They called it Hikari no Koya – The Cabin of Light.
Long before it became a home, it was a refuge. And before it was a refuge, it was a dream.
They called it Hikari no Koya – The Cabin of Light.
Long before it became a home, it was a refuge. And before it was a refuge, it was a dream.
(Hidden beneath the floorboards of her room in Hikari no Koya)
I was fourteen when I saw my father bleed...
--- Prologue – When the Forest Burned I was fourteen when I saw my father bleed. It was a quiet night—dinner simmering, firelight dancing on the walls, and the stars blinking like sleepy eyes above the trees. But Papa hadn’t come home. He always came home before the second bell. Mama was humming to herself, pretending not to worry. I pretended too, spooning stew that neither of us could eat. Then the door slammed open. There stood my father—clothes torn, face pale, and a deep gash down his arm. His boots were soaked in blood, some his own, some not. I’ll never forget the sound his sword made when it hit the floor. “They’ve broken through,” he rasped. “You have to go. Now.” The barrier was gone. The monsters had poured through. Our village—the hidden elven village of Kael'vorin—was no longer safe. Mama didn’t cry. She grabbed our satchels. Whispered a binding spell into the wood to seal the house behind us. Her magic hummed in the air like bees through silk. We fled. Through brambles and old forest trails, Papa led while Mama lit our way with orbs of light that floated like fireflies. But as we neared the river crossing, a distant sound echoed through the trees. Heavy footfalls. Growling. Chitin scraping bark. Something was following. Papa turned. I remember his eyes—calm but already saying goodbye. “I’ll hold them off. You two get to the edge.” Mama tried to argue. She even raised her hand to cast another spell. But he stepped into the shadows before she could stop him. We ran. I looked back once. I saw him standing on the path—blade lifted, ready to die as he lived: protecting us. But even he couldn’t hold back what came next. We made it to the old shrine stone, just past the river. Mama stopped. “They’re still coming,” she whispered. Then she looked at me—not like a mother, but like a shield. She placed a glowing rune on my chest. “Amehana,” she said, “you run. No matter what happens, you keep running.” I shook my head. I grabbed her robe. I begged. But she turned. And she walked back, toward the woods we just escaped. A storm of white light bloomed behind me. Her magic filled the trees like lightning through glass. I ran. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. I never saw either of them again.I remember how cold the wind was when I finally stopped running...
<->Amehana’s Memoir — Chapter Two: The Doorway of Light I remember how cold the wind was when I finally stopped running. It had felt like hours since I last heard the screeches behind me, the forest finally falling silent. I don’t remember how long I stumbled through those trees—branches scratching my skin, breath burning, my mother’s last words echoing in my ears. She had cast a radiant dome of light, her strongest spell, telling me to run and never look back. I never did. When I reached the edge of the woods, I collapsed onto my knees. That’s when I saw her—boots caked in dust, a sword strapped across her back, and a cloak so weathered it looked like it had a hundred stories sewn into it. She was a woman of strength, not just in her stance, but in her eyes too—like she’d seen things and come out stronger each time. I must’ve looked like a ghost, shivering, barefoot, with tears smudging my cheeks. She didn’t ask for my name at first. She just knelt beside me and offered a flask of water. After a moment of silence, she said gently, “You’ve come far. But you’re safe now.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what “safe” meant anymore. She led me down a worn path, her voice light as she tried to distract me with stories—ridiculous tales about a goat who became a knight, or a tavern cat that ran its own bakery. I don’t think she expected me to laugh. But I did. Eventually, the trees parted, and there it stood: an old inn of weathered timber and mossy stone. No name yet carved into its signboard. No warmth yet built in its legacy. That inn would one day become Hikari no Koya. But at that time, it was only a building, held up by dreams and time. Waiting at the doorstep was a man. I couldn’t see his face clearly—his hood drawn, his head tilted downward. His presence felt steady. Like stone after a storm. The adventurer whispered something to him and nodded toward me. He didn’t speak much, just stepped aside and opened the door. It was the first time in days I felt warm. Inside, the inn was simple—some tables, wooden beams, empty hearths, and a silence that didn’t demand anything of me. I found myself clutching the adventurer’s cloak, afraid she would leave. But she only smiled. “This is where you begin again,” she said. I never learned her full name, only that other adventurers called her “The Fox of the East.” She disappeared after that day, off on another quest. But her voice stayed in my heart. It was the first time I ever thought: Maybe I could be strong too. And the man—quiet, watchful, and distant—let me stay. Never asked for payment. Never asked for my story. But maybe he knew it all along. Maybe that’s why he built this place....
