Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was always the water that came first. Even now, in the silence of my room, I can feel it, rising, cold and relentless, pressing against my chest as if it wants to drown me. I try to breathe, but the air feels thick, as if it's laced with something not quite real. And there he is, in the corner of my eye, as he always has been, as if he never left. I can't remember the last time he was truly gone, only the slow, persistent pull of his absence, filling in the spaces I tried to forget. Memories of him are tangled, like seaweed, wrapping around me, tugging at the places where he used to be, pulling me back to him, back to the things I don't want to remember.

But I do. I remember everything.

Beneath the Surface of You.

Chapter Text

Back to the Old House

The door never really closed.

I must have been six or seven when we ran to the beach after school. My legs were too small to keep up with him, but I always tried. We lived far enough from the sea that it felt like a secret, a world of its own tucked away behind the houses, hidden behind stretches of narrow streets. The kind of place where the waves seemed to never stop, as if they were always there, waiting for you. The salt water clung to everything: your skin, your hair, the air itself. I loved running along the shore, the cool sand slipping between my toes, the ocean roaring beside us like a living thing. He always grabbed my wrist, pulling me a little too tightly, as if afraid I'd disappear into the waves.

"Don't go too far," he'd tell me, but I always did.

I always wanted to. I never understood why he never followed me. Not until later. But back then, I didn't need to know. I thought he simply loved me, that his hand around my wrist meant he cared. I laughed and let him lead me toward the water, the horizon stretching forever before us. The waves crashed around us, and I thought nothing could hurt me there. But I should have known. The way he never followed me into the water. The way he stood on the shore, watching, his eyes colder than the ocean breeze. It wasn't love that stopped me. It was fear. Fear of losing myself. Fear of what I might find in that water.

Fear of discovering I didn't need him anymore.

It was just him and me, and the ocean stretching out as if it were ours. The wind whipped at us and tugged at my hair, but I didn't care. I never cared. Not when the sea was so close, so alive, so real. I felt like I could run forever, beyond the reach of the shore, chasing the waves and leaving everything else behind. But his grip on my wrist tightened, and I knew the game was up.

"We have to go," he murmured, his eyes distant, unfocused, as if he were already somewhere else.

Somewhere far away.

I stared toward the horizon, wanting a little more time, but I felt his hand tugging at me, unwilling to let go.

"Come on," he said again, more urgently this time.

He didn't want to leave. I could see it, but his voice was colder now, less like the brother who had once carried me on his back and more like someone trying to force me into a shape I couldn't fit into. A form I didn't want to use.

But then I heard her voice, always cutting through the wind like a reminder that the world existed outside of us.

"Ayaki! Osaka!"

My mother's voice called to us from the distance, cutting through the sound of the breaking waves. I didn't want to leave, not yet. I never wanted to leave when I was with him. But my legs were already moving, stumbling with the anxiety of getting back to her. I turned to look at him, hoping he'd follow me, lead me back to shore, but instead, he just stood there, staring at the waves as if he were trying to stop them. As if he were trying to keep something from breaking.

"We should go back," I said softly, not knowing why my voice felt so weak.

At first, he didn't respond; his eyes flicked up to me as if he was trying to decide whether to say something or just let it go. He never did. Instead, he let out a low sigh, his jaw tensed, and I knew that, in that moment, I wasn't just running toward her, I was running away from something. But I couldn't say what. Not at that moment.

"Ayaki! Osaka! Now!"

The distant sound of my mother's voice calling us pierced the air once more, sharp and familiar.

I glanced back at the house, the small cabin tucked into the trees where we lived, just far enough from the beach to seem like another world. I could already feel the pull of routine, the weight of the hours I'd never get back. My brother let go of my wrist, but just barely. It was more like he was letting me slip from his grasp. I stumbled a little, my feet dragging in the sand, my heart still racing from the thrill of the waves.

But I didn't run. Not this time.

I was already too far from them. I felt my brother's eyes on me, watching my every move, but it didn't matter. I was already making my way back toward our mother, my legs moving mindlessly, leaving the shore behind.

He stood there for a moment longer, his eyes still fixed on the ocean. I thought I heard him whisper something, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. And when I looked back, he was already walking behind me, the distance between us growing with every step I took toward home.

When we finally reached her, I'd almost forgotten how to breathe. The beach was already starting to feel very far away, its salty air replaced by the thick, damp smell of earth and sun-kissed grass.

My mother stood by the old, worn gate that separated our property from the road, her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a line that might have been a smile if she weren't so tired. I could always tell when she was tired. There was a certain heaviness in the way her eyes regarded us, as if we were reminders of something she wished she could forget. But she was always kind to me, always the kind of mother to lift me up with a gentle hand on my shoulder and a warm voice.

“It’s time to go back, Ayaki,” she said, her tone never changing. “We don’t want to be out after dark.”

I stumbled towards her eagerly, feeling my chest lighten with each step away from the beach. She was safe. She was the kind of refuge you could wrap yourself in, the kind of refuge that didn’t drag you into dark, murky waters. I wanted to bury myself in her warmth, to forget that the distance between my brother and me grew a little wider with each passing day. I could hear him behind me, still prowling the waves. I didn’t look back. I never looked back again.

As we walked back along the dirt path towards the house, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. It wasn't the usual warmth I felt when we returned from the beach, when the sand still clung to our feet and I could hear the faint sound of waves in the distance. No, this time was different. I could feel the weight of the silence between us, between him and me. I tried to make it seem normal again, tried to distract myself with the soft rustling of the trees, the buzzing of cicadas in the afternoon heat. But all I could hear was the rhythm of his footsteps behind me, heavy and distant, as if they were miles away.

I wanted to ask him why he'd stopped pushing me toward the water, why everything suddenly felt so cold. But I didn't. I didn't know how. I couldn't.

"Osaka, come on," my mother called again, in the same tone of voice.

Her voice didn't have the same weight as his.

But then I heard the sound of his footsteps following us, slow and deliberate, and when he reached us, I felt the tension in the air. It was thick and heavy, as if a storm were approaching. He didn't speak to either of us, staring straight ahead as if nothing had happened. As if everything was okay. But I knew. I always knew when something wasn't right.

"Are you okay, nii-san?" I asked, my voice loud enough for him to hear, though I didn't really expect an answer.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment I thought he might say something, that he might lash out like he sometimes did, but he just shook his head, a gesture so small, yet so charged, it made my chest ache. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the ground and walked a little faster, passing us both without a word. We followed in silence, the distance between us increasing again. My mother glanced at me, but I could see the hesitation in her eyes. It was as if she knew, even if she didn't fully understand, that something had changed. That something wasn't right. But she never asked. She never pressed.

We walked inside, and the familiar hum of the house settled around us like the smell of old wood and faded curtains. It wasn't much, but it was home, or at least, it seemed that way. It seemed like nothing had changed. The house was quiet, too quiet, as if everything had been put back in its place and locked away. My mother went about her usual routine, moving through the house with the mechanical grace only tired people possess. She padded silently into the kitchen, her back to me, as she prepared to bid farewell to the day with a cup of tea. I didn't move. I couldn't. I watched the small movements of her hands, the way she tried to keep busy, as if that might prevent the silence from stretching on too long. She knew I was waiting for her. But for what? I no longer knew.

I sat on the couch, legs tucked under me, eyes fixed on the window. I should have felt safe, but the house felt too small, as if it were closing in, and I was suffocating in the silence. As if the house itself was holding its breath, as if even the walls knew something had changed.

Osaka, as if to remind me of his constant absence, disappeared without a word. The sound of his footsteps was deliberate, each footstep echoing in the house, distant and final.

I didn't look at my mother. I couldn't.

Instead, I heard the door slam shut behind him with a finality that made me shiver. It felt familiar, but I'd never felt so cold. I hesitated between wanting to follow him and not wanting to know what he was doing behind that door. I wanted him to be like he used to be, to laugh with me, to hold me like I was the only thing that mattered. But he didn't anymore. And I was too scared to ask why.

The house wasn't big, but in those moments it felt like there were miles between us. I could almost feel him there: waiting, seething, drowning in the thoughts that kept him behind that door.

The silence that followed made my skin prickle. I collapsed onto the couch, tucked my legs beneath me, and buried my head in the fabric. I hugged my knees closer, as if that would keep me safe somehow. I wasn't sure what, but I knew I needed to hide from it: from the ache in my chest, from the worry gnawing at my insides.

Was he okay? Had something happened there, at the beach? Why did he always get so distant when we went back inside?

I knew the questions wouldn't help, but I couldn't stop them. They came anyway, like the crashing waves I couldn't escape.

I heard my mother's soft murmur from the kitchen, but I didn't respond. Her voice had always been a calming presence in the house, but tonight I felt like the space between us had grown too wide for her words to reach me. Maybe I didn't want them to.

Instead, I stared at the wall, the way it seemed to close in around me the longer I stayed on the couch. My eyes scanned the same cracks in the plaster that had been there for as long as I could remember. The same cracks that somehow seemed to grow larger every time I looked at them. I couldn't pick on if it was the house or me that was falling apart.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. I didn't know. I didn't care. I could still hear him behind that door. I could still feel the weight of his absence pressing down on me, like the tide slowly tugging at my ankles, threatening to drag me under if I let it. The worst part was, I wasn't even sure I wanted to fight it anymore.

Maybe that was how things were now.

Maybe that was how we would always be.

The silence stretched until the sound of hot water filled the space. My mother was making her tea as if nothing had happened, as if everything was okay. But I knew. I'd known for a long time.

Something in Osaka was drifting away from me, fading like sea foam, and I couldn't reach it.

I tightened my fingers against my arms and closed my eyes, trying to find comfort in the warmth of the house, in the security of knowing I was here, safe. But even in the comfort of home, I could feel it.

The water, rising. Cold, relentless.

And Osaka, always standing on the shore. Always looking at me from the other side.

Chapter Text

How to Dissapear Completely

Erase the body, leave the ache.

It had been a long walk home that evening.

The air smelt like rain that never came, damp asphalt cooling under the orange glow of the sunset. My hands clutched the strap of my school bag, fingers pressing into the fabric as I struggled to keep up with Osaka’s long strides. The sidewalk was uneven, cracked in places where weeds had begun to grow. I had to watch my step, but my eyes kept flickering to the back of his head, the way the last traces of sunlight tangled in his dark hair.

“You’re slow,” he muttered, barely looking back.

“You’re too fast.”

He didn’t argue. He never did. Instead, his steps slowed—not by much, but just enough.

Our shadows stretched long in front of us, distorting into shapes that didn’t belong to us. I stared at them for a while, at the way my shadow’s hand almost reached his before pulling back. A habit. A hesitation.

I didn’t want to go home yet.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” I mumbled.

Osaka didn’t stop walking, but he sighed. “And do what?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe go to the park.”

“You’ll just get in trouble.”

“You’ll be with me, so I won’t.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, but he didn’t say no.

That was the thing about Osaka. He was always saying no without saying it. Always telling me you shouldn’t but never you can’t.

A long time ago, I had a brother who would do anything for me.

And then—

I blinked.

The warmth of that memory faded like breath on glass, and I was nineteen and back in the dim glow of our apartment, my fingers still curled loosely around the phone. The call had already ended.

Osaka was gone.

The silence that followed was thick, pressing against my ears. My eyes flickered to the door, still slightly swaying from the force of him slamming it shut. The air in the room still carried him—his frustration, his exhaustion, something else I couldn't name.

Something like inevitability.

I should have stayed put.

I should have listened to him.

My hands twitched.

I glanced at the spot where his bag had been. Empty. His keys were gone. His—

My stomach twisted.

His tantō was gone.

A familiar cold seeped into my chest.

I didn't move at first. I just sat there, staring at the door he walked out of. The seconds stretched. The weight of the room grew heavier, pressing into my ribs, curling around my lungs.

I’m not supposed to follow him.

My fingers tightened around the edge of my sleeve.

I’m not supposed to follow him.

Outside, a car hummed past, its headlights flashing briefly through the thin curtains. My body moved before my mind could stop it. I pushed myself off the couch, one foot before the other.

When I reached the door, I hesitated.

The handle was cool under my palm.

I don’t remember if it happened like this.

The thought is sharp, intrusive. Or maybe it’s not mine at all. Maybe it’s his—maybe it’s Osaka’s voice, curling at the edges of my mind, twisting memory into something else.

You really don’t remember, do you?

A dry laugh, like an echo of something that isn’t there.

My breath shuddered then.

Still, I stepped forward.

And I ran after him.

Chapter Text

Not Here, Not Anywhere

The shape of absence in a room full of light.

The night air was thick, humid, pressing against my skin like a second layer. My breath came fast, ragged, as I stumbled down the last flight of stairs, feet bare against the cold tile. My hand clutched the railing, slipping slightly as I reached the ground floor. I pushed the door open with shaking fingers, stepping out onto the dimly lit street.

