family gathering. The broth began to bubble, filling the room with the rich scent of beef and vegetables. Steam fogged the windows. Turning her face to the misted glass, Chisa saw only her own faint, lonely reflection. No laughter, no clink of glasses. "For a family gathering." Such a gentle phrase, she thought, and yet so very far away.