Hearth and Hesitation – The Man Behind the Bar From the personal memoir of Amehana Let me say this right away: I didn’t expect to feel warm again. The woman who brought me here — the adventurer with a long braid and scarred gloves — didn’t tell me much. Just that this place wasn’t like the village, and that the man who built it took in people who had nowhere else to go. A place for the almost-forgotten. They called him the Innkeeper, but I could tell even then that wasn’t his real name. His voice didn’t carry much, but when he spoke, you listened. I never saw his full face — always shadowed under that old hood — but his eyes, they looked like he’d been alive through more than one lifetime. Tired, knowing, but not cruel. He gave me a room. No questions. No rules. Just... “Rest. You are safe now.” That first night, I slept without my boots on. That probably says enough. --- The next few days — maybe weeks — blurred into a strange rhythm. I didn’t offer to help at first. I didn’t want to seem desperate, like someone begging to stay. But the woman adventurer (she left before I even knew her name) had told the innkeeper that I had “spirit.” Me? Spirit? I couldn’t even light a fire without shaking, let alone smile. Still... he gave me small tasks. Carrying trays. Wiping the tables. Refilling the candles that lit the corners of the tavern where laughter dared not reach. That’s when I met the others. There were other girls — not many. Four, maybe five. Some human. Some elf. One never spoke. Another hummed lullabies as she swept. We didn’t share stories at first, but I saw one of them tuck a worn ribbon under her pillow the way I used to. That’s how I knew: We were all the same. All lost. All breathing quieter than we used to. One of them — Fira — asked if I wanted to borrow her brush. That’s when I cried for the second time. --- I started laughing more. Not loudly. Not like the adventurers who slammed their mugs and sang off-key. But now and then, the innkeeper would pass by and leave odd jokes on parchment scratched in charcoal. Things like: “Candles don’t argue. That’s why we use them instead of lamps.” I’d pretend not to smile. But he always noticed. One day, I dropped an entire tray of mugs. Not because I was clumsy — but because one of the so-called “heroes” brushed up behind me and smacked my hip with his elbow, all with that smug laugh like I was furniture. The whole room froze. I was ready to be blamed. Or worse — ignored. But the innkeeper stood up from behind the bar. Just stood. And the noise stopped like the wind had died. He didn’t yell. Didn’t draw a sword. Just said: “This is not that kind of place.” And everyone — even the rowdy ones with polished armor and kingdom-forged weapons — understood. The group left the next morning. Some say they were from a kingdom far away. Some say they looked too clean for true adventurers. But none of them ever came back. --- The inn didn’t have a name yet. People just called it “the inn near the edge.” But after that day, some guests started whispering different names. “The Light in the Fog.” “The Safehouse.” “The Hearth of the Forgotten.” I don’t know which one will stick. But I do know this: it’s the first place I’ve ever felt like I could stay. I still have nightmares. I still flinch at raised voices. But now, I sleep without clutching my dagger. I speak to the girls in the kitchen. I even laugh — real laughter, sometimes. And for the first time… I’ve started writing. Not a list of survival supplies or a letter to no one. A story. Maybe someday I’ll finish it. Maybe someone will read it and believe I was real. But for now, I’ll leave these pages here. In case someone else like me stumbles through those doors. — Amehana...
The days turned to weeks before I realized I hadn’t counted them. That sounds silly, but when every part of you used to brace for survival, suddenly feeling safe… it makes time blur. The inn had no name, just whispers — “that place near the hills,” or “the wooden inn with quiet doors.” Like it chose to remain nameless, quiet, humble. Like all of us. I worked most days in the tavern, wiping mugs, setting candles. I was getting used to it — not just the chores, but the feeling of belonging. Fira even taught me how to stack cups properly without cracking one every other try. We laughed over it — and that was the first time I realized I’d begun laughing without checking if it was allowed. But not everything here was gentle. There was a night I won’t forget. A group of adventurers came in — not our usual guests. These ones wore newer gear, polished plates, and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. Too confident. Too quiet. They smelled like expensive perfume and something colder underneath. I was serving drinks when one of them brushed past me. His hand didn’t just "bump" me. He grabbed. Quick. Cruel. Like I was a thing. I froze. No sound came out of me. I just kept walking. My legs shook like wind-chimes in a storm. I wasn’t the only one they tried that on — one girl, Elie, slapped a hand away before it reached her. Fira shot a glare so sharp it nearly broke glass. But me? I was the unlucky one that night. The tray I was carrying slipped from my hand. Mugs hit the floor, shattering into wooden pieces. Silence took over the tavern. And then… the innkeeper stood. He didn’t yell. He didn’t point fingers. He simply said, voice calm and cold as steel: “This is not that kind of place. Leave.” The adventurers didn’t move. One of them laughed. And then the others — the guests, the maids, even the quiet girl who only hummed — stood up too. It wasn’t a fight. It didn’t have to be. That kind of unity? That presence? It was enough. They left. But the innkeeper didn’t speak to me after. Not right away. He just looked tired. Like something about that night hurt him more than he’d say. Later, I found a single candle outside my door, already lit. No note. Just a silent promise. The next few days, he was distant. More than usual. He started staying behind the walls of the inn, not in the tavern. Some of the girls said he might’ve gone off to think. Others whispered he’d seen this before — the cruelty, the powerlessness — and was ashamed it happened under his roof. I don’t know what he’s feeling. But I know what I felt. Not broken. Not ruined. Just… reminded. That even here, where the walls are warm and the soup doesn’t burn, the world still tries to sneak in its poison. And still… Even after all that… I stayed. Because no one here looked at me like I was dirt. They looked at me like I mattered. And that was still more than I’d ever had. — Amehana...