Osaka was gone.

The road stretched out before me, empty save for the flickering glow of streetlights. I turned my head frantically, searching—maybe he was just around the corner, maybe he had stopped to smoke, maybe he had slowed down. But there was nothing. No sign of him.

My body swayed, lightheaded. I took another step forward, then another, before my legs finally gave out. My knees hit the pavement, a dull ache shooting up my legs. The world blurred. Someone’s voice cut through the haze, but it was muffled, distant, like it was coming from the bottom of the ocean.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Where’s your brother?"

I blinked up at the figure, but my vision was already slipping away. My body felt far away, the sounds around me stretching and distorting. I thought I muttered something, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe I just thought about saying it. Maybe I didn’t say anything at all.

I don’t remember.

I woke up in an unfamiliar room. The sharp scent of disinfectant clung to the air, and the beeping of a heart monitor hummed softly beside me. My body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion. Slowly, I turned onto my side, trying to piece together what had happened.

The street. Osaka. The empty road.

My fingers curled into the bedsheets.

The door creaked open, and I flinched at the sound.

“You look like hell,” a voice remarked flatly.

I turned my head. Madoka stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, watching me with that same unreadable expression he always wore. Not quite worried, not quite indifferent.

“You collapsed outside the apartment,” he continued, stepping inside and pulling a chair up beside the bed. “Someone called an ambulance. You don’t remember?”

I stared at him, trying to force my brain to work properly. I remembered running. The streetlights blurring past me. The sickening, empty feeling in my stomach.

“I remember…” My voice came out rough, weaker than I wanted. “Osaka. Where is he?”

Madoka exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming against his arm. “He’s not here.”

A cold weight settled in my chest. “What do you mean, ‘not here’? Where did he go?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered away, just for a second. “He’s gone for now. He didn’t want you to see him.”

I pushed myself up, ignoring the way my body protested. “What does that even mean? Why didn’t he—”

“Enough questions.” Madoka’s voice was sharper this time, but not quite angry. Just firm. Tired. “You need rest.”

I gritted my teeth. “That’s not—”

Madoka stood up, and I knew I wasn’t getting any more out of him. He looked down at me, face impassive, but something lingered behind his expression. Something I couldn’t quite read.

“Osaka is not the one lying in a hospital bed right now,” he said.

The words landed heavier than I expected. I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My fingers curled into the blanket beneath me, gripping tight.

Madoka turned away, heading for the door. He didn’t look back as he left, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing in the quiet room.

I exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. The silence pressed in around me.

If I can’t find him… who will?

My hand clenched into a fist.

I have to get to him.

Chapter Text

If I Ever Left

Please keep the door unlocked.

Darkness.

The scent of rain on pavement, thick and heavy in the evening air. The hum of streetlights overhead.

I was younger. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. I walked a step behind Osaka, my shoes scuffing against the sidewalk, the weight of my school bag pressing against my shoulder. The sky was the color of bruises, deep purples and grays swirling together as storm clouds gathered overhead.

Osaka had been quiet the whole walk home. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual—he wasn’t the type to fill silences with empty words—but there was something different about it this time.

Something heavier.

"Hey.” His voice broke through the quiet. “You listening?”

I blinked, snapping out of my thoughts. “Kinda.”

He sighed, tilting his head back, hands deep in his pockets. “Tch. Figures.”

The way he said it made my stomach twist. He wasn’t annoyed. Just… tired.

I picked up my pace, stepping closer beside him. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer right away. The streetlights flickered to life as the sun dipped lower, stretching our shadows long across the sidewalk. Then, finally:

“You ever think about leaving?”

I frowned. “Leaving?”

“The town. The house. All of it.” He gestured vaguely, as if that alone explained everything. “Starting over somewhere new.”

I hesitated. “Why would I?”

Osaka let out a short breath, something like a laugh but with none of the warmth. His mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile but had forgotten how.

“Guess not,” he muttered.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of wet asphalt.

Neither of us spoke for a while. The street ahead was empty, just the two of us and the sound of our footsteps against the pavement.

Then, just as we reached the front steps of our home, he stopped.

“If I ever left,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “would you come with me?”

I looked up at him. Osaka, standing there under the dim porch light, staring straight ahead as if he couldn’t bear to look at me.

I opened my mouth—

And then everything shifted.

I gasped awake, the air in my lungs burning.

The lights above were too bright, sterile white glaring down at me. The steady beeping of a heart monitor filled the room, the sharp scent of disinfectant clinging to my throat.

My fingers curled into the thin hospital blanket. My head throbbed. My body ached.

I tried to remember what had happened—how I got there—but everything blurred at the edges. My mind kept dragging me back to the same moment.

Osaka. His voice. His question.

If I ever left, would you come with me?

I exhaled, pressing a hand to my temple. The memory felt too sharp, too real.

And then—a voice.

“You really don’t remember, do you?”

I froze.

It wasn’t mine.

It was his.

My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, I turned my head—

But the chair beside my bed was empty.

Chapter Text

What’s Left Behind

The silence grows teeth.

The world felt like it was underwater. My ears were full of static, my limbs weighed down, my thoughts were slow and directionless.

I heard his voice first.

“Ayaki.”

I didn't move. I couldn't.

A dream? A memory? Or something else? It was close, unbearably so. I tried to focus, tried to reach through the thick haze, but it slipped from my grasp before I could understand it. The light above flickered, or maybe I just blinked too slowly.

“Ayaki.”

He sounded amused. The way he used to when he caught me doing something dumb, something I thought I could get away with. The kind of tone that said, “I know what you did, and I’m going to let you squirm.”

I tried to turn my head, but the movement barely registers.

He was not there.

I knew that.

But then why did it feel like he was right beside me?

I swallowed, my throat dry and raw. I couldn't tell if I was still in the hospital or drifting somewhere else, somewhere I shouldn’t be. The beeping of the heart monitor was distant, barely tethering me to that place.

Then the door swung open.

A sharp, sudden sound. The rustling of plastic, a dull thud against the metal table beside my bed. The world lurches, and just like that, I was back.

Madoka stood at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, his face unreadable. A bag of something from the vending machine sat beside me, his offering, though his expression didn’t match the gesture.

“You finally awake?” His voice was gruff, but there was something else beneath it. Something close to relief, buried deep enough that I almost missed it. Almost.

I swallowed again, the weight in my head settling. My hands twitched against the hospital sheets.

“…Osaka?”

Madoka didn't answer right away. His fingers tightened against his arm, the only indication of any emotion. He looked away, just for a second, but that was all I needed.

I knew what he was going to say before he did.

I just didn’t want to hear it.

"You keep asking about him," he said, voice clipped. "I told you already. Osaka's gone."

My fingers clenched around the thin hospital sheet. "You're lying."

Madoka let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. "I wish I was."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I could hear the distant beeping of a heart monitor, the murmurs of nurses outside the door. But none of it felt real. None of it made sense.

"He wouldn’t just—" My voice cracked. "He wouldn’t leave me like that."

Madoka looked at me then, and for the first time, I saw something flicker in his gaze—pity, frustration, something deeper. "You don’t get it, do you?" His voice lowered. "Osaka didn’t leave you. He never had a choice."

A chill ran down my spine. "What are you saying?"

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, and exhaled deeply, as if everything he was saying weighed on him just as much as it did on me.

"Ayaki... Listen," he began, his voice low and measured. "Osaka wasn't the kind of person who would just disappear without a trace. We both know he wasn't someone who left things unfinished. You need to understand that, alright? Exorcists... we don't vanish easily. He had a role, a mission. It wasn't like him to leave, not without reason."

I clenched my hands together, feeling a burn in my chest I couldn’t quite describe. My throat tightened, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I could even speak. Osaka wasn’t someone who disappeared. I should know that. But the aching void he left behind still made it hard to believe.

"But why?" I finally asked, my voice cracking a little more than I intended. "Why would he leave me behind like this? What happened to him, Madoka?"

Madoka’s gaze softened for a moment, though it didn’t ease my heart any. He shifted, uncrossing his arms. "I don’t have all the answers, Ayaki. I wish I did. But Osaka... he was involved in things that even I can't fully explain."

I swallowed hard, trying to suppress the flood of emotions threatening to choke me. "Then what am I supposed to do? Just wait around for him to come back? For answers that might never come?"

Madoka took a step forward, and his voice became more direct, the weight of his words not so easily dismissed. "You need to take care of yourself first. I get it, alright? I know what it's like to lose someone close to you. But this isn’t something you can change, no matter how much you want to. Osaka made choices, and now you need to make your own. He wouldn’t want you to stay trapped in this, waiting for something that might never happen."

My head spun. It wasn’t that simple. He couldn’t just tell me to move on. It was Osaka. He wasn’t gone—he couldn’t be. But I couldn’t seem to put the pieces together, no matter how hard I tried.

I took a shaky breath, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"I... I don’t even know how to keep going without him. Everything... everything feels wrong without him. I don't know who I am if he's not here."

Madoka didn’t say anything at first, and I could feel the weight of his words press down on me. I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say next, but I knew it was coming.

"You have to be strong, Ayaki," he said quietly. "You don’t have to do this alone. And when the time comes, you’ll make your own decisions, your own path. But you can’t keep running in circles, holding onto something that might not be there anymore."

I shook my head, feeling the hopelessness swallow me whole.

"I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I even want to."

Chapter Text

In the Glow of a Dying Light

In his shadow, still warm.

The night air was thick with an eerie stillness as I stood in front of the hospital, the exit doors closing behind us with a soft hiss. My legs felt unsteady, as if I had just stepped out of a long, disorienting dream. I could still hear the beeping of the machines, the sterile smells of the hospital lingering in my nose. But now, here I was, free — or at least that’s what it should have felt like. Yet, there was no relief.

Madoka walked ahead, his figure tall and unhurried, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He hadn’t said a word since we left the hospital, and I didn’t expect him to. He didn’t offer comfort. He never had. Instead, there was only a vague sense of control in everything he did.

I should’ve been grateful that I was finally free of the sterile walls, but in reality, the emptiness of the streets felt more suffocating. I could still hear the faint echoes of the hospital’s machines in my head, the cold stares of the doctors, the emptiness in the room where Osaka should’ve been with me.

“Madoka,” I whispered, my voice breaking the silence, though I wasn’t sure what I was asking for. "Where are we going?"

He didn’t look back at me. “You’ll be under my care now, Aya.”

The words were blunt, the kind of statement that left no room for argument. I stopped in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat.

“Under your care?” I echoed. I hadn’t expected that. Not from him. He had never been someone to be gentle, to provide a shoulder to lean on— at least, to me. He was, well, Madoka. The one who had always been a part of the machine.

“Yes,” he said, his voice cold. “Hoffman’s orders. I’m responsible for making sure you don’t do anything reckless.”

Reckless? My mind was whirling with questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to voice any of them. As if on cue, the emptiness around us seemed to stretch into a void, swallowing me whole. Before I could protest, I caught something in my peripheral vision, something that made my blood run cold.

There, just ahead, standing under the flickering glow of a lone streetlight... was Osaka. His figure was a dark silhouette against the light, an unreadable expression on his face, but his eyes— those eyes I would always recognize— were fixed on me.

But no, it couldn’t be. He was gone. He was supposed to be—

I stumbled back, my breath hitching in my chest. The world felt too heavy all of a sudden, like it was swallowing me whole. Was it a hallucination? Was I dreaming again? But no, it was him. His figure stood motionless, like an apparition frozen in time,
and his eyes...

I felt my pulse racing, my thoughts jumbled. “Osaka,” I whispered, my voice barely a breath. I felt as though I were calling out into a void. He didn’t move.

Madoka then turned, frowning. "What?"

I didn't respond. I couldn't. My attention was completely caught by the motionless figure. Osaka didn't move, didn't react, but the flickering of the light caused his silhouette to shake, distorting for fractions of a second.

Something inside me screamed that something wasn't right.

“Ayaki,” Madoka’s voice cut through the tension, his tone firm but not unkind. He was close now, just a few steps behind me. He didn’t seem to notice the figure standing ahead. “We need to go.”

I felt my feet frozen to the ground, my body unwilling to obey. The figure didn’t move. Could it really be him? It wasn’t like anything I had seen before. His outline was too sharp, too still, like a shadow out of place.

Everything about him screamed wrongness.

“Madoka,” I said, forcing the words through my throat. “Look. It’s... It’s Osaka."

My voice was barely more than a whisper, but it felt like a scream in my head. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him, standing there like a ghost.

“That’s not possible,” Madoka said, his voice low and controlled, though there was something like unease underneath. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

But even as he said that, I saw it — his posture, the way his hands were hanging by his sides, the slight tilt of his head. I knew it was him. He was wearing the same black jacket he always did. The one he used to wear when he went out.

My breath caught again, my chest tightening painfully as a flood of memories came rushing back. My legs felt weak, my heart racing, but the urge to run toward him, to reach out to him, was overpowering.

