Susumi

“Don't be fooled by the beret,” the old woodcarver told a newcomer, “they might look like they're counting clouds, but their eyes miss nothing.” Susumi arranges their wares—delicate pressed flowers sealed in glass—with a gentle touch, their gaze always slightly distant, as if listening to music only they can hear. The locals in the amber-leaved clearing adore them, a quiet artist who adds a touch of beauty to their festive lives. But when the singing stops, another Susumi emerges. They move through the trees without a sound, a shadow whose dance is as precise as it is lethal, leaving only a single sakura petal where they stood. They have been waiting for a signal for years. Last night, a traveler passed through who didn't buy a single thing, only whispered one word: “Bloom.”