At the top of the hill above the village of Yama-no-kawa, where mists gathered like forgotten dreams, lived the monk Makoto.

In his austere hut, Makoto lived a life of silence and litany. Each morning, he sat in stillness. Each afternoon, he cut the air with precise martial forms. At night, he wrote. His calligraphy was collected in the capital, though no one could look at the brushstrokes for too long.

Honed by years of training, Makoto was beautiful – the way a garden in winter is beautiful – except for a scar beneath his left eye, which he said was karma from a previous life.

Few came to see him. He did not ask why.

A visitor the smell of burnt paper

One evening, as autumn turned leaves into faded gold, a stranger arrived. She smelled faintly of burnt paper. Her eyes, narrow and sharp, swept over Makoto as if searching for an answer.

They drank tea. They spoke little.

When the last cup was emptied, the stranger seemed to have made a choice. She rose to leave and said, “Beyond the far north, there is a temple the colour of ash. Those who spend a night emerge enlightened. Or mad.”

That night, Makoto sat watching the stars. When morning came, he packed his robes, his staff and a single bowl. He shut his door, then walked out of the life he’d perfected.

Winters of deep longing

Makoto walked deep into the north. He crossed valleys where the trees cast no shadows. He met a boy with his eyes, who asked, “Why did you leave?”, before vanishing in a snowstorm. Makoto regretted not asking the child’s name.

Once, he took shelter from the rain in an opulent house that stood alone. An old woman there told him, “You have already passed the temple.” In the morning, he woke amongst ruins.

In time, he forgot how many winters had passed. He forgot the sound of his voice. And then the sound of his name. One day, in a forest where no birds sang, he found the temple.

Night of dreams and nightmares

The temple was not just the colour of ash, it was made of what remained after. Ash, regret, sorrow, a cradle never filled, a question never asked, a promise never made. Fused into pillars, joints and awnings to build an unearthly memorial.

The main hall was darker than midnight. Makoto sat down and lit a single candle. His breath came short and uneven. It felt like the temple itself was breathing. Watching its intruder. Weighing down on him.

Night fell. The silence grew thick like a snake coiling itself around Makoto.

Somewhere, the sound of a boy laughing.

Then, footsteps. Heavy. Slow. Bare.

The doors opened.

A figure stepped in, stooped with age. His robes were torn, his face lined with worries, his eyes like hot coals. A scar marked his left eye, identical, in the same place to Makoto’s.

Makoto gasped – he knew. “You are me.”

The figure spoke. “I am what you buried. You sought the solace of silence. I chose the songs of the village. You sought the pureness of solitude. I chose the chaos of love. You held your own hands in meditation. I held a child with one hand while praying with the other.”

Makoto trembled, “You are caught in the world.”

“Yes,” said the figure. “Caught. And cracked open.”

Makoto stumbled to his feet. He took a step back. But his own gaze held him in place.

There was a long silence.

Makoto whispered, “What do I lack?”

The figure stepped close. He placed a hand on Makoto’s chest. Makoto felt something break. But not his bones. Something deeper.

The figure replied, “You made a perfect life. I made a true one.”

The candle went out.

Chopping wood, carrying water

Some said Makoto the monk went mad that night.

He returned to Yama-no-kawa, but never again to his hut. He slept where he was welcomed. He ate what was offered. He spent his days doing what was needed: mending roofs, tilling the fields, washing wounds, taking care of the old, and playing with the young.

When asked if he still meditated, he would reply, “Chopping wood, carrying water.”

Others said he had become enlightened.

A few whispered he never left the temple. They pointed to his robes, which had turned the colour of ash.