But Madoka stepped in front of me, his hand moving toward his weapon as he seemingly sized up the figure before us.

“Stay behind me,” Madoka said in a clipped tone.

I tried to push past him, but he held me back. I wasn’t sure what was going on, why the figure was standing there, why I was so desperate to believe it was him. It couldn’t be. I couldn’t trust it.

I couldn’t speak. The words were lodged in my throat. I wanted to reach out, to call his name, but my body refused to respond. Something about the figure made my limbs tremble.

And then, the moment stretched on, impossibly long. The streetlight flickered again, and as it did, the figure vanished into the darkness.

It was gone.

My knees buckled, and I staggered back, barely managing to stay on my feet. My mind was a blur, and I felt a cold wave of disbelief wash over me. Was it really him? Or had it been another trick? A phantom?

I stood frozen, the moment stretching on impossibly long, and all I could do was watch where he had been. My chest tightened as if the air itself had become thick and suffocating. The world felt wrong, as though it had slipped out of place, leaving me standing in the dark with no answers.

Madoka didn’t say anything for a while. I could hear him breathing, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I felt like I was on the verge of breaking, my mind swirling in confusion.

“We need to get you to a safer place,” Madoka said quietly, but the words felt distant, as though they were meant for someone else. He turned back to walk down the street, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“I... I saw him,” I whispered, barely able to keep my voice steady. “I swear I saw him.”

Madoka didn’t look back. He kept walking, his voice sharp but distant. “It’s not him. It was never him. You’re seeing things. It’s over.”

My heart shattered at his words, but I couldn’t move. I stayed frozen, watching the dark space where Osaka had been. The flickering streetlight above me seemed to mock me, as though it were telling me I was just as lost as I felt.

“Madoka...” My voice faltered, but the words wouldn’t come out. I didn’t know what to say anymore.

Madoka didn’t say anything for a while. He only looked down at me, and for a fleeting moment, I saw something in his expression — perhaps sympathy, perhaps frustration — that I had never expected.

“We’re not done here,” he said, finally glancing at me. “But for now, I’m taking you somewhere safe. Let’s go.”

I nodded, unable to argue, my gaze lingering on the spot where Osaka had been. The image of him, so clear yet so distant, stayed with me as we walked away.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being led deeper into something I didn’t understand, and that every step I took only pulled me further away from the truth.

Chapter Text

Something in the Water

Whispers behind the walls.

The drive was silent. Streetlights passed in long streaks of pale orange, washing the car’s interior in fleeting glows. I watched them blur through the window, my mind elsewhere—back in the hospital room, back to the flickering streetlight, back to the silhouette that wasn’t there.

Madoka hadn’t said much since we left. His hands were firm on the wheel, his gaze locked on the road ahead, as if anything outside of driving was a distraction. Just the occasional sigh, the dull flick of a turn signal, the low hum of the engine filling the silence between us. I should've been grateful—he wasn't pressing me with more questions or empty reassurances. But that didn’t mean I liked the silence either. It left too much room for thoughts I didn’t want to have.

When we finally pulled up in front of his apartment building, I hesitated. The last time I had been here was with Osaka. I could still hear his voice teasing me about how cramped Madoka’s place was, how he could never imagine living in such a mess. I had laughed then. It felt distant now, like something that had happened to someone else.

“Remember, you’ll be staying here from now on.”

The words barely registered. I turned to look at him, unsure if I had misheard. Well, he had said it before, but still...

“I don’t want to."

He parked the car and unbuckled his seatbelt with a sigh, rubbing his temple before turning to me. “I said, it was Hoffman’s decision,” he said, voice flat. “It’s not up for discussion."

I felt my pulse quicken, a mixture of confusion and frustration bubbling up. “You can’t just decide that for me.”

“I didn’t,” Madoka replied, already getting out of the car. “Get your things.”

I swallowed my anger and followed him through the dimly lit parking lot. The elevator ride up was suffocating. The air felt heavy, pressing against my chest, but Madoka didn’t seem to notice. He only spoke again once the doors slid open to his floor.

“Finley’s excited to see you.”

That was all the warning I got before a small figure came barreling toward me.

"AYAKI!!"

A small body barreled into me before I had time to react. I barely caught myself before Finley crushed herself against my ribs, her arms wrapping tightly around my waist.

"You're finally here! I was waiting forever!"

I stared down at her, dazed. Finley had grown a bit since I last saw her, but she still had the same bright eyes, the same boundless energy that always made Osaka shake his head in exhausted amusement.

"Uh—yeah," I mumbled, awkwardly patting her back. "I guess I’m here."

I forced a small smile, my hands resting awkwardly on her shoulders. Her enthusiasm was overwhelming. Too much.

Too warm.

Too familiar.

I glanced at Madoka, but he was already locking the door behind us.

Finley, oblivious to my hesitation, grabbed my hand and started pulling me further inside. “Come on! You have to see my room! We can stay up and watch movies and—”

“Finley,” Madoka cut in, his voice weary. “It’s late.”

Finley pouted but let go of my hand. “Okay, okay…” She looked back up at me, eyes bright. “But we’re still sleeping in my room, right? The guest room’s full.”

I blinked. “Full?”

Madoka didn’t answer immediately. He shrugged off his coat and walked past us toward the kitchen. “My wife’s using it.”

Something in his tone made me stop. There was an odd weight to those words, an unspoken implication that I couldn’t quite decipher. But before I could ask, Finley tugged at my sleeve again, her excitement undeterred.

“Come on, I’ll show you where you can put your stuff!”

I hesitated. The exhaustion in my bones screamed at me to just follow, to let the night end. But the unease lingered, curling in the pit of my stomach like a warning left unheard.

I stepped into the small room, and Finley’s eyes lit up like a pair of stars. Her excitement was infectious, but I couldn’t seem to match her energy. The soft pastel colors of her room—a sea of plushies, soft blankets, and warm lighting—feel like something out of a dream. Everything about it was too bright, too cheerful, too... innocent.

She hopped onto her bed, her tiny legs kicking in the air as she grinned up at me. “I’m so glad you’re staying here, Ayaki-chan!” she exclaimed, her voice high-pitched and bubbly. “We’re gonna have so much fun! You can sleep here with me tonight!” She patted the spot next to her, already imagining us as the best of friends.

I offered a tight smile, my eyes scanning the room but never really focusing. I didn't even know how I ended up there. Not like Madoka gave me a choice. Like this was the only option, as if my opinion didn’t matter.

The toys, the sea-themed décor—everything there was a reminder of what I didn’t have. What I never got to have.

Finley babbled on about her day, about school, about her favorite toys, about everything under the sun. She sounded so carefree then. So happy. I wished I could be like that, but all I could think of was the hollow ache in my chest, the space that used to be filled with Osaka.

I didn't even know what was happening to me.

I felt disconnected, as if I was watching myself from somewhere far away.

I forced my attention back to Finley, tried my best to engage with her, even though all I really wanted was to curl into myself and block everything out. She didn't seem to notice my discomfort, her voice only rising in pitch as she continued to talk about her stuffed animals.

But then—then she said something that hit me like a wave.

“Where’s Osaka-ojisan?” she asked, tilting her head to one side as she looked up at me. Her large eyes were innocent, curious, and yet I couldn't help but feel a pang of bitterness. “I miss him. He’s the best!”

The words were so simple, so pure, yet they felt like a knife twisting in my side. I didn't know why then, but I felt my stomach churn, a sharp pang of jealousy cutting through me.

He’s the best.

She didn't know.

She didn't know how complicated it all was, how much I hated the fact that he was always so busy, that he was always somewhere else, that he had time for everyone but me.

And then, there she was, talking about him like he was some kind of hero. Like he was perfect. Like he belonged to them.

But... wasn’t he supposed to belong to me?

“Osaka-ojisan?” The way she said it, with that childish adoration, made me feel small. Like I never mattered, like I was never enough. He was always out there, with people like her, with Madoka, with his other family. I didn’t even get to see him every day. But she... she was so comfortable with him. She talked about him like he was someone she could rely on.

I felt bile rise in my throat, the knot in my stomach tightening with every second. It was not her fault. I knew that. But the resentment, the jealousy—it rose up, unstoppable. I wanted to shout. I wanted to tell her that he was mine, that he was mine, but I couldn’t. It was not her fault.

So I stayed silent. I swallowed back the hurt, letting it settle deep inside me where it couldn’t escape.

Finley, for all her enthusiasm, didn't seem to notice the shift in the air. She was already grabbing a plushie from her bed, cradling it against her chest. “I think you’d like my new octopus plushie! It’s so soft! And guess what? Osaka-ojisan got it for me last time he came! He always gets me the best things.”

I could feel the jealousy clinging to my throat, sharp and bitter. He bought her an octopus. An octopus. I remembered the way he used to look at me when he got me something. The way his eyes would soften, like I was the only one he cared about in that moment. In that moment, I wondered—was that just a lie? Was that just something he said to make me happy?

My fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeves, my nails biting into my skin as I fought to keep myself together. The room felt too small, the walls closing in. Everything there—the bright colors, the warm energy—felt like a foreign world, one I wasn’t a part of. Not anymore.

I cleared my throat, trying to push the thoughts away. “He’s busy,” I finally said, my voice thin. “Osaka-san... he’s just busy with work. You know how he is.”

Finley pouted, her lower lip trembling slightly as she stared up at me. She didn't ask more questions, but her eyes held a quiet curiosity. Maybe she sensed that something was wrong, but she didn't press further. Instead, she wrapped herself in her blankets, curling up like a little kitten, hugging her plushie tight to her chest.

“I’m sure he’ll visit again soon,” she said, her voice soft and dreamy. “He always does.”

I nodded stiffly, but my mind was far away, lost in a haze of memories, in the image of Osaka laughing with Madoka, of him brushing past me without a second glance.

The best.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And suddenly, I wondered if I ever really knew him at all.

I excused myself to the bathroom, mumbling something about needing a moment. Finley barely acknowledged it, already lost in some imaginary world with her plushies, humming to herself as she tucked them in beside her.

The hallway was dim, lined with old wallpaper that curled at the edges, its faded floral pattern like ghosts of a past someone had tried to preserve. The bathroom was at the end of the corridor, but I didn’t move right away.

Instead, I leaned against the wall, exhaling shakily.

The ache in my chest was suffocating, stretching through my ribs, curling around my throat like unseen hands. I swallowed against it. Osaka's name still hung in the air, a presence that refused to be silenced, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to pull it closer or tear it apart.

I stepped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at my reflection. The fluorescent light above flickered slightly, casting brief shadows across my face. I barely recognized myself—dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. My hair was slightly disheveled from the day, from the weight of everything I carried.

I turned on the faucet and let the water run, but I didn’t reach for it.

I closed my eyes.

And suddenly—he was there.

Not just in memory, but in the way my bones ached, in the way my pulse stuttered as if he were pressing his lips to my throat. I felt him in the ghost of his touch, in the weight of his absence, in the quiet pull of something I couldn’t name.

My fingers twitched against the counter, and I gripped the edges of the sink as if the porcelain could tether me to reality. The water rushed down the drain, spiraling, endless, like the thoughts unraveling inside me.

I didn’t know if I had started it.

If he had.

If it had been slow, hesitant, like a whisper of something forbidden. Or if it had been sudden, like an eclipse blotting out everything else. I couldn’t even remember if it had really happened—if it was something I had longed for so desperately that my mind had rewritten history in its own image.

But the feeling remained.

Heavy. Inescapable. Inevitable.

I forced my eyes open, meeting my own reflection again. The room was the same. The light still buzzed faintly. The world hadn’t changed.

Only I had.

I turned off the faucet with a sharp flick of my wrist, the water dripping once, twice, before silence swallowed the room whole.

Then, I unlocked the door and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the ghost of him behind.

Or maybe—I carried him with me still.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, the hallway felt colder. Or maybe it was just me.

The dim light barely reached the end of the corridor, stretching the shadows into something longer, something unnatural. My pulse had steadied, but that dull ache remained, lodged somewhere between my ribs, a bruise that wouldn’t fade.

I was about to return to Finley’s room when I heard voices.

Madoka’s. Low and sharp, carrying that familiar exasperation.

And then—hers.

I stopped.

His wife’s voice was soft, almost distant, as if she were speaking from the bottom of a well. It didn’t rise or fall with emotion, just drifted like a dead thing floating in still water.

“You brought her here.”

“She’s under my care now.” A pause. A breath. “Orders.”

A long silence. Then—

“Does she dream of him?”

My stomach twisted.

Madoka exhaled, a sound more tired than anything. “She hasn’t said a damn thing about it.”

A beat.

“She will.”

The air in the hallway tightened. I felt it press against my skin, against my throat. It wasn’t what she said, but the way she said it—like a promise. Like a certainty carved into something deeper than bone.

