It rains a lot in Tokyo.  Not as much as in other parts of Japan, but still it does rain a lot.  And there are lots of different types of rain.  You can get anything from thunderous, ground-shaking storms to that invisible fine drizzle that always seems to get you soaked.  But whatever the type of rain, it’s all wet.  And in the past three weeks it just hadn’t stopped at all. 

Kantarou lifted his head from his desk and sniffed miserably.  Usually he didn’t mind the rain so much, but three weeks of non-stop precipitation was a bit excessive.  Day after grey day water poured from the sky and soaked the world beneath it.  Everything seemed to be imbued with it; the roads turned to dirty streams, the wood of buildings damp and cold to the touch, and the tatami mats of every room reeking of old, rotting fabric.

He looked down at the untouched stack of paper before him.  That too was warping in the moist atmosphere of his study.  Kantarou frowned and turned his head to look at his bookshelves.  In this weather his books would yellow and become distorted.  He would have to dry them all out when the rain stopped.  If it ever stopped.  He sighed and lay his head back down on the table.  More work he’d have to do.  Not that he was doing any now, even after Youko had told him off for slacking at least three times already.  But his head felt heavy and the paper-pillow under his cheek was surprisingly comfortable so he wasn’t really surprised when he felt himself dozing off.  Nor did Kantarou fight it.  He felt inexplicably tired.  He didn’t care if Youko shouted at him again.  He didn’t even care how bad his limbs would ache from sleeping in such an odd position.  And there it was still; the soft patter of the rain outside serving now only to make him more sleepy.

“KAN-CHAN!”  Youko seemed almost to throw the doors aside before stepping dramatically into the room, hands placed firmly on hips and face set in a scowl so terrifying as to be worthy of the most vicious of demons.

“I KNEW it!” she announced.  Kantarou lifted his head and with some not small amount of effort turned to stare blankly at her.

“I just KNEW you’d go back to slacking as soon as I was gone,” she continued ranting, “You should be more responsible, Kan-chan... You’re a disgraceful man! How are we going to afford to live....”  The volume of her reproach made Kantarou’s head throb unpleasantly so he tuned her angry voice out and instead watched her kimono sleeves swing and flap in bleary fascination as she gestured for emphasis.  He wondered if perhaps he was still half asleep.  It was strange, he thought, that he felt no desire to defend himself against Youko’s onslaught.

“Kan-chan... KAN-CHAN!  Are you even listening?!”  The best answer Kantarou could contrive was an uninspiring, “Huh?”  Youko sighed in frustration.

“You are impossible!”  She sighed again to emphasise the point then gestured towards the hallway. “We have a guest.  They have a job for you.  I’m going to make tea.”  With that she shot Kantarou an evil look (“Go earn some money, you lazy man!”) then waltzed off down the corridor towards the kitchen (“Now”).

Kantarou wearily pushed himself up off the floor and made his way out into the corridor towards the front room.  He was really in no mood for work.  His head just wouldn’t stop spinning and he was finding his eyelids to be unreasonably weighted.  Still, Youko was right.  They desperately needed money.  And of course there was always the chance of meeting a new youkai.  That thought cheered him slightly as he gently slid open the door. 

From the very first glance Kantarou could tell the guest was well off.  She sat gracefully poised in a kimono probably worth more than the house, making even his best zabuton look like a dirty old cushion from a lowly drinking hole.  The old lady held a fine, almost surgically white handkerchief to her face, dabbing her eyes delicately.  Haruka sat in a corner, arms folded tightly, with a look of utter bewilderment on his face.  He seemed to be trying to press himself further into the wall as though the woman’s grief was infectious.

“Oh, Haruka-san,” the old woman crooned between sobs, “It’s all just so horrible...” It appeared they had not noticed his entrance.  Haruka drew back even further in fright as the guest broke down into a fit of loud weeping.  If the woman’s crying had not been so miserable, Kantarou would have burst into laughter at Haruka’s awkwardness.  The Tengu looked up suddenly.

“Kantarou!” he cried.  Kantarou thought Haruka sounded almost happy to see him.  The guest followed Haruka’s gaze towards Kantarou.  She stared, making Kantarou squirm uncomfortably.  In an effort to avoid her gaze he bowed and greeted his guest politely, reminding himself of how much someone so obviously wealthy could pay him.      Apparently sensing his discomfort also the lady lowered her eyes and bowed in reply.

“It is nice to meet you, Ichinomiya-sensei?  My name is Suzuki Kuumi,” she said.  Kantarou closed the door behind him and went to sit down opposite the guest.  She resumed her sobbing.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, “I’m not usually like this.”  Kantarou nodded and waited for the lady to speak.

“I didn’t know who else to go to.  I often read your articles you see… I always thought they were folklore stories and maybe they are but I don’t know…”  She was babbling incoherently so Kantarou thought it best to interrupt.

“What is it you wanted to see me about?” he asked gently.

“Dreams,” she answered miserably.  Kantarou nodded again, indicating for her to continue the tale. 

“It all started three weeks ago.  I had a very strange dream in which a man with red wings spoke to me.”  Haruka raised an eyebrow in interest.  “He was very tall and handsome and he had a lovely smile...”  The woman seemed lost in bitter reverie for a moment, tears continuing to fall down her pale, unblemished skin.  Kantarou felt Haruka’s eyes on him, questioning, as if he would know what to do.  Then there was a muffled call from the hallway and Youko entered the room and served tea.       

“What did he say, Suzuki-san?” Kantarou asked, thinking he could not help her unless he understood what this was about.  The tea and his voice seemed to wake the woman from her depression a little.

“He told me...” she paused and shuddered, “He said my husband would be killed in a fire...”  She looked miserably down at her tea. 

“I understand,” Kantarou said sadly.  “Your husband was...”  Suzuki Kuumi nodded.

“He was... killed last week in a factory fire.”  Haruka looked at Kantarou inquiringly.

“It was in the newspaper,” Kantarou explained.  “It struck me because no one could understand how the fire started.”  The lady sniffed and shook her head.