They say names carry power. But this place never had one. Not officially. Just the inn. Just that inn. Just the wooden walls with kindness carved into the beams. It was Fira who said it first — almost like a joke. “This place needs a name. We can’t keep calling it ‘you know, that place near the hills.’ What are we, a rumor?” I laughed. So did Ellie. But then the others joined in — and not just the girls. Even one of the older guests, a soft-spoken merchant who’d been staying in the corner room since before I got here, lifted his head and said, “It saved my boy. Give it a name worthy of that.” There was quiet after that. And then someone whispered, like it was sacred: “Hikari no Koya.” The Cabin of Light. I didn’t know who first said it. Maybe we all did at once. The name stuck. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t trying to be anything it wasn’t. Just like the inn itself. We painted it, shyly, on a wooden plank above the door. One of the girls sketched little stars around the characters. Another added a tiny flower on the corner, saying it reminded her of home. But the innkeeper… he didn’t come out to see it. By then, he had already begun disappearing more often. He’d started skipping meal hours, spending long stretches in the back rooms, or even outside the inn entirely. No one really knew where he went. I asked once — gently — and one of the older maids just shook her head. “He sees things we don’t,” she murmured. “Maybe he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he stays too close.” I thought it was just her being dramatic. Until I saw him for myself that evening. He looked thinner. Like the light of the candles didn’t reach his eyes anymore. Like he was drifting away from something he had built with his own hands. I tried to speak with him. I really did. I even held one of the silly joke parchments he used to write — the ones that used to make me smile. But he only said, “You’ve all grown. You don’t need me to keep the fire going anymore.” Then he left again. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Fira found me staring at the ceiling and asked if I thought he was scared. I said no. But I lied. Because I did. Something had shifted in him. Maybe it was that night with the cruel adventurers. Maybe he thought he’d failed to protect us. Or maybe… he knew something worse was coming. Some whispered that he had lost someone before — someone precious. Some said he’d gone to war. Others thought he was a spirit himself, tied to this place only until it could stand on its own. But all I knew was this: He built Hikari no Koya for people like us — the broken, the hunted, the lost. And now that we were standing taller… maybe he thought his time was over. Still… I couldn’t help but hope I’d hear that familiar step down the hallway again. Or find another joke written in charcoal. Or even just see him standing by the door, nodding as if to say: “You’re doing fine, Amehana.” But he didn’t come. Not that night. Not the next. The girls started to worry too. We left meals by the back room, untouched. Candles burned late into the night. Even the guests noticed the stillness. And me? I started watching the forest path from the window. Waiting....