Madoka sighed, muttering something too low for me to catch. Then came the sound of fabric rustling, footsteps shifting. I forced myself to move, walking quickly, quietly, back to Finley’s room.

I slipped inside and closed the door behind me.

Finley had already crawled under the blankets, clutching that godforsaken plush octopus to her chest. She looked up as I hesitated near the doorway, her eyes drowsy but still bright with childish curiosity.

“Did you get lost?” she asked, yawning.

I managed a weak smile. “No.”

She patted the space beside her eagerly. “Come sleep! We have so many things to do tomorrow!”

I hesitated before making my way to the bed, settling down beside her. The mattress dipped slightly, and Finley curled up without hesitation, warmth radiating from her small frame.

As I lay there, surrounded by sea creatures and the quiet hum of the city beyond the window, my mind drifted.

Not to Madoka.

Not to his wife.

But to what she had said.

Does she dream of him?

I closed my eyes.

And in the dark, the memory came.

Chapter Text

Okinawa Aquarium, 1999

I'm dying to believe it's possible for us to be friends.

I remembered the aquarium.

Fifteen years old, the world tinted blue. The doors slid open with a soft hiss, spilling us into the cold evening air. The sky was the same deep colour as the water inside, the last traces of sunlight sinking beneath the skyline. The city was alive beyond the parking lot—cars humming, neon signs flickering, the distant chatter of strangers.

Osaka walked ahead, hands still in his pockets, his posture loose but unreadable. I followed a step behind, my arms crossed against the chill. The silence between us wasn’t heavy, not yet, but it wasn’t light either.

It sat in the air, waiting.

And then—

I heard it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out without breaking stride. The screen’s glow painted his face in cold light. He barely glanced at it before answering.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than before.
And then, after a pause—

“Miki-chan.”

The name sliced through the air like a clean cut.

I stopped walking.

Just for a second.

Osaka didn’t notice.

I didn’t know why it hit me like that. It wasn’t like I didn’t know. I’d already guessed. The way he’d been distracted lately, the constant phone calls, the sighs, the barely-there attention. I wasn’t stupid.

But hearing it out loud—hearing him say her name—

I felt something in my chest twist, sharp and ugly.

I turned my face away, staring at the pavement, at the cracks in the sidewalk, at anything but him.

I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t care.

I didn’t know how long he kept talking. I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. The blood rushing in my ears was too loud.

When I looked up again, he was still walking, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low, unreadable.

I forced my feet to move, to follow.
But the cold wasn’t just in the air anymore.
It was sinking under my skin.

I should’ve been looking at the fish, the stingrays gliding like ghosts, the slow pulse of jellyfish. But all I could see was his reflection in the glass. His lips moving, his eyes sharp and focused, his fingers tapping against his wrist.

He was always like this now—distant.

Distracted. Even on my birthday.

Something curled tight in my chest. I tried to ignore it.

The place was nearly empty, just the occasional murmurs of passing families, the hum of the water filters. The ceiling arched overhead, dark and endless. It felt like standing at the bottom of the ocean.

I took a step closer to the glass, just enough for my own reflection to flicker over his. The fish swam behind it, slow, oblivious.

Osaka sighed suddenly, rubbing his temple.

“No. I don’t care, just handle it.” A pause.

Then, quieter, “I told you, I’m busy.”

With what?

With me?

Was I just a burden in his eyes?

The thought sank into me, bitter and heavy. I didn’t even realize I had clenched my fists until my nails pressed into my palms.

He finally hung up.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched, filled only by the water’s slow churn, the flickering light.

Then he glanced at me. “What’s with that face?”

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

He frowned. “You always say that.”

And you never say anything at all, I wanted to snap. But the words tangled in my throat.

Instead, I turned, walking ahead without waiting. I heard him sigh before following.

We walk in silence, and it's the kind of quiet that feels too heavy, like we're each waiting for the other to break it. We don't. Neither of us speaks. The small argument lingers between us, heavy and unsaid, like something too delicate to touch. We walk down the hallway of the aquarium, the quiet humming of machinery surrounding us. His strides are longer than mine, but he doesn't pull ahead.

I’m sure he's just trying to ignore what we both just said. Neither of us wants to break the fragile peace that's settled between us like a bandage over an open wound.

The last exhibit was a towering glass, the tank stretching overhead. Everything was bathed in deep blue. At the center, something moved—two creatures, gliding just in front of us.

Manta rays.

They swam in slow circles, their fins stretching like wings, like they were flying instead of floating. They were massive, nearly the length of a car, yet impossibly graceful.
I hesitated near the glass.

Osaka watched them, hands in his pockets.
“Scared?”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. But my body betrayed me, a slight shiver running up my arms.

He huffed, amused. “They’re harmless.”

I didn’t answer.

I wasn’t scared of the rays.

I was scared of how far away he felt.

Of how, even now, I could still feel the weight of his voice on the phone, slipping through my fingers like water.

I looked back at the manta rays.

They’re us, I thought. Two creatures caught in the same world but forever swimming in different currents. Separate, yet linked. Always near, but never quite together.

For a moment, I watched them in silence. Their slow movements seemed to echo something inside me, something I didn’t quite understand. I wondered if they felt as tethered to each other as I feel to him, or if they were just two separate lives drifting through the same space.

A shiver ran through me, and I stepped closer to the glass, eyes unfocused. The coldness of it pressed against my palms, and suddenly, the water felt too motionless, too dark. The creatures inside moved with a grace that made me feel... small. Too still. Too quiet.

I couldn’t breathe, not properly. It’s like the weight of the glass was too much to bear. The silence—too much.

I felt the weight of the glass against my palm, the pressure of everything unsaid between us. And then—something shifted.

It was like he was closer than I remembered, standing so near that I could feel his presence, warm and quiet, beside me. He didn’t touch me, but I could sense him in the space between us, his gaze somewhere just out of reach. My chest tightened, and I tried to focus on the fish, on anything that would distract me from the sudden flood of confusion that rose up in me.

And then—his voice.

It was soft, low, too quiet at first. The words blurred in my mind, like a forgotten melody. I didn’t even know what he was saying. I still can’t remember. But whatever it was—whatever he said—there was a calm in it. Something settled inside me, like a knot loosening, like I was finally able to breathe again. The fear, the tension, the gnawing hunger that had been there for so long—vanishes.

I was almost too calm.

I didn’t know if it was his voice, or the air between us, or something deeper that had been waiting.

But then... there was a shift in the air, a change I couldn’t place.

And suddenly, I wasn't sure who moved first.

Was it me? Was it him? Was it slow, or sudden, or was it nothing at all?

I don’t remember.

I can’t remember.

But I feel it.

A brush of warmth, of lips against mine. The world blurred into something sweet, something sharp, something that could have been real—or could have been a dream. My heart beat in a stutter, the air thick with something I didn’t know how to name.

It didn’t last long.

When I pulled away, the space between us was more awkward than before, and I was unsure of anything.

Did it even happen? Was it something I wished for, or something we both needed?

His eyes didn’t meet mine. They lingered somewhere just past my shoulder, like he was trying to piece together what we both just did.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmured.

The words were too low, too soft, and maybe that was a warning or a command. But when I looked at him, I didn't see the same person I saw before. His face was unreadable, like he was holding onto something—maybe a secret, maybe his own confusion.

I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know if I wanted to know.

The fish continued to swim in their perfect, synchronized pattern, oblivious to everything.

The glass hummed beneath my hand, but the world felt heavier then. Everything was quieter, slower. The fear that crept in before had returned, but it was different. Now it was something else.

Maybe a part of me wished it was a dream.

Maybe a part of me wished it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

Heaven, If You’re Listening

Or life will feel even colder.

I woke up to the warmth of something small and soft pressed against my side. Finley. Her tiny hand was curled into the fabric of my sleeve, her steady breathing filling the quiet room.

I blinked up at the ceiling, trying to shake off the weight of sleep, then turned my head slightly, taking in the dim glow of the nightlight in the corner—an ocean-themed lamp casting gentle ripples of blue and green along the walls. The air smelled faintly of lavender shampoo and childhood innocence. The room was cluttered with plush sea creatures, whales and sharks piled in the corners, their black eyes reflecting the faint light. It was like being underwater, like sinking.

I carefully pulled my arm away, sitting up on the bed. Finley stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Her hair was a mess of curls against the pillow, her lips parted as she slept. Peaceful.

Oblivious.

I envied her for it.

The moment my feet touched the floor, a voice piped up from the covers.

“You were mumbling in your sleep.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Finley had barely stirred, her cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes still heavy with sleep. She yawned, rubbing at her face before peeking up at me.

“What was I saying?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

She stretched her arms above her head and shrugged. “Dunno. Just words.”

Then she blinked, suddenly more awake. “Hey! Are you staying here forever?”

Her enthusiasm made my stomach twist. “No,” I said softly. “Just for a little while.”

She frowned, clearly unhappy with my answer, and sat up slightly. "Why not?"

Before I could even attempt an answer, she pushed herself up and scooted closer. "I missed you," she whispered. "I missed Osaka too. You should tell him to come soon."

My chest tightened.

She didn’t give me time to react. Without warning, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her face against my stomach.

"I don’t want you to leave again," she mumbled.

I stiffened. For a moment, I just sat there, frozen, my hands hovering uselessly in the air. Then, slowly, I rested a hand on her back.

I should’ve said something—anything—but my throat felt tight, my thoughts tangled. So I just let her hold on.

I exhaled softly, letting my arms wrap around her small frame, pulling her close. Her hair smelled like flowers, soft against my chin. She was so warm, so delicate, and for a second, as I nuzzled into her hair, I could almost pretend I was holding someone else.

Osaka.

The thought twisted inside me, sharp and sudden. The weight of her against me, the way she clung so easily, so freely—it was something I had longed for from him but had never quite reached.

I pulled back slightly, studying her face. Her black hair, silky and slightly messy from sleep, framed those big blue eyes—Madoka’s eyes. A thought stirred in the back of my mind, something I couldn’t quite piece together yet, something I would have to ask later.

For now, I just squeezed her small hand in mine. "Come on," I murmured. "Let's take a bath."

Finley hummed sleepily, rubbing at her eye before nodding. She took my hand properly and slid off the bed, following me without question, her grip warm and trusting.

The warm water filled the tub, steam curling in the air as Finley climbed in with a happy sigh. She grabbed a small dolphin toy, squeezing it so it squeaked, and started chattering about her dreams, her favorite sea creatures, and how Madoka told her she should learn to braid her own hair. I let her words wash over me, only half-listening. My fingers absentmindedly ran through her hair, detangling it as I worked in the shampoo.

That was when it hit me.

A memory, warm and weightless like water.

I was small again, maybe six or seven. Sitting in the tub, knees drawn up to my chest. Osaka was behind me, sleeves rolled up, carefully lathering shampoo into my hair.

"Don’t move," he said, his voice gentler back then. "You’re covered in knots."

I huffed but stayed still as his fingers worked through the tangles with patience I rarely saw in him. The warm water lapped against my skin, and in the silence, I could hear the faint hum of cicadas outside, the distant sound of Grandma’s TV playing in the other room.

"You’ll have to start washing it yourself soon," Osaka muttered, though his hands never stopped their careful work. "I won’t always be around to help you, Aya-tan."

I remember pouting, crossing my arms. "But you always take care of me."

He paused for a moment, then sighed. "Yeah, well. That won’t last forever."

I wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he was wrong, but even then, I think I understood. Some things don’t last. Some things slip through your fingers like water.

Back in the present, I blinked hard, grounding myself as Finley splashed playfully, giggling when some of the water hit me. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for a towel, wrapping it around her small shoulders.

"Okay, enough," I muttered. "Let’s dry off."

She pouted but obeyed, standing up and letting me lift her out of the tub.

As I toweled off my own hair, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face looked pale, my eyes shadowed, and for a moment, it was as if I could see Osaka standing behind me, like a ghostly imprint burned into the glass.

I turned away before I could look too long.

The hallway was quiet. I walked slowly, Finley's small hand in mine, our bare feet barely making a sound against the wooden floor. As we neared the end of the hallway, I heard voices.

Madoka and his wife. What was her name again?

“I told you,” she was saying, her words carrying through the thin walls. “It’s not my concern.”

Madoka sighed, a sound of pure frustration. “She’s not ready.”

“She doesn’t have a choice.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, Madoka muttered, “Neither did he.”

A chill crawled up my spine.

I shouldn’t have been listening. I knew that.

But I couldn’t move, couldn’t tear myself away. Their voices were distant, distorted, like I was hearing them from underwater. I closed my eyes, and suddenly I wasn’t standing in the hallway anymore.

I was somewhere else.

Somewhere darker.

The scent of incense filled my lungs, thick and suffocating. Candlelight flickered against the stone walls. The pews were empty, the altar looming ahead, draped in red and gold. I had spent so many days here as a child, had prayed beneath these very statues, had whispered secrets to the stained glass saints above.

