Underneath neon lanterns that never dim, the forgotten spirits gather. Each one drifts, unseen, through the twisting alleyways, where laughter and footsteps echo from battles fought moments ago—fleeting sounds swallowed by the endless hum of the city. Here, the seasons roll by in cycles, but time flows like a crooked stream, doubling back on itself. And in this strange place, where victory lasts only a breath, the spirits search for what they’ve lost: their coins.
Each coin is a memory—cool and heavy, stamped with a wish once whispered in the living world. Some glimmer with golden warmth, promises made under fireworks; others are tarnished bronze, carrying the scent of old regrets. A few shimmer with iridescent hues, impossible to name, belonging to desires abandoned before they even had shape. These coins scatter after every battle, spilled like confetti, tumbling across streets slick with rain and candy-colored graffiti. The spirits bend to collect them, fingers brushing the ground where life used to tread.
No one sees the spirits. No one hears the quiet clink of coins as they gather their bounty, slipping each token into satchels that hang light as air but never fill. There is no finish line to this task—only more battles, more loot, more promises waiting to be plucked from the dust. And yet, they search, each spirit chasing some long-forgotten dream that lies hidden within the gleam of a coin.
A young spirit pauses beneath a shrine’s arch, turning a silver coin between spectral fingers. It catches the glow of the lanterns and reflects something soft—an image of hands held beneath cherry blossoms, petals falling like snow. The spirit remembers warmth then, and smiles, though it feels more like an ache than a joy. With a sigh, the coin disappears into the bag. Onward. There are more memories to gather. There are always more.
They move through the streets like a breeze—slipping between walls and trees, weaving through crowded rooftops where living warriors clash in choreographed chaos. The spirits linger at the edges, watching with curiosity, but never interfere. Each battle is a colorful blur, a theater of weapons and victory poses, a stage where no one remembers why they fight. It’s not the fighting that matters—it’s what the fighters leave behind.
After every match, the spirits creep into the aftermath, combing through the debris. They gather shimmering tokens from the cracks in the pavement, pluck them from gutters, or catch them before they roll off the edge of a rooftop. A coin is a prize, yes—but it is also a piece of something more: a fragment of hope, a remnant of ambition, a fleeting joy trapped in metal. These, the spirits collect like treasures.
For what purpose? They don’t know. Perhaps they hope to unlock something—an end to the quest, a final reward, a place where the collected memories will make them whole again. Or maybe it’s just the movement that matters, the act of searching itself. Like rolling dice or spinning a wheel, there’s always the chance that the next coin will be the one that answers everything.
In the misty morning, when the city resets itself once more—banners unfurling, battles beginning anew—the spirits drift back into the alleys, bags heavy with tokens that feel both precious and pointless. But even here, at the edge of night, there is no bitterness, only a strange, quiet contentment.
Because in this world where nothing lasts, and everything repeats, the coins are all they have. And for as long as they keep moving, for as long as they keep searching, there is always the chance that the next coin might hold what they’ve forgotten.
And so they dance between the seasons—light as whispers, quiet as wishes—forever chasing the glint of things lost but not gone. Forever playing the game, where the only prize is another chance to search again.