We didn’t light the main hearth that morning. Not on purpose—at least, that’s what I told myself. Fira said she thought someone else had done it. Elie was on supply duty. I’d left early to check the post and came back with cold fingers and a colder feeling in my chest. But when we all gathered in the front hall, we stood there in silence, staring at the gray stone, at the logs that hadn’t caught flame. For the first time in weeks, there was no fire to greet us. We never forgot again after that. But that day… it felt like a sign. The innkeeper still hadn’t returned. The meals we left at his door started going stale. His room stayed locked. Some of the girls whispered that they’d seen a shadow near the old cellar. Others claimed they heard footsteps outside at night, too soft to be human. I wanted to believe he’d just gone off to gather something. Herbs, maybe. Wood. Or that he was in one of his silent moods again. But a week had passed. Two. We started to take shifts near the entrance, just in case he came back. He didn’t. Even the guests felt the shift. The laughter in the tavern dulled. The cheerful bard who once played lute in the corner packed his things and left. He didn’t say goodbye. A letter came, once. Sealed in dark wax. It didn’t have a name, just the symbol he used to carve into the back of his ledgers—a small sun drawn with a single line. I didn’t open it. I couldn’t. Fira said it was probably meant for me. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet. And maybe that’s when I started to realize something terrifying: We had become a home without a guardian. We still kept the rooms clean. Still served warm stew to passing travelers. Still helped one another braid hair or fix a loose beam in the stable. But without him, the silence settled deeper. The tavern still had music, but it felt like echoes. The stars outside still blinked above the sign that now proudly read Hikari no Koya, but I found myself staring longer at the forest line, wondering if something out there had called him away. Or worse… if something had followed him back. We never said it aloud. But we all knew: The fire had been his. And now we had to learn to tend it ourselves. I still dream about him sometimes. Standing at the bar, writing another stupid joke. Or just patting my head the way he used to do—like I was more than just a lost elf girl who stumbled into his refuge. We keep the hearth lit now. Always. But the warmth doesn’t reach quite as far without him. — Amehana...
I started walking the edge of the woods. Not far. Not deep. Just far enough that the lanterns on the inn’s porch looked smaller. I never told the other girls. They were busy trying to keep things bright, keep things normal. But I couldn’t sit still. Not with the silence still clinging to the walls like smoke. The first time I saw the tracks, I almost ran back inside. They weren’t deep—just boot marks, pressed into the mud after a rainy evening. Too large to be mine. Too deliberate to be from a wandering animal. They led nowhere. Just circled the edge of the trees, then vanished behind moss-covered roots. I thought about calling Fira. I thought about telling everyone. But I didn’t. Instead, I followed them. Quietly. Like I used to follow the sound of my father's footsteps after training. Like I used to shadow my mother in the garden, thinking I was sneaky. I knew it was foolish. I knew it could have been anyone. But something in my heart whispered: “He’s not gone. He’s just watching from farther away.” On the fourth day of my quiet walks, I found a stone tucked between two trees. Just a flat rock… but someone had carved into it. Sloppily. Like with a dagger tip. “Still here.” That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat by the hearth and clutched a blanket I hadn’t used since the night I arrived. I didn’t tell the others. I didn’t want to give them false hope. But I lit an extra candle and left it by the door. Just in case. The next morning, the candle was gone. Melted. Or taken. I never found out. The sign outside the inn—Hikari no Koya—was beginning to wear with wind and time. Fira touched up the letters with fresh paint. Elie carved new borders like the ones she saw in a merchant’s old journal. I helped, even if my hands were shaking. I started leaving notes near the tree line. Silly ones. Like the ones he used to leave. “Amehana dropped a tray again. It was full of soup this time.” “I still remember the joke about the owl and the candlestick.” “Please come back.” I didn’t expect a reply. But after a week… one came. Scrawled on a slip of parchment tucked under a stone. “You never did learn to carry soup right.” I laughed so hard I nearly cried. I didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. Because part of me wondered if I was imagining it. If the trees were playing tricks on a tired, heart-hurt girl. But another part of me—the one that still believed in magic, and kindness, and warmth not yet lost—held onto it like it was proof of the sun. Maybe he’s out there. Maybe he’s protecting us still, just from a distance. Or maybe… he’s making sure we learn to protect each other. Either way, I still watch the forest every morning. And I still whisper: “Don’t be a stranger. This place still needs you.” “I still need you.” — Amehana...
I never thought silence could feel like a choice. But lately, every step I take from the porch to the tree line feels louder than any words. The others think I’m just getting fresh air. Some of the guests nod when I pass them, thinking I’m on some routine walk. But only I know what I’m really doing. I’m waiting for a sign. Or maybe... deciding if I already received one. The forest is quieter now. No more boot prints. No more notes. Just one thing left — a lantern. It appeared two days ago, hung on a crooked branch just past the last fern-covered stone. A soft, hand-lit flame, swaying with the breeze. It wasn’t one of ours. I checked. And it wasn’t one of the merchant’s or adventurer’s torches. Too small. Too... intentional. The first time I saw it, I froze. The second time, I almost stepped forward. But the third time... I sat across from it, on the old stump I sometimes use to sketch wildflowers. I didn’t touch it. I just watched it flicker, wondering if it meant: “Follow me.” Or if it meant: “I’m still here.” That night, I told Fira everything. I showed her the place. The lantern. The notes. Even the carved stone. She didn’t speak for a long time, then finally said: > “Maybe he’s not coming back because he’s afraid we’ll stop growing if he does.” That broke me a little. Because deep down, I think I already knew that. And it hurt. The next morning, I left a letter beneath the lantern. > “If you’re watching… thank you for building this place. We’re still here. We’re still shining. I miss your bad jokes. — Amehana” I returned the next day, expecting it to be gone. But it wasn’t. Instead, someone had tucked a piece of cloth behind the lantern. It was his cloak. The one with the torn corner and the faded thread near the collar. I didn’t cry. Not right away. I held it like I was hugging a shadow. And for the first time in weeks, I walked home with a strange feeling in my chest: Peace. Maybe he’s still out there. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he left because he knew this place could survive without him. But now I understand what I have to do. Not chase him. Not wait forever. But light the lantern every night — not as a signal to bring him back, but to guide anyone else who’s lost like I was. The forest is quiet again. The inn is warm again. And I… I think I’m strong enough to be part of the light now. — Amehana...