But now, I wasn’t alone.

A figure stood at the altar, dressed in black, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. But I knew better.

Osaka never prayed.

“Do you believe in God, Aya-tan?”

His voice was softer than I remembered, almost gentle. Almost.

I took a step forward, my shoes echoing against the floor. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t turn to face me. “Do you?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He finally turned, his expression unreadable. The dim candlelight cast shadows across his face, making his features look sharper, more severe. “If God is real,” he said, stepping closer, “then why do you think He made us like this?”

The question sent a shiver down my spine.

Like this.

I opened my mouth to respond, but no sound came out. The walls of the church seemed to stretch, the ceiling growing taller, the air growing heavier.

I took a step back. And then another.

But Osaka followed.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured. “I can see it.”

I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That I wasn’t afraid. That I would never be afraid of him. But the words felt like a lie, even in my own mind.

He reached out then, fingers brushing against my cheek. His touch was light, fleeting, but it burned all the same. I couldn’t breathe.

And then—

Darkness.

A sharp gasp tore from my throat as my eyes snapped open. I was back in the hallway, my knees weak, my hands trembling, Finley's faint, worried whimpers ringing in my ears.

For a second, I swore I could still feel his fingers against my skin.

I stumbled back, nearly colliding with the wall. I needed to get out of here. I needed air. I needed—

“Having fun eavesdropping?”

I turned sharply. Madoka stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that same knowing look he always had.

I opened my mouth, but no excuse came.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Come on,” he said. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’re meeting someone today.”

I frowned, still trying to steady my breath. “Who?”

Madoka turned, already walking away. “You’ll see.”

I stared after him, my pulse still hammering in my ears. My fingers curled into fists.

I could still feel Osaka’s presence, lingering just beneath my skin.

Like he had never left at all.

Chapter Text

Hands that Bind, Hands that Bless

Touched by God, marked by man.

The car ride stretched on in silence, the cityscape melting away into the vast, open countryside. Golden fields swayed under the weight of the wind, and distant mountains loomed on the horizon, their peaks softened by a thin veil of mist. I watched the landscape blur past, the monotonous hum of the tires lulling me into a trance. I didn’t ask again where we were going. I wasn’t sure if I cared to know.

Madoka kept his focus on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting idly against his knee. He hadn’t spoken much since we left the apartment, and I didn’t feel like breaking the silence. The weight of Finley’s lingering warmth still clung to me skin, as her small arms were still wrapped around me. I exhaled and shifted my gaze back out the window, my breath fogging up the glass slightly.

Eventually, the car turned onto a narrow dirt path, winding through a thick forest of cypress trees. The road was uneven, the tires crunching over loose gravel. Then, at last, we emerged into a clearing where a traditional Shinto shrine stood, nestled among the towering trees. The red torii gate stood tall against the backdrop of deep green, its paint slightly worn but still striking against the landscape.

As soon as Madoka parked, the passenger door flew open. Before I could fully step out, a blur of white and red came sprinting towards us.

“Madoka!”

Before he could react, a young woman in a miko uniform launched herself at him, nearly knocking him off balance. Her arms wrapped tightly around his torso as she squeezed him with alarming force.

Madoka sighed heavily. “Get off, Fumiko.”

The woman leaned back just enough to beam up at him. “Idiot! You didn’t even tell me you were coming.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” he muttered, peeling her arms off him like an annoyed older brother dealing with an overly affectionate sibling—which, as it turned out, was exactly the case.

I blinked. This had to be his sister.

Fumiko stepped back, hands on her hips as she appraised him. Her sharp features bore a striking resemblance to Madoka’s, but where he carried an air of exhaustion and detached cynicism, she radiated warmth and energy. Her dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her crimson hakama rustled with every movement.

She then turned her gaze to me. Her expression brightened instantly. "Osaka’s little sister!" she chirped, stepping closer. "Don't you remember me?"

Before I could react, she reached out and ruffled my hair.

I scowled. First name basis? And petting my head like I was some child? She couldn’t be more than two or three years older than me and an inch taller, yet she treated me like a little kid. My lips pressed into a thin line, but I said nothing. No, I couldn't say I remembered someone as... I don't know.

Fumiko turned back to Madoka and smacked his arm. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

He sighed again, rubbing where she hit. “What now?”

“You know exorcists aren’t supposed to set foot in shrines,” she hissed, glancing around as if someone might be watching. “Do you want me to lose my job?”

Madoka looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Relax. I won’t be here long enough to taint your sacred grounds with my sinful presence.”

“That’s not funny.”

I watched their exchange with mild amusement. Despite my initial reservations, there was something oddly entertaining about watching someone openly berate Madoka without fear of consequence. Fumiko seemed to be the only person who could get away with it.

Still, I couldn’t ignore the weight in Fumiko’s words. I knew exorcists and religious institutions had a complicated history, but just how deep did that divide run?

I stared at the vermilion pillars and crisp paper charms swaying in the breeze like they were waiting to brand me with holy fire.

“I’m not going in there,” I said, stepping back. “I was baptized, you know. I’m Christian. Pretty sure this counts as blasphemy.”

Fumiko raised an eyebrow.

Madoka didn’t even give me a full glance. “You only go to church on Christmas.”

“That’s not the point—!”

Before I could finish protesting, I felt fingers hook around the back of my collar.

“Hey—! Madoka—!” I squawked as he dragged me forward like a misbehaving stray. My shoes scraped uselessly against the stones.

Fumiko laughed—actually laughed, like this was completely normal. “So dramatic. Are you sure she’s not your secret sister?”

“God, don’t start that,” he muttered.

They pulled me past the threshold, through the torii gate, into the dense stillness of the shrine. The air shifted, heavier here. Charged. It prickled under my skin like something watching.

I stopped struggling.

Because I could feel it now.

Something was waiting.

It was like walking underwater, as if the air had weight and memory. The protests died in my throat.

The shrine was small, old, tucked into the countryside like something forgotten by time. The kind of place that creaked with history and secrets no one had any business digging up.

We followed Fumiko past hanging lanterns and a curtain of bells that jingled as we passed. She moved with the ease of someone who belonged here—Madoka did not. His shoulders were tense. His face unreadable.

Mine was probably a mix of reluctant awe and mild terror.

“You still haven’t told me why I’m here,” I muttered, tugging lightly at his sleeve this time, not yanking.

He didn’t look at me. “You’ll find out soon.”

“I swear to God—”

“Wrong place to swear,” he cut in, glancing sideways at me, voice flat. “Don’t let the gods hear you say that.”

“I thought I wasn’t even supposed to be here,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

That silence scared me more than any monster.

We stopped in front of a small room at the back of the shrine, its sliding doors etched with symbols I didn’t recognize. The kind of marks that stirred something ancient and restless in the pit of my stomach.

Fumiko turned to us with a strange smile.

“Take your shoes off. And don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Madoka shot her a glare. “You’re not a priestess, you’re a traffic cop with fancy robes.”

She winked. “And yet, here you are.”

I hesitated. My hands were sweating. My heartbeat was louder than it should’ve been.

When I finally stepped onto the tatami, something inside me twisted. Sharp and strange. Like an invisible thread had just been pulled taut.

I didn’t say anything.

Because in that moment, I felt it again.

Osaka.

His presence, or the memory of it, flooding into my chest like the pressure before a storm.

Something was about to break.

Chapter Text

Don’t Cross the Gate

What waits beyond remembers your name.

The room was too warm.

I woke up tangled in someone else’s scent—faint, fading, but still clinging to the pillow beside me. Cedarwood and soap, maybe something herbal. I pressed my face into the fabric and inhaled deeply, letting the ache settle behind my ribs. There will be no one on that side, I thought, and covered my head with the pillow. Osaka combed my hair, Osaka cut my hair.

The house always felt too big without him.

That silence that used to echo with his footsteps now hummed like something broken—something no one wanted to fix.

I had started sleeping in his bed.

My mother didn’t approve, but she had stopped arguing about it weeks ago. Maybe she knew it made no difference. I wasn’t sleeping because I missed him. I was sleeping there because I was afraid he’d come back and forget where he belonged.

Osaka’s room still smelled like laundry detergent and dust. His posters curled at the corners. There was a crack on the ceiling above his bed—shaped like a crooked lightning bolt—that I used to trace with my eyes until sleep pulled me under.

I remember thinking he’d left forever. That if I cried hard enough, maybe God would send him back.

Nine is too young to understand why people run away. But I did understand empty rooms.

Never again Osaka and I.

“Aya, come down! I need your help with the eggs!” Her voice rang out from the kitchen, warm but strained.

I didn’t answer right away. I let her words settle into the dust motes floating through the room, watched the light dance through the thin curtain like it might tell me something.

But the second time she called—my full name this time—I sighed and pushed the blanket off.

The floor was cold.

I padded down the hallway, still in Osaka’s too-big slippers, and peeked into the kitchen. The radio was playing something upbeat that didn’t match the morning.

“Can you stir this while I chop the scallions?” she asked, pushing a bowl toward me.

I nodded and grabbed the chopsticks, my hands already knowing what to do. She worked quickly, knife against wood, but there was a wrinkle between her brows that hadn’t been there before he left. It had settled there like it meant to stay.

“He used to stir it too slow,” she said, without looking at me. “Always left it lumpy.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept stirring.

“Sometimes I think he did it on purpose, just to see if I’d scold him.”

I didn’t say anything. Just kept stirring.

She set the knife down and wiped her hands on her apron, watching the scallions fall into the pan like little green coins.

“He was a strange boy,” she went on, not really talking to me anymore. “Too quiet for his own good. Always staring out the window like he was waiting for something.”

A pause.

“Or someone.”

The oil sizzled as she dropped the vegetables in, masking the edge in her voice.

“He never told me much. Never asked for anything either. Just kept everything locked up in that little head of his.”

She laughed, but it didn’t sound amused.

“Not even his own mother could get through to him.”

She leaned on the counter, then looked over at me for a beat too long.

“You looked up to him so much. I used to worry you’d end up just like him.”

I dropped the chopsticks.

They clattered on the floor.

Never again Osaka and I.

“I’ll get it,” I mumbled, crouching down to pick up the chopsticks. My fingers trembled. I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold floor or something else.

She didn’t apologize. She never did. Just turned her back and stirred the pan a little harder than necessary.

“I used to hear him at night, you know,” she said. “When you were asleep. Sometimes talking to himself, sometimes crying. It was like living with a ghost.” A pause. “I think he wanted to disappear before we could make him.”

I stood up, but I didn’t return to stirring. I just stared at the tiny oil-slicked bubbles dancing around the vegetables. They looked like eyes—blinking, popping, watching.

My mother finally sighed.

“Ayaki. Sit. Breakfast’s almost ready.”

I obeyed. The table was set for four.

She noticed too late.

She hesitated for just a second before clearing one of the plates with a frown, muttering something under her breath about habit.

I watched her dump the plate into the sink. A tiny splash of miso soup sloshed over and landed on the counter.

We ate in silence after that. Or at least, she did. I just stared at my rice until it got cold.

Who was going to talk to me now? Without him, I was nothing, I didn’t want to be.

Somewhere outside, the cicadas were already screaming.

By the time the light outside began to dim just a little—soft gold filtering in through the windows like old paper—my mother checked the clock and sighed.

“He’s not coming home soon,” she muttered. “Of course.”

She began packing up the leftovers, one container at a time. Her motions were brisk but careful, like she wanted to complain but didn’t want the food to suffer for it.

“Ayaki,” she said, turning to me. “Take this to your grandmother’s. Make sure she eats, and check on Osaka while you’re there.”

I blinked. “Osaka?”

“He’s probably still in his room.” She shoved the bento into my hands. “Tell him to come visit once in a while. It’s been two weeks. Your father won’t say it, but he’s worried.”

I almost asked her are you?

But instead, I nodded.

Outside, the air was thick with humidity and buzzing things, and the weight of the food in my hands somehow felt heavier than it should’ve been.

The sun had slipped lower, bruising the sky in faded colors—peach, mauve, a little gray. Cicadas droned like a lullaby half-remembered. The bento in my hands was warm, and the plastic bag it was wrapped in crinkled with every step.

The road to Etsuko Obaa’s house wasn’t far—just a little dirt path between rice fields and old trees. But every time I walked it, it felt like walking into a different world.

One where everything still belonged to him.

I knew it by heart. I'd walked it a hundred times with Osaka before he started going less and less. Before he stopped going altogether. Back then, we’d race down it—he’d let me win sometimes. Only sometimes.

Now I walked it alone.

The tips of my shoes kicked at the gravel, and the quiet started to creep in, not the peaceful kind, but the kind that gets under your skin. It felt like everything had been left hanging in the air the moment he left. His voice, the ghost of his laughter, the silence that came after.

I didn’t want to admit it, but every time I walked this path, I hoped I’d see him waiting at the end of it again. Leaning against the gate. Arms crossed. Smirking like he never left.

