TSUYANS

Past the last lantern of the village, where the pines swallow the road, a torii stands with no shrine behind it. The elders say nothing crosses it. The elders are wrong. 3333 of us crossed long ago — foragers, tinkers, slingshot saints — and came back carrying something that glows behind the eyes.

We patch our hoods, bottle our medicine, and keep the mushrooms close. The sun never quite sets where we walk. Now the gate is opening one more time — and it is choosing who gets to walk through. 鳥居の先へ。