In the quiet town of Yamagata, nestled between misty mountains and endless rice fields, lived an old man named Haru. His days were slow and steady, like the flow of the nearby river that whispered stories only the wind could understand. Haru wasn’t known for much—he was retired, childless, and mostly kept to himself. But the villagers often spoke of the silkworms he raised with such care, and of the kimonos his late wife, Aiko, once crafted from the silk they spun.

Each morning, Haru would rise with the sun, shuffling to the wooden shed behind his modest home. There, trays of mulberry leaves lay scattered beside delicate white worms inching along in silence. He didn’t talk to people much anymore. But he talked to them—the worms, and to the empty air where Aiko’s soft laughter once lived.

One rainy afternoon in early spring, Haru stepped out to collect the trimmed mulberry branches he had left to soak. As he bent down, he noticed something small, black, and trembling under the bush near the shed. It was a bird—a crow, no larger than a teacup, soaked and shivering, one wing bent at an unnatural angle.

At first, Haru hesitated. Crows, to many in Japan, were omens. Mischievous creatures, sometimes carriers of sorrow. But this one was different. It didn’t caw or try to peck him. It simply stared up, weak and resigned. Haru sighed, took off his old raincoat, and gently wrapped the bird in it.

He placed it inside a bamboo basket lined with soft cloth and brought it into his home. He fed it rice grains and a little water using an eyedropper. When it finally made a soft noise—a tiny croak of thanks—Haru smiled for the first time in weeks.

“I’ll call you Kumo,” he said. “Like the cloud. Dark, but always moving.”

The days passed, and Kumo began to heal. Haru made a splint for its wing and kept it close to the warmth of the kitchen stove. The crow followed him everywhere inside the house, hopping from the table to the windowsill, watching him as he tended to the silkworms or quietly spoke to Aiko’s photo on the altar.

When Kumo finally managed to fly again, it didn’t leave. Instead, it perched on the rafters, returned at the sound of Haru’s whistle, and even sat on his shoulder as he worked in the garden. To the villagers, it was a strange sight: the old man and the black bird, always together. Some murmured about superstitions, others just smiled at the companionship.

But for Haru, Kumo had become more than a pet. It was a connection—a living reminder that he was still capable of care, still needed by something in this world.

One evening, Haru took out an old wooden box. Inside lay ribbons of silk, dyed in soft pastels—lavender, cherry blossom pink, light gold. They were the last ribbons Aiko had spun and colored before her passing. Her final project, unfinished.

He held them gently, as if they might dissolve in his hands.

“These were meant for the spring festival,” he whispered to Kumo, who tilted its head. “But I never had the heart to use them.”

And then, an idea—quiet, odd, but comforting—blossomed in his mind.

The next day, Haru tied a pink silk ribbon around Kumo’s leg. Just a simple knot, not too tight. He walked with the bird to the top of the hill behind their house, where Aiko once painted wildflowers on weekends.

“Go there,” he said softly. “She loved that place.”

He lifted his hand. Kumo soared into the sky, a pink ribbon trailing behind like a streamer in the wind. Haru watched, his breath caught somewhere between joy and sorrow.

Kumo returned just before dusk, ribbon gone, feathers ruffled, eyes bright.

From that day on, the ritual became a quiet routine. Each week, Haru would tie a new ribbon—each a different color—and whisper a memory or a place. The footbridge where he had first proposed. The festival street where Aiko had once danced in a kimono. The pine tree by the riverbank where they scattered her ashes.

Kumo never failed to return.

Months passed, and Haru began to slow. He no longer rose at dawn, and his hands trembled when he tried to feed the worms. One evening, he collapsed while tending to the garden. The doctor came and said the words Haru had long suspected.

“Your heart is weak, Haru-san. It’s best you rest. No more heavy work.”

The silkworm trays were left untouched. The mulberry leaves dried on the branch. And Haru spent his days in the sunroom, Kumo resting nearby, sometimes nuzzling his wrinkled fingers.

“I don’t think I have many ribbons left,” Haru chuckled weakly one day, holding a sky-blue one in his lap. “But this one... this one is special. Take it to the beach, where we watched the sunrise on her birthday.”

He tied it carefully, his hands unsteady, and opened the window. Kumo looked at him, paused, and then flew off into the sky.

Haru watched until the black speck disappeared over the trees. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, as the afternoon sun spilled over him like warm silk.

That night, a storm rolled in. Rain pounded the roof. Winds howled through the bamboo. Haru lay in bed, cold and breathless, whispering Aiko’s name.

Kumo did not return.

---

The next morning, a knock sounded at the door. It was a young boy from the village, holding something in his hands.

“I found this near the beach,” he said, “and I think it belongs to you.”

In his palms was a tiny object wrapped in silk—a piece of sea glass tied to the last blue ribbon. Attached to it was a small twig... shaped like a heart.

Haru held it like a treasure.

The boy continued, “There was a black crow nearby. It waited until I picked this up, then flew away toward the mountains.”

Haru smiled through tears. “Thank you, child.”

That evening, Haru lit a candle at Aiko’s altar. He placed the sea glass heart beside her favorite kimono pin and whispered, “He found you. I know he did.”

That night, Haru passed away in his sleep.

The villagers buried him beside his wife, under the pine tree by the riverbank. On the day of the funeral, as the monk chanted prayers, a single black crow circled above—once, twice—before disappearing into the clouds.

And on the pine tree, a sky-blue ribbon fluttered gently in the breeze.

---

The End.