I glanced at the ditch to my right—once, I slipped there and cried until he picked me up and told me only babies cry over scraped knees. And then he let me lean on him all the way home.

The memory stung. Not in a bad way. More like pressing your thumb against a bruise you don’t want to heal.

By the time Etsuko’s house came into view, the crickets had begun their chorus, and I could just barely make out the light in the front room. Still on. Like always.

Like someone was still waiting.

I stopped at the gate and hesitated.

The house looked the same as ever—wood dark with age, roof a little mossy, that faint earthy smell always drifting out from the gaps in the windows. Still, it felt… quieter than usual. Like the silence was holding its breath.

I reached out and knocked on the door. Once. Twice.

“Obaa-chan?” I called softly. “It’s me.”

No answer.

I waited. Cicadas screeched in the distance like they were mocking me.

I tried again. “Nii-chan? Are you home?”

Still nothing.

The genkan creaked as I slid the door open, and I stepped just inside, the warmth of the day clinging to the wood beneath my feet. I leaned down, balancing the bento in one hand while kicking off my shoes with the other, toes brushing against the familiar floorboards.

“Coming in,” I muttered, more out of habit than anything else.

The house felt heavy. It wasn’t quite cold, but the kind of warmth that didn’t welcome you.

I stepped further in, clutching the bag to my chest, listening—really listening—for the sound of someone breathing in another room, the hum of a fan, the shuffle of slippers. But there was only the ticking of a clock I couldn’t see.

I wandered through the house like a whisper.

First the kitchen—quiet. The sink was clean, not a single cup out of place. I peeked into the tatami room where Etsuko sometimes napped, but her pillow was neatly folded and untouched. The hallway creaked beneath my feet as I stepped past closed sliding doors, half expecting one of them to rattle open.

“Obaa-chan?” I tried again, a little louder this time. “Osa-nii?”

Still nothing.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared up.

The second floor always felt like another world—darker, quieter, like the air changed the moment you climbed. Even now, sunlight slanted in through the window above, casting long shadows that crawled across the wall.

I wasn’t going up there. No way.

I turned and headed toward the back instead.

When I slid the door open, warm air and the scent of crushed leaves greeted me. And there she was—Etsuko, crouched by the edge of the garden, her hands gently coaxing herbs into a woven basket. The cicadas were louder out here, but her presence made everything feel still.

“Obaa-chan,” I called, relief breaking in my voice.

She looked up, her eyes softening the second she saw me. “Ayaki-chan,” she said, standing slowly with a hand on her back. “You came.”

“I brought lunch,” I said, lifting the bag, trying not to look like I was about to cry. “Mama said… Papa wasn’t coming home, so I should bring it to you. And to check on Osaka…”

Etsuko walked over and cupped my cheek with one hand, the other still holding her herbs. “So thoughtful,” she murmured. “He’ll be happy. He’s been feeling a little under the weather today.”

My face crumpled before I could stop it.

“He’s sick?” I asked, my voice breaking.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she pulled me into a hug, letting the herbs brush against my back. “Just a fever. Nothing too serious. I was just about to brew something for him. You got here at the perfect time.”

I nodded against her shoulder, swallowing the lump in my throat. The idea of Osaka, big and loud and always teasing, curled up and shivering under a blanket made my chest hurt.

“Can I see him?” I asked, wiping my eyes quickly on my sleeve.

She gave me a gentle pat. “Of course, baby. Let’s go give him his lunch first.”

The moment Etsuko opened the back door, I ran past her, nearly tripping over myself as I darted into the house. The fear that usually twisted in my belly at the base of the staircase didn’t even register—I didn’t care. I had to see him.

I clutched the railing and rushed up two steps at a time, heart pounding like a drum. No knocking. No pausing. I pushed the door open so hard it bounced off the wall with a thud.

“Nii-chan!”

He was lying on his futon, propped up by a pillow, a book resting on his chest. The light from the window bathed the room in gold, and dust floated in lazy swirls above him. He looked up slowly, brows raised in that dry, unimpressed way of his.

“…What.”

“You’re sick!” I cried, voice cracking.

He blinked slowly. “I have a cold.”

“You’re gonna die!”

He groaned just as I launched myself at him, hugging him tightly, tears already brimming in my eyes. His arms didn’t come up right away, and he let out a breath like I’d just knocked the wind out of him.

“Seriously?”

“I brought you food and everything!” I wailed. “And tea! And I ran here and everything!”

Osaka shifted, grumbling, but his hand came up to pat my head. Just once. Just enough.

Then, Etsuko appeared in the doorway, smiling warmly.

“Thank you, Ayaki-chan,” she said as she came in. “He’s being dramatic.”

“I’m dramatic?” Osaka muttered, indignant.

“Shush. I’ll go make that tea now. You two don’t destroy the room.”

She left us there, my arms still wrapped around him, his sigh warm against my hair. I didn’t move right away. His shirt was warm and smelled like dust and medicine, and even though he was grouchy, his hand stayed on my back, not pushing me off.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand as I perched beside his futon. Osaka didn’t look like he was dying, not really. His cheeks were flushed from the fever, but he was propped up against the wall with a book in his lap like nothing’s wrong. Still, I sniffled again just to be sure he noticed.

“You look weird,” I mumbled.

He glanced at me over the top of the book, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Thanks.”

“Why’re you sick?”

He shrugged, letting the book fall closed over his finger. “Just tired.”

I blinked. “From what?”

“Work,” he said, voice low like it was supposed to be obvious.

I scrunched up my nose. “Work? You mean, like, the ASAJ stuff?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared out the window like there was something out there only he could see. “Yeah,” he said eventually, almost too quiet to hear. “That.”

I leaned in, trying to catch his eye. “What kind of work makes you this tired?”

He looked back at me, this time with that look grown-ups get when they didn't want to tell you the truth. “Just… don’t worry about it, okay?”

“But—”

“Seriously, Aya-tan.” He shifted the book back into his lap. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

I grumbled and scooted closer, tucking myself under his arm like I used to when we lived at the other house. I didn’t say anything—just leaned into him, arms crossed, my face set in a pout.

He didn’t move at first, but then he shifted a little, letting his arm rest lightly over my shoulder. “You’re such a brat sometimes,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it.

I still didn’t look at him. Just pressed my cheek against his side and mumbled, “You’re the brat.”

A beat of silence.

Then, softly: “Why’re you mad?”

I didn’t answer. I kept my gaze fixed on the wooden floorboards, kicking one bare foot gently against the wooden frame of his futon. He didn’t push. I felt his chest rise and fall beneath me like he was sighing without sound.

We sat like that for a while—quiet, warm, the smell of herbs starting to drift in from downstairs. I didn’t want to tell him I was scared. I didn’t want to admit I thought maybe he wouldn’t be there anymore. That I hated the house without him in it. That I missed the old home, but only because he was there too.

So I just stayed there, pressed against him like maybe I can keep him from disappearing again if I hold on tight enough.

Osaka shifted a little on the futon, glancing down at me, still clinging to him like he’d vanish if I let go. My face was hidden against his chest, stubbornly silent.

“…You’re mad at me,” he muttered, voice rough from the fever but laced with something lighter. “I get it.”

I didn’t move.

He let out a soft breath, then reached out and gently took my hand, pinky finger brushing against mine. “Alright, come here.”

I peeked up at him through damp lashes, suspicious. He held up his hand, pinky extended. “C’mon, Aya-tan. You remember how this goes.”

I blinked. Slowly, cautiously, I wrapped my smaller pinky around his.

“I promise,” he said. “I won’t disappear on you again. Not without telling you. Cross my heart.”

My lips trembled.

“…And if I do,” he added, voice lowering to a whisper, “you can come yell at me all you want. Deal?”

My mouth curved into the smallest pout. “I will. I’ll scream so loud everyone hears.”

“Good,” he said, finally leaning his head back with a tired smirk. “That’s the spirit.”

Our hands stayed linked a little longer than needed, the silence warm this time. A moment sealed in pinkies and quiet understanding—one that I would carry with me far longer than he ever imagined.

I stayed curled into his side, our pinkies still loosely looped. The promise didn’t stop the ache in my chest, but it dulled it. Just enough.

Osaka didn’t speak again, and neither did I.

His hand was warm—just a little too warm—and his breath, though soft and slow, rasped through a congested throat. But in that moment, I memorized him.

I didn’t know why, but something deep inside whispered that I needed to.

I took in the angle of his cheekbones, sharper than most boys his age, the little scar on his left brow from when he first started his job and swore me to secrecy. The soft curve of his lips, which so rarely smiled fully, but always tilted just enough when he looked at me like this. His thick hair, a little damp from sweat, tousled over his forehead like a curtain he never bothered to fix. And his eyes—deep, impossibly dark, heavy-lidded and calm.

Always calm, like still water.

I would never forget them. Not even when I tried.

The warmth of that memory, the heavy, gentle breath of someone resting beside me, the dim room lined with books and the quiet scent of tea on the stove—all of it unraveled.

Dissolved.

I blinked.

And just like that, it was gone.

Somewhere, in a place memory couldn't quite reach, a boy’s promise lingered in the hollow of my palm.

The first thing I noticed was how different the world looked when you came back to it. It felt… thinner, somehow. Like tracing paper laid over something else—something fuller, warmer, realer. The tatami scratched gently against my soles as I shifted closer, careful not to disturb the salt lines carved like tiny rivers across the floor.

Osaka’s face was still vivid behind my eyes, like an afterimage burned into my retinas. But already, I felt it beginning to blur—like a dream you could only recall in shapes and textures.

My throat tightened. I lifted my hand and stared at my pinky. No warmth lingered. Only a faint tremble.

The room smelled of sandalwood and wet earth. Outside, a crow shrieked once, and silence followed.

The ritual circle was nothing like I expected. It wasn’t flashy, no blood or fire or arcane symbols ripped from horror films. It was quiet. Old. Like it had always existed here, under the floorboards, waiting.

Madoka had drawn the salt with precision, each trail connecting to an arrangement of talismans and folded paper charms. Some bore stains of old ink, like they had been used before. The candles were thick and stunted, their wax spilling over small ceramic dishes. One of the incense sticks had gone out early, curling into itself like a dead finger. Another still burned, the smoke forming a soft spiral that tickled my nose and left a bitter taste on my tongue.

Fumiko moved slowly, methodically, her movements practiced. Her sleeves were tucked neatly into her sash, a pair of old prayer beads looped around her wrist like they belonged to someone else.

The shrine walls closed in gently, not oppressively, but like a memory does—slow and steady, until it’s all you can see. I had to glance away. Had to blink hard to stop the image of Osaka’s face from bleeding into everything.

I dropped to my knees beside them. My hands felt heavy on my thighs. I didn’t speak.

Fumiko passed a small paper slip to Madoka, her fingers brushing his. “The ink’s still wet,” she murmured.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s not the words. Just the intent.”

His voice didn’t carry the usual dry sarcasm or mockery. It was low. Focused. Almost reverent.

I stared at the center of the circle.

There was a wooden bowl placed there, filled with saltwater and a bundle of something wrapped in black cloth—an ofuda, I realized. A sealed one. The air around it was… wrong.

Not loud, not electric. Just wrong.

Like silence that wasn’t supposed to be there.

“What… exactly is this for?” I asked, surprising myself with how hoarse my voice came out.

Madoka didn’t answer right away. He pressed the tip of the folded slip into the saltwater, watching as it soaked in slow, deliberate tendrils.

Then he looked at me. His eyes were dull, but sharp. Like rusted knives.

“To listen,” he said. “To something that’s not supposed to be heard.”

Fumiko shifted beside him. She gave me a fleeting look, not pitying, not cold. Just… tired.

“You don’t have to stay, Ayaki-chan,” she said gently.

I clenched my fingers against my knees. “No. I want to.”

Even if I didn’t know what I wanted from it.

I looked again at the circle, the flickering candles, the salt water trembling in its bowl.

And all I could think was:

If something answers, what if it’s not him?

I stayed quiet, knees pressed into the woven tatami, fingers loose in my lap. They didn’t seem to notice me there—or maybe they did, and they were just used to my silence by now.

Madoka leaned back on his hands, one of them smudged faintly with charcoal from earlier markings. His brow was furrowed, not in frustration, but in thought. The kind of furrow people wear when the question is too old and the answer too cruel.

“He won’t come easy,” he said. “You know that.”

Fumiko blew gently on the last of the incense to steady its flame, not looking at him. “He never did.”

“He’s not the same,” Madoka added, quieter. “Whatever’s left—if anything—it’s not going to walk in here just because we ask nicely.”

Fumiko tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “So we don’t ask nicely.”

A pause stretched thin between them.

Madoka finally sighed and sat up again, his voice dry. “You say that like you’re not the one who spent years telling me to leave him alone.”

