Thursday evening. Mom cleaned the house from top to bottom. She brought out the white tablecloth—the one we never use—and made jasmine tea. The scent drifts through the whole kitchen, sweet and old, and it turns my stomach—not because it's bad, but because it reminds me of something I can't quite catch.
“What time is she getting here?”
“Soon.”
Soon. Mom says “soon” the way other people say “get ready.” She smooths the tablecloth for the third time. Her movements are nervous and quick, nothing like usual. Mom, nervous. That scares me more than anything else.
I sit down on the couch. I fiddle with the necklace. The metal is warm, dependable, always there. Outside, the sky turns violet. Tomorrow is the full moon. Tomorrow, I transform. But tonight, it's Grandma.
The doorbell rings at exactly seven p.m.
Mom takes a deep breath, opens the door, and I see her—small and straight-backed, with white hair pulled back. She's wearing a dark coat and holding a cloth bag against her, like it's something precious. Her eyes settle on Mom first. They look at each other for a second without saying a word, then Grandma steps inside and closes the door behind her.
And she sees me.
Her gaze is exactly like I remember. Long. Silent. Like she's reading something written in tiny letters on my face. Except this time, I know what she's looking for.
“Sakura.”
Her voice is softer than I imagined. She comes closer, places her hands on my cheeks—small and dry, exactly as I remember—and looks at me again. For a long time. Her eyes shine, but she doesn't cry.
“You look like her,” she whispers.
I don't know who she means. I don't dare ask.
She sits at the kitchen table. Mom pours the tea. No one speaks for a while. The silence isn't heavy—it's full. Full of things waiting to be said.
Grandma is the one who starts.
“I was fifteen. Not sixteen. Fifteen.”
She holds her cup in both hands, her eyes fixed on the tea.
“Back then, we didn't warn the girls. We thought it was better that way—that the shock was part of the transition. My mother hadn't told me anything. Nothing at all.”
My stomach tightens. I look at my own mother. She lowers her eyes.
“I woke up in the garden,” Grandma continues. “In fox form. I didn't know what was happening to me. I didn't know where I was. I didn't recognize my own paws.”
She says it calmly, like she's telling a story she's told a hundred times. But her fingers tighten around the cup a little more.
“I ran. For a long time. Through the fields, through the forest, everywhere. I didn't know how to come back. I didn't even know coming back was possible.”
“And the necklace?” I ask, my voice tight.
She smiles. A thin, slightly sad smile.
“My mother came looking for me at dawn. She found me under a bush, trembling and covered in mud. She put the necklace around my neck, and I became human again. The first thing she said to me was: *Never lose it.*”
The same necklace. The one pressing against my chest right now.
“That’s why your mother told you everything beforehand,” Grandma adds, looking me straight in the eyes. “Because I swore that no girl from this bloodline would ever spend her first night in terror again.”
Mom places her hand over Grandma's. Their fingers intertwine on the white tablecloth. All at once, I understand why Mom explained everything to me that Monday morning in the bathroom. It wasn't just information. It was a promise kept.
Grandma opens the cloth bag she brought with her. She takes out an object wrapped in tissue paper. She sets it in front of me.
“Open it.”
I unwrap the paper. Inside is a small, old, round mirror with a dark wooden frame. The glass is a little cloudy, as if it had passed through many hands.
“It's the bloodline mirror. Every woman in the family has looked into it after her first transformation. To see herself. To recognize herself.”
I hold it between my fingers. It's light and warm, like the necklace.
“Tomorrow night, when you become yourself again, look at yourself in it. You'll understand.”
I don't know what I'll understand. But I nod.
Grandma stays the night in the guest room. Before going upstairs, she stops in front of my door. She doesn't knock. She stands there for a second, then says softly:
“You're going to be scared. That's normal. But fear is just your body not knowing yet what your blood already knows.”
Her footsteps fade down the hall. I sit on my bed, the mirror in one hand and the necklace in the other.
My phone vibrates. Haruki.
*Tomorrow's Friday. What are you doing this weekend?*
I stare at the screen. I can't tell him. I can't explain that tomorrow night, under the moon, I'll become a fox girl surrounded by women who share my blood. That I'll look at myself in a mirror that's been around for generations. That I'm scared and excited at the same time.
I type:
*Family night. Nothing special.*
I send it. I set my phone down. The lie weighs on me, small and round like a pebble in my throat.
Outside, the moon is almost full. Only one sliver is missing.
Tomorrow.