D1MM, Closed: Come On In, We're Closed

[Fukurokujin]

The building is silent amid the bustle of the morning tumult, a still island amid the flow of commerce and, today, high dignitaries in and out. Like the waters of the river nearby, they part and reform around the place, and the occasional droplet that splashes up occasions no comment. After all, while the doors are closed, the porch still stands where it stands, and getting out of the way of the onrushing waters--not to mention the debris those waters carry--is not the worst idea a person can have.

So it is that a handful of figures leaving a kobune and heading into the town attracts little attention, and that the handful of figures leans against the pillars and wall of the porch merits no notice. And if a passing wagon, plodding along as if burdened with a heavy shell, passes in front of the door, that's only to be expected. Surely, it's nothing more than a trick of the eyes that there seem to be fewer in front once the wagon has passed by, or, even if it isn't, so many people go and stop and go again that that has to be what happened.

It's not like the calls of vendors and stevedores, the lowing and braying of beasts of burden, the ribald songs of performers on the streets and the raucous laughter they provoke hides any sounds more sinister from within. It's not like the walls shook from anything other than the rumblings of carts moving by and many feet stomping along. It's not like a few people carrying a heavy crate onto a kobune not long after is some sinister thing; cargo has to be loaded, after all, and the river keeps flowing in most every season.