“I said not to chase ghosts,” she corrected, sharply. “This is different.”

He didn’t argue. Just rubbed his eyes with his wrist and muttered something I couldn’t quite catch.

Then: “She deserves to know.”

Fumiko glanced at me, but didn’t hold my gaze. “She already knows.”

I swallowed.

It was strange—being talked about like that.

Not in cruelty, not in warmth, but innevitability. Like my presence was another sigil on the floor, another tool in the ritual.

“She’ll hate us if it works,” Madoka said.

“She’ll hate us if it doesn’t,” Fumiko replied.

He huffed out a soft laugh. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Their voices were steady, but I could feel the splinters in them. Neither spoke Osaka’s name, but it hung in the air between each word like fog.

Heavy. Familiar. Fraying.

Madoka pulled a small blade from his sleeve—short, ceremonial, the edge dulled with use—and laid it gently beside the bowl of saltwater.

The metal caught the candlelight and threw it across the floor in a streak of gold.

I found myself staring at it, not sure if I was afraid or expectant.

“Once it starts,” Madoka murmured, almost to himself, “no one leaves the circle.”

Fumiko nodded. “We’re past the point of backing out anyway.”

They both turned their attention to the center again, adjusting charms, aligning the bowl, murmuring under their breaths. Words in old dialects. Words older than language.

And I—still kneeling, still silent—just watched.

Heart too full. Memory too loud.

Waiting.

Wondering what face I’d see, if any, when something finally answered.

Wondering if I’d still recognize his voice.

Madoka reached into the inner folds of his coat, fingers deliberate, slow. When his hand emerged again, it wasn’t empty.

A glint of lacquered black, worn red thread, and dull steel.

Osaka’s tantō.

My breath caught. The world shrunk around that single, slender thing—too familiar to be forgotten, too unexpected to be real.

“That’s—” I started, voice cracking halfway through. “That’s his.”

Madoka didn’t meet my eyes. He set it down beside the incense, carefully, like it still held a pulse. “We’ll need something of his. Something strong.”

“You said he took it with him,” I whispered. “You told me he never left without it.”

He didn’t reply.

My heartbeat picked up. A distant rush filled my ears.

“You lied,” I said, louder. “You—You said—he—he always carried it. So how do you have it? How?!”

Fumiko turned slightly, lips parting as if to soothe, but I jerked away from her glance.

“You’re not telling me everything,” I snapped. “You’re still hiding things!”

Madoka stood still, jaw clenched. The silence he gave me wasn’t denial—it was something worse. A confirmation soaked in shame.

I stared at the tantō, trembling. “What happened that day? What happened to him?”

Still, nothing.

My throat burned. “Why won’t anyone just tell me?”

And then it broke. The words collapsed under the weight of everything they carried, everything I couldn’t say, everything no one dared to say.

I covered my mouth with both hands as the sob tore out of me. Not pretty, not small—ugly and real, from a place that had been hollow too long.

“I thought he took it because he was going to fight something,” I choked. “Or—or protect someone. I thought it meant he was coming back. But you had it this whole time.”

I dropped to my knees again, this time not with reverence, but with helplessness. The tatami was rough against my skin. My vision blurred.

“He was supposed to come back,” I whispered. “He promised me.”

A long moment passed. The incense smoke curled around the tantō, delicate, like fingers offering comfort no one dared to give.

Then, quietly, Madoka knelt beside me. His voice didn’t rise above the hum of the candles.

“I didn’t lie to hurt you,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to explain it.”

“But you knew,” I breathed. “You always knew more than you told me.”

He didn’t argue.

Fumiko sat across the circle, her eyes on the knife, on me, on the space where something unseen waited to cross over.

And still, no one said Osaka’s name.

Only I did.

Inside my head.

Madoka stayed crouched beside me for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, stripped of its usual certainty.

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” he said. “Not like this.”

I didn’t answer. I kept my eyes on the tantō. The reflection of the flame danced along its dulled edge—so familiar, it made my chest ache.

“But you deserve something,” he continued. “Maybe not all of it yet… but enough.”

I looked up slowly. His face wasn’t unreadable for once. There was guilt etched into every line.

“I found it,” he said. “The night he disappeared.”

My heart skipped.

“Far away. By the shore. That beach—” he hesitated, “—the one you two used to sneak off to.”

“…Nishihama.”

He nodded.

“I found the tantō stuck into the sand. Upright. Like someone meant for it to be found.”

I shook my head slowly. “He wouldn’t leave it behind.”

“I thought the same. But he did.”

“Why?”

Madoka hesitated.

“There were six of us in our division,” he said. “Osaka, me, and the others—Isamu, Tadashi, Yamato, Kenta. We were a field unit. Worked well together.”

He didn’t say exorcists. He didn’t have to.

“We ran a job that went wrong. Worse than wrong. There were… things we weren’t ready for. Things we were told didn’t exist.”

He drew in a slow breath, exhaled shakily.
“It wasn’t a clean mission. It left scars. Not the kind you see.”

I swallowed hard, eyes burning again.

“Osaka took it the hardest,” he said. “He blamed himself for what happened to them. For what happened after. I think that’s when he started unraveling.”

“You’re still not saying it,” I whispered. “What happened to him?”

Madoka didn’t respond immediately. He stared down at the floor between us like he was sifting through fragments.

“He said he needed to disappear,” he said finally. “That the person he was becoming was dangerous. Not just to himself.”

“And you let him go?” I asked, voice hoarse. “Just like that?”

Madoka looked at me then. There was something behind his eyes—grief, maybe. Or shame.

“I didn’t think he’d do it,” he said. “He left behind the tantō. That wasn’t just a goodbye. That was a warning.”

“Then why lie to me?”

“Because you are a child. And then—because I didn’t know how to tell you.” He gestured at the tantō. “That thing carries weight. If I had shown it to you, would you have let yourself live a normal life?”

I wiped at my face with trembling fingers. The sob had passed, but the ache remained like a bruise under my ribs.

Madoka reached out, hesitant, and placed a hand gently over mine.

“I don’t think he’s dead,” he said.

My gaze snapped up.

“He’s something else now,” he went on. “Maybe not the brother you remember. Maybe not the same person. But something of him… is still out there.”

I didn’t know what to say. My mind reeled with images—memories, warped shapes in candlelight, whispers from dreams.

“But if he left the tantō behind,” I whispered, “then he doesn’t want to be found.”

“…Or he’s waiting for someone brave enough to follow his steps," Fumiko chimed in.

I stared at the tantō in Madoka’s hands as if it was a foreign object. Something sacred, defiled by being touched by someone who wasn’t him.

My fingers curled, nails digging into the fabric of my skirt. “You’re wrong.”

Madoka glanced up, silent.

“That’s not what this is,” I continued, my voice trembling but steady, like the eye of a storm. “This isn’t a goodbye. It never was.”

The words hung in the air, thin and fragile.

I leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the blade. My lips pressed together in a stubborn, wavering line.

“He promised. He said he’d never leave me alone.”

I closed my eyes.

“So he didn’t. He wouldn’t.”

Madoka didn’t correct me. Didn’t try to. The only sound was the distant rustle of leaves and the hum of energy building around us.

I reached out, not to take the tantō, but to touch it—just the sheath, just with my fingertips. Like if I pressed hard enough, it might still be warm.

“I still see him,” I whispered. “All the time.”

Then I drew in a sharp breath and wipes at my eyes before anything could fall. “So don’t lie to me. Not about this. Not about him.”

Fumiko stepped closer, arms crossed as she looked at the tantō in Madoka’s hands. “He was always reckless,” she muttered, half to herself. “Too cold-blooded for fieldwork. And too soft-hearted for other things. That’s why he broke. You could see it coming.”

My breath catched. My eyes snapped to Fumiko, wide and disbelieving.

You don’t know him.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and bitter. As if someone like her could understand him. As if she’d ever watched him patch my torn-up knees in the middle of the night, or felt the weight of his hand on my head when the world got too loud. As if she’d ever seen him pray when no one was watching. As if she’d ever once been the one he smiled at when he was barely holding himself together.

As if she would know him better than me.

I opened my mouth, ready to fire back, but Madoka cut in before the heat in my chest could boil over.

“That’s enough,” he said, low and firm. “Let’s just get started.”

Fumiko didn’t look sorry, but she stepped back, reaching for the ceremonial tools without another word.

I swallowed down the lump in her throat and kneeled again, the cold from the floor seeping through my skin. My hands trembled slightly as I pressed them together, trying to focus, trying not to think of how easily people spoke about Osaka like he was already gone.

Like he was some case file. A name. A statistic.

I fixed my gaze forward and waited.

I didn’t move for a long moment. My fingers pressed into my palms, nails biting half-moons into my skin. The air felt heavy now, like the shrine itself was holding its breath. The faint smell of incense curled into my lungs and sat there, thick and unmoving.

I stared ahead, but I wasn’t really seeing the altar. My eyes blurred with the burn of unshed tears. Fumiko’s voice still echoed in my head—“too cold-blooded, too soft-hearted”—like a splinter lodged deep.

I hated how people tried to condense Osaka into a single sentence. Like you could explain someone like him with a trait or a flaw. Like he was some ghost story whispered by people who had only known pieces of him.

Maybe that’s what he had become to everyone else.

But to me?

To me, he was warmth. Sharp laughter in the middle of the night. Violin notes bleeding through the paper walls. A hand brushing my bangs from my eyes when I pretended to sleep just to keep him nearby. He was contradictions—gentle and cruel, soft and jagged, sometimes more absence than presence—but he was mine.

I still remembered the way his eyes flickered when he was lying, the way his voice softened when he was about to say something important. How he used to braid my hair without asking. How he’d once stayed up all night, arms tight around me, after I came home crying from school.

They didn’t know anything.

A flicker of something painful pulled at my chest. Not anger anymore—something deeper. A grief that didn’t know where to go.

I slowly breathed in, holding it.

Don’t cry yet.

I wiped my hands over my cheeks quickly, even if there was nothing there. Just in case. I knew Madoka saw the way my mouth trembled, and I hated it. Hated how weak I must have looked, how breakable.

The ritual hadn’t even started yet, and already I felt like something inside me was splitting.
Still kneeling, I dared a glance toward the tantō.

It gleamed under the low light, sharp and quiet.

And somewhere deep in my chest, something else gleamed too—small, fragile, but stubborn.

I will bring you back.

Chapter Text

Through the Gate, Half-Open

Only those who've lost know the path.

The salt tasted sharp in the air.

I kneeled again, spine aching from the last time, but I didn’t complain. I didn’t ask how long it would take, or how it would end. I just watched.

I tried not to stare at the tantō lying between us. I tried not to imagine the blood it has seen, or the hands that once gripped it like a lifeline. I tried not to imagine his hands.

The candlelight flickered like it was afraid.

Shadows rippled across the walls, too tall, too thin—dancing like they knew something I didn’t ’t. I sat perfectly still, legs tucked beneath me, hands clasped tight in my lap. Madoka kneeled across the circle, his expression drawn tight like a string pulled too far. Fumiko moved with careful, measured grace, placing incense, muttering something under her breath. The syllables didn’t sound like any language I’ve heard. Maybe they weren’t words at all—just sounds meant to mimic power.

The room smelled like wax, smoke, and old paper. I tried not to cough. I tried not to blink too much. The shadows were twitchy, and if I lost track of them, I might had started thinking they had moved on their own.

There was a bowl in the center of the ritual circle. A silver one, engraved with strange lines I didn’t recognize. Fumiko uncapped a vial and let something dark drip inside—thick and red. I looked away before I could decide if it was blood.

Madoka glanced at me. “When the time comes,” he said softly, “you’ll have to call for him.”

My throat tightened. “What if he doesn’t answer?”

He didn’t respond.

The silence said enough.

“Don’t move,” Fumiko spoke up. Her voice cut through the dark like a blade. “And don’t speak unless I tell you.”

I nodded. My throat felt too tight to manage anything more.

The circle hummed—low at first, like an insect whine in my ears. Then louder. A vibration crawling up through my knees, my spine. The air felt wrong. Too stilltoo loud all at once.

I blinked hard. For a moment, it felt like the floor was breathing.

Fumiko placed something in my hand. It was warm. Wet.

I looked down.

A lock of hair.

His.

“I need you to think of him,” she whispered. “Everything. His voice. His laugh. The way he walked. You need to want him back more than anything.”

That part was easy.

I closed my fingers around the strand, pressing it into my palm like it might disappear.

Fumiko sat back, hands resting in her lap, back impossibly straight. “You remember what we told you?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Say it exactly. No hesitation.”

No hesitation.

Right.

Except my heart was pounding like it was trying to claw out of my chest. My skin felt like paper soaked in oil. I couldn’t even feel my fingers anymore.

Still, I forced myself to breathe.

The lights were dimmed completely now. Only the candle circle remained. Outside, the world feels like it was holding its breath.

Madoka began chanting.

