It was a little past two when we ducked into the corridor at Yasaka Shrine. The air was still, carrying only the faintest smell of old incense. Afternoon light spilled in through the paper screens, thin and milky, like it had been filtered too many times.

Along the wall hung a row of framed calligraphy. I slowed.

The papers had yellowed, the edges curled slightly inside their frames. Ink that must have been black once had faded to gray, some strokes so faint they looked like they might vanish if I blinked too hard. A few brush lines broke halfway, as though the ink had given up before reaching the end.

I stopped in front of one frame, leaning closer. The character started out bold, then faltered at the last stroke, trailing off in a shiver.

Merry noticed me lingering. "You like that one?"

I shrugged. "It's... kind of messy."

"Messy," she repeated, like she was rolling the word around. Then she tilted her head a little. "Or maybe just alive."

I glanced at her. "Alive? It's a stroke of ink."

Her eyes stayed on the paper. "The brush was trembling. That's what makes it honest."

I didn't answer right away. Honest. Huh. My gaze followed the broken line again, and suddenly it felt different.

Outside, I could hear the cicadas shrilling from the trees, their sound slipping faintly through the paper doors. The whole place smelled of sun-warmed wood. I thought about how many summers like this had passed since the brush touched the page.

"Doesn't it bother you, though?" I asked. "That it's falling apart? One day it'll fade completely. Like it was never here."

She shook her head. "If it never faded, it wouldn't mean anything. Things have to change, or they don't feel real."

I gave a small laugh. "Sounds like something you'd say."

She smiled a little at that, not looking at me, but at the next frame down the corridor. The strokes there were smudged in places, uneven, like the writer's hand slipped.

We walked slowly, stopping now and then. Dust floated in the light between us, small golden flecks drifting lazily, as if the room itself was breathing.

"Do you think the person who wrote these knew they'd end up like this?" I asked.

"Maybe not." She tapped her chin lightly, thinking. "Or maybe they did, and wrote them anyway."

Her tone was casual, but it stuck with me.

I ran a finger along the frame's wood, not the paper itself, just the smooth surface holding it. "Strange, isn't it? We're standing here now, reading their strokes, when the hand that made them is long gone."

"That's why they matter," Merry said softly. "They lasted just long enough for us to find them."

We didn't say much after that. Just kept walking, the floor creaking softly beneath our steps. A pair of tourists passed distantly outside, their laughter carrying for a moment before fading away.

At the far end of the corridor, I turned back. The line of frames seemed dimmer against the length of wood, the faded ink already sinking into shadow. But still, they held something. Not permanence. Not perfection. Just a presence that reached us here, in this exact afternoon.

And maybe that was what made them beautiful.