There was no girl. In the lamplight stood a slender white crane, plucking its own feathers and weaving them into the loom. The beautiful cloth was made from its own body. The crane’s legs were bare and bleeding; its once-glorious wings were thinning and raw. It was the same crane her husband had saved.

The old couple never saw her again. They kept the last piece of cloth she had woven as a treasure, but more than the riches, they mourned the loss of their dear, grateful daughter. And they never broke a promise again.

“We promised,” the old man reminded her.

The old couple promised. The girl went into a small back room, and from behind the closed door came the soft, rhythmic click-clack of a loom. She wove all day and all night. When she finally emerged, exhausted, she held up a bolt of cloth—so brilliant and exquisite that it shimmered like moonlight on water. “Take this to the village market,” she said. “Sell it for a high price.”

The old woman cried out and fell back. The old man rushed in, but it was too late. The crane transformed back into the girl one last time. She looked at them with sad, gentle eyes.

But temptation gnawed at them. One night, after the girl had shut herself in the weaving room, the old woman could resist no longer. She crept to the sliding door, made a small hole in the paper screen, and peeked inside.