The stairs were narrow enough that Akari had to turn sideways to climb them.
Each step creaked under her weight, a dry, complaining sound that echoed in the tight stairwell. The further she ascended, the stronger the smell became-raw meat and iron, thick and unmistakable. It curled into her senses, sharp enough to make her head swim.
She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and focused on the rhythm of her breathing.
At the top of the stairs stood a frosted glass door. Black lettering announced, with quiet authority:
IONESCU & SONS, SOLICITORS
No sons were visible.
Akari knocked. The sound felt swallowed by the wood-paneled walls beyond.
"Enter," came a voice from inside.
The office was cramped and dim, lit by a single desk lamp that cast long shadows across the room. Shelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling, stacked with deed boxes, ledgers, and folders yellowed with age. The air smelled of old paper, ink, and-beneath it all-the persistent metallic tang drifting up from the butcher shop below.
Behind the desk sat a man in his late seventies, thin as a blade. His hair was white and neatly combed back, his suit pressed to perfection despite its age. His eyes were sharp, grey, and unyielding.
He studied Akari for a long moment.
"Ms. Tanaka," he said at last. "You are... punctual."
She took the hard wooden chair he gestured toward, the seat unyielding beneath her. "You said you were expecting me."
A faint smile touched his lips. "The moon confirms it."
Akari didn't ask what that meant.
Ionescu folded his hands on the desk, fingers long and precise. "I regret that our first meeting must be so... efficient. There are procedures to observe."
He reached beneath the desk and produced a heavy iron key. It landed on the wood with a dull, final sound. Next came a stack of documents bound with string, the text dense and entirely in Romanian. Finally, he set down a rugged satellite phone-modern, scratched, clearly well-used.
"The key to the estate," he said, tapping it once. "The deeds. And this phone-for emergencies only. The number is pre-programmed."
"Who will answer?" Akari asked.
"The local wildlife preservation society," Ionescu replied smoothly. "They will... monitor it."
The words slid into place like puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit.
She glanced at the phone. "There's no signal up there?"
"There is," he said. "But not always for ordinary networks."
Ionescu leaned back slightly. "You will reside at the Tanaka estate effective immediately. It is advisable to remain indoors after sunset until the moon... fills."
Akari's fingers curled against her thigh. "Why?"
"The forests are not safe for the unacquainted," he said. "There are territorial disputes among the local fauna."
She met his gaze. "Is that what you call it?"
Something flickered in his eyes-approval, perhaps, or caution.
"We call things what allows the paperwork to proceed," he said. "Words are... flexible."
Akari stood, gathering the key and documents. The iron was cold and heavy in her hand, its weight grounding and ominous all at once.
"One more thing," Ionescu said.
She paused.
He opened a drawer and retrieved a small object wrapped carefully in felt. With deliberate slowness, he unwrapped it and set it on the desk.
A ceramic tile.
It was no more than two inches square, glazed in deep blues and whites. At its center was a stark silver crescent moon, stark and elegant against the darker background.
"This," he said, "is part of your inheritance."
Akari frowned. "A tile?"
"The first of many," Ionescu replied. "They are... a family history project."
He placed it in her palm.
Warmth flared instantly, startling enough that she nearly dropped it. The tile vibrated faintly, alive in a way no inanimate object should be. A sharp static shock snapped against her skin, and the world tilted.
For a split second, she wasn't in the office.
She stood in a vast stone hall. Beneath her feet stretched an enormous mosaic, incomplete and fractured. Empty spaces yawned where tiles should be, their absence as loud as a scream. Moon phases arced across the floor in silver and blue, waiting to be made whole.
The vision vanished.
Akari gasped, clutching the tile as the office snapped back into focus.
Ionescu was watching her closely.
"The house will show you where it belongs," he said softly.
The faint hum in the tile steadied, settling into a quiet, expectant warmth.
Akari closed her fingers around it.
Whatever this place was-whatever she was becoming-there was no turning back now.