It happened on a morning where the sky didn’t quite know if it wanted to rain or shine. I was refolding linens in the back hall, humming one of the old lullabies Fira used to sing, when I overheard a group of guests near the tavern hearth talking about a nearby monster sighting. The kind of talk I used to flinch at. But this time, I stopped folding and just… listened. They said a patrol of adventurers from the next province had handled it quickly — clean, professional, not like the brutes who swaggered through here weeks ago. One of the guests said, “They looked like they knew what they were doing. Carried themselves like they meant to make the world better.” I don’t know why, but something flickered inside me. The inn was still quiet. The innkeeper’s absence still loomed. But none of us were crumbling anymore. The girls handled the place like they had been born to it. Elie and Fira were even teaching some of the younger ones how to manage guests with the sharpness of soldiers and the gentleness of older sisters. And me? I’d grown stronger too. Not by much, but enough to feel it in my arms when I carried firewood. Enough to see it in the mirror when I didn’t flinch at my own reflection. That night, I found myself walking out to the woods behind the inn. Not far, just to the clearing where the tree roots looked like thrones and the moonlight spilled like silver tea. I sat there for what felt like hours. Thinking. About the night my father came home, bloodied and desperate. About my mother casting that final spell, her eyes meeting mine one last time. About the village that never saw me as more than a cursed elf girl. About the cruel hands that tried to tear me down. And then about this place. Hikari no Koya. The girls. The guests. The warmth. The quiet kind of love that never asks for anything in return. And him — the innkeeper. Still gone. I didn’t cry. Not this time. Instead, I whispered aloud, “Maybe I can protect someone too.” My voice cracked. It sounded ridiculous. But I kept talking. “If I could stop someone from ever feeling the way I did… lost, hunted, small… then maybe everything that happened to me wouldn’t just be pain. Maybe it could be something useful.” The wind moved gently through the trees, almost like an answer. When I came back inside, I didn’t tell anyone. I just quietly started training again — candle balancing, sneaking through the halls without creaking a single board, even practicing with the old wooden sword one of the guests left behind long ago. Fira caught me once. She just raised an eyebrow and said, “So. You’re going to be one of those brooding heroes now?” I told her no. I’d be smiling. Even through the pain. Even when I leave. I don’t know where my path will go. I don’t have fancy armor or a guild to vouch for me. But I have something more important. I have reason. And maybe — just maybe — my feet, which once only knew how to run away… …can learn to run toward something. — Amehana...
Final Page – Amehana’s Memoir (Tucked in after Chapter 9) I don’t know if someone will read this. Maybe one of the girls. Maybe a traveler. Maybe just dust and silence. But if you’re here, holding this… Then maybe you’re someone who needed a little light too. This inn saved me. The man who built it — he vanished, but not before giving me a home. The girls I worked beside — they were lost like I was. And now… I think we’ve all started to find the road again. I’m scared. But I’m also ready. If you’re reading this and you’re feeling small, forgotten, broken — remember this: The light we find… we pass to others. Keep the fire warm. Keep the laughter loud. And if I don’t come back, don’t be sad. It just means I finally moved forward. Thank you, Hikari no Koya. For letting me breathe again. — Amehana a former maid… and maybe now… a future adventurer. ---The last pages of this journal… they were never finished. But they spoke enough. These were real girls who found shelter here, who grew here, who were seen. I don’t know Amehana’s full story. I don’t think I ever will. But I will make sure no one forgets this place, or the warmth that once lived here.
This story was created by
“Amehana's journey is fiction — but her pain, her strength, and her quiet search for belonging were drawn from the echoes of many real hearts… including mine.”
Hiddenite’s Whisper:
“You, who have read this far — take with you the light that once warmed this inn. And should you ever lose your way... remember, there is always a place for you in forgotten corners of the world.”