In the court of the Heian capital, beneath the gentle arch of cherry blossoms and the golden hues of autumn leaves, lived a nobleman of unparalleled beauty and charm. His name was Lord Haruto, a man whose brilliance shone like the morning sun yet was tinged with a melancholy that no one could quite name. Much like Prince Genji of old, Haruto was known for his poetic soul, his graceful presence, and his tangled affairs of the heart.
One moonlit evening, while strolling through the palace gardens, Haruto was captivated by an inexplicable pull toward a grove of willows that swayed gently in the breeze. The air felt different here—laden with a serene but haunting quality, as though the trees whispered secrets only they could hear.
As he stepped into the grove, a delicate sound of weeping met his ears. There, sitting beneath the largest willow, was a young woman draped in robes of pale lavender. Her beauty seemed otherworldly; her face was soft and luminous, but her eyes carried a sorrow far too profound for mortal suffering.
“Who are you, maiden, and why do your tears fall so heavily on this sacred night?” Haruto asked, his voice gentle as the night wind.
The woman lifted her gaze to meet his, and Haruto felt an unearthly chill run through him. “I am Aoi,” she replied, her voice like the faint rustling of leaves. “This grove is my refuge, for I am bound here by a grief that transcends the bounds of life and death.”
Haruto’s heart ached at her words. “What sorrow binds you so? Tell me, that I may ease your pain.”
Aoi revealed her tragic tale. Long ago, she had been the consort of a nobleman, but jealousy among his other lovers had driven her to despair. Unable to bear the torment of their scorn and schemes, she had fallen ill and perished before her time. Her spirit, unable to find peace, lingered in the grove where she had last been happy.
Moved by her story, Haruto vowed to help her find solace. Over the following weeks, he visited the grove nightly, sharing poetry and songs that spoke of forgiveness and love. In turn, Aoi revealed fragments of her past, weaving a connection between their souls that transcended mortal understanding.
Yet not all spirits were as gentle as Aoi. One evening, as Haruto approached the grove, a fierce wind whipped through the trees, and the once-serene air turned menacing. From the shadows emerged a second apparition—a woman clad in crimson, her eyes burning with rage.
“I am Michiko,” the spirit declared, her voice sharp as a blade. “And I will not suffer your bond with Aoi. She is mine to torment, as she once tormented me.”
Haruto realized with dawning horror that Michiko was one of the jealous rivals who had plagued Aoi in life. Her spirit, consumed by bitterness, had also been bound to the grove, her fury preventing Aoi from finding peace.
Summoning all his courage, Haruto recited a prayer for absolution, his voice steady despite the tempest that raged around him. “Let this enmity end! The past is beyond our grasp, but the present can be a path to peace. Release your hate, Michiko, and free Aoi from her suffering.”
The grove fell silent as Haruto’s words hung in the air. Slowly, Michiko’s fiery gaze softened, and her form began to fade. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “there is no joy in clinging to hatred.” With that, she vanished, leaving behind only the faint scent of camellias.
Aoi, too, began to fade, her spirit no longer bound by the weight of despair. “Thank you, Haruto,” she said, her voice filled with gratitude. “Because of you, I may now cross the bridge to eternity.”
Tears filled Haruto’s eyes as Aoi’s form dissolved into the night, a gentle breeze rustling through the willows as though in farewell. Though she was gone, he felt her presence linger in his heart—a bittersweet reminder of their connection.
From that day on, Haruto was often seen in the grove, composing poems beneath the willows. He became known not just for his beauty and grace, but for his wisdom and compassion, a man touched by the ethereal and the eternal.
Read And Like