The sound was dry, coarse, like it was scraping against his throat as it left. The symbols on the floor pulsed—dim at first, then brighter. I swear they shifted when I blinked. Or maybe my mind was already slipping.

Something about the way he said the words made me cold. I think I have heard him say them before. Maybe in a dream. Maybe in a nightmare.

The silver bowl began to tremble. Just slightly.

Fumiko joined in next. Her voice threaded around Madoka’s like smoke, weaving through the syllables, pulling at something I couldn’t see.

My pulse stuttered.

The circle glowed faintly.

And then—

My turn.

I parted my lips.

I spoke his name.

“Osaka…”

Nothing.

I tried again, louder.

“Osaka-nii, please…”

The bowl trembled harder. One of the candles snuffed out with a sharp hiss. The shadows flinched.

Madoka gave me a nod.

“Say it,” he whispered.

I bit down the fear. My voice was shaking. My chest was too tight.

But I spoke anyway.

“From the threshold where silence sleeps,
Through bone and flame and memory deep—
Come forth, if your soul still lingers.
Come forth, if your name still burns.”

A second candle died.

Then a third.

The circle flashed, too fast to catch, and the temperature dropped.

I heard something shifted.

Not in the room.

Not in this world.

Somewhere deeper.

And suddenly I felt it—

Not a presence.

An absence.

A weightless hole in the shape of him.

Osaka.

He was close.

I knew it.

The room darkened unnaturally, the candlelight swallowed by something deeper than shadow. The air stretched tight around me, pulling my chest inward. My ribs felt like they were folding.

I shut my eyes and thought of him.

Osaka.

Osaka...

The way he laughed when no one else was listening. How he leaned against the kitchen doorframe, tired eyes and a crooked smile. The way he looked when he thought no one was watching—half there, half somewhere else. Always.

I felt something stir.

Like breath on my neck.

I opened my eyes.

The wind picked up as the chanting deepened. I could barely hear Madoka and Fumiko’s voices anymore—they had become warped, layered, echoing like they came from underwater. My body trembled, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the growing pressure in the air. It felt like the shrine itself was holding its breath.

Smoke curled around us, rising from the incense like fingers, twisting in unnatural shapes. I tried to keep my eyes focused on the symbols drawn in salt and blood at our feet, but they shifted when I blinked—like they were alive, pulsing, rewriting themselves.

I could feel something watching.

It was not just a sensation. It was a weight. A presence pressing at the edge of my vision, slipping through the veil of whatever plane we were touching. I looked to Madoka, expecting reassurance, but he looked like he was made of stone—eyes closed, lips moving fast, too fast.

I swallowed hard. My throat burned. I reached instinctively for my bracelet—the one he gave to me—but my fingers trembled too much to grasp it.

Then, I heard it.

A voice.

A whisper, low and familiar.

“Aya-tan.”

It wasn’t Fumiko. It wasn’t Madoka.

I froze. The world around me dimmed—colors bleeding into gray, then into black, then into red. Everything smelled like smoke and iron and sea salt.

My breath hitched.

I turned, slowly, as if dragged by something unseen.

There—just beyond the edge of the shrine’s shadow—was a figure. Dark like ink. Faint. Blurred like a memory.

Osaka?

But it wasn’t him. Or—it was, but wrong. His face shifted too quickly, from warmth to blankness, from something I loved to something I feared. His eyes gleamed like mirrors, and I saw myself in them: small, broken, reaching.

“Come closer,” the figure said. His mouth didn’t move.

The ground groaned beneath me.

Madoka’s voice suddenly cut in, louder, more urgent now. The ritual was reaching its peak. Fumiko’s hands moved in sharp, practiced motions, drawing sigils into the air. The shadows around us twisted like they were alive.

I knelt, breath catching in my throat, staring at that figure as my skin crawled. My heart screamed for me to run, but my body rooted itself to the spot.

Osaka’s voice rang again—clearer this time, as if it was inside my skull.

“I told you not to come looking.”

The flames around us flared. And then—just like that—he was gone.

Only silence remained, and the cold, cold feeling of something left behind.

Madoka's voice was steady, low, yet it carried the weight of something older than both of us. “Just hold still, Ayaki. It’s starting.”

Fumiko knelt beside him, fingers curled into fists. Her lips moved too fast, like she was trying to recite the sutra before it slipped from her tongue entirely. “Don’t talk to her. She’s too attuned—she’ll only absorb the wrong parts. You know how sensitive she is to residuals.”

Madoka didn’t answer. I felt a sudden sting across my forehead, like someone had pressed a burning coin to my skin. I flinched, breath catching.

“It’s just the ink,” he muttered, as if that explained anything. “The seal needs to resonate.”

I wanted to scream. Not because of the pain—it was sharp but brief. No, it was something else. The shadows that were no longer just shadows, the temperature that dropped even though the fire hadn’t died out.

Fumiko clutched a string of beads, whispering words that folded into each other, too fast to understand. But they felt wrong. Wrong like dreams that follow you into waking. Her voice cut through me.

“Whatever you do, Ayaki—don’t speak back.”

I wanted to ask, to what?

Then something moved in the circle.

It didn’t make a sound, but I felt it.

Like someone stepping through silk underwater. The incense turned acrid, metallic.

Madoka’s voice shifted into another tone, one I had never heard him use before. Deeper. Not just in pitch—but in intent.

“Come forth, bearer of name unknown. Come forth through thread and blood.”

The candles flickered violently. Fumiko pressed her hand against my shoulder as if to pin me down.

Then—

I blacked out.

No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t the gentle fade of sleep. It was like falling into freezing water.

And then—

I was back.

But not there. Not in the shrine.

I was smaller. Shorter. I could barely reach the edge of the pew. The scent of wood polish and wax candles filled my nose. My knees were scraped and my tights had holes.

I was in the church—the little chapel Osaka had once called a “pocket in God’s coat.”

He was there. Sitting at the altar steps, head bowed, hands clasped. The light filtered in through the stained glass, casting blues and oranges across his face. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t looking at anything. Not even me.

“Do you really think He listens?”

His voice was hoarse.

“You always say He’s watching, Aya-tan. But if He is, why did He make us like this?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but all I could hear was the ringing of bells outside.

And then I was falling again.

My ears rang like they were underwater, but the voices still reached me—muffled, fragmented, soaked in tension.

“…not yet… the barrier’s still holding—”

“You’re pushing her too fast—”

“Do you think we have the time to wait?”

Fumiko’s sharp whisper cut through Madoka’s calm. I could feel her pulse hammering in my head, the taste of blood rising up my throat.

My skin burned. My bones ached. My vision trembled with static, and then—

It was like being ripped away.

A drop, weightless and violent.

Then came the cold.

Choking.

Salt.

I was gasping before I even surfaced, arms flailing as water surged into my nose, my throat. Panic split through my lungs like lightning. The weight of the sea was everywhere. My chest convulsed as I broke through the surface, coughing violently, eyes stinging with salt and sunlight.

I was in the ocean.

The sun was too bright. The sky too blue. The wind too sharp against my wet skin.

And I was young. She was young.

I looked at what was myself—bony elbows, a scraped knee, my clothes sagging from the weight of water. She turned, splashing as she looked back toward the shore.

There he was.

Osaka.

He stood knee-deep in the surf, arms folded, soaked to the waist, glaring at her with that exasperated big-brother face I hadn’t seen in years.

“Ayaki,” he groaned, wading toward her, “you cannot swim that far out on your own! Are you trying to get killed?”

“I wasn’t that far!” she protested, still wheezing. “You weren’t paying attention!”

“I was watching you. That’s why I had to jump in and drag your dramatic ass out before you drowned.”

She splashed him in the chest, and he didn’t even flinch. Just scowled harder.

“Don’t splash me. You’ll make it worse.”

“What worse?”

Osaka looked away, toward the endless blue.

His expression softened just slightly, touched by something else. Something I didn’t understand at the time. Maybe I still didn’t.

“…Nothing. Forget it.”

I studied his face. The curve of his cheekbone. The way his wet hair stuck to his temple. His pale skin gleaming in the sun. The sea made his eyes look nearly silver.

She wanted to say something smart.

Something funny. But the words never came.

Instead, she followed him quietly back to the beach, heart still thudding.

And all the while, the feeling lingered—that even in the middle of the day, even with the sky above them clear and harmless…

…they were already too far out.

The wind at Nishihama was sharp with salt, just as I remembered it. But there was something wrong with the light—it bent around the edges of the world like heat haze, like something wasn't syncing right. I walked barefoot in the sand, the grains cold and damp under my toes, but I felt no weight to my body. No breath. Just awareness.

And then I saw us again.

Me, no older than ten, a gangly little thing in a sun-bleached sundress, hair as white as the sand and a freckled face obscured beneath a hat, chasing after Osaka with clumsy steps and a crooked smile. He looked barely seventeen, hair grown longer than he'd ever keep it now, shirt sleeves rolled up and a few buttons undone, one of our grandmother’s homemade charms tied lazily around his wrist.

I should have called out. Should have run to him. But my body wouldn’t move. Or maybe it couldn’t.

Fumiko's voice echoed in my skull, distant and brittle like a cracked tape reel: "Don’t interact with him, no matter what. The memory will fracture.”

So I watched.

Watched as young me caught up to him, grabbing his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the world. He laughed. I had almost forgotten that sound. Warm. A little tired. His eyes squinted in the light, but they sparkled. He wasn’t sick yet—not really. Just hiding things, like he always did.

“I told you not to run,” he scolded gently, ruffling my hair, and my younger self beamed like it was the sun speaking.

They sat, eventually, on the sand, legs curled, toes buried. She leaned into him. He let her.

And it hurt.

Gods, it hurt.

This was a memory, just a memory—but the scent of salt and sweat and cheap laundry detergent was real, and the way he looked at her—at me—like she was the only piece of this world worth protecting, was real too.

I whispered, “I remember this.”

He was speaking. Telling her a story.

Something about stars and gods and how the ocean never really ended. His voice blurred as if underwater. She asked him something then—I couldn’t hear what. Was it about work again?—and his expression flickered, dimmed. He turned to look at the horizon.

“Promise me something, Aya,” he said.

My past self tilted her head. “What?”

“If I disappear one day… you’ll remember me like this. Not the way I end.”

Did he really say that, though?

And she—little me—laughed, childish and oblivious. “That’s dumb. You’re not gonna disappear.”

He smiled again. But softer. Sadder.

I pressed my hand to my chest, but felt nothing there.

Then, the sky above them split—just for a moment—a jagged fracture across the clouds, as if reality had been stretched too thin. A ripple. A warning.

And I felt the memory slipping. Heard the white noise rushing in.

“I never forgot,” I whispered into the past.

“You disappeared, and I never forgot.”

But neither of them could hear me. The tide swallowed his final words.

And then I was falling again—pulled backwards, into blackness.

I stood motionless at the base of the stairs, my vision still flickering from the last fragments of the ritual, limbs heavy with the kind of dread that lingers even in dreams. The wallpaper had faded into a greenish blur, the steps stretching longer than they should, warping ever so slightly at the corners of my vision. The house around me felt blurred—just a hallway swallowed in cold, silver light and a familiar tension humming through the walls.

I was twelve then. I knew because I was still wearing that ugly schoolbag I used to draw on with white ink—mostly stupid things, ghosts and cats and little music notes. I was smaller, angrier. And I didn’t know how to say sorry.

But I also wasn’t there.

Not really.

Not yet.

And then, I heard them.

“You weren’t supposed to touch it!” Osaka's voice was rougher than I remembered, but unmistakably him. Sharp with frustration, but not yet cruel. It came from somewhere above, muffled behind a barely-ajar door.

I flinched. Not here. Not this day.

My breath caught. I hadn’t realized I was holding it.

“I-I didn’t mean to—!” That was my voice. Younger, brittle. The kind of sound that never wins an argument.

I stepped closer.

My past self must’ve broken something sacred. I didn’t remember the moment itself—just the aftermath. The sound of strings snapping, the scream of wood being cracked under pressure. The silence that followed it like a held breath before a slap.

“You know what it meant to me. You knew.”

Each word hit like a hammer to the chest. He didn’t yell often, not like that. Not at me. That was what made it worse.

"I said I was sorry!"

My own voice answered, smaller, younger, tremoring with guilt.

"I’m sorry doesn’t fix it, Ayaki!"

A pause, the sound of something hard hitting the floor.

"That violin was all I had left of her."

There was a heavy silence. I gripped the bannister, heart racing. I wanted to tell him everything. That it was an accident. That I was trying to help, trying to understand why he clung to that instrument like it was a person. But back then… he wouldn’t listen. I think I just cried. I think I stood there and cried as he towered over me, too upset to see how broken I already was.

"I didn’t mean to…" the memory-me whispered.

“I told you not to touch it!”

“I was just looking! I didn’t mean to—!”

“You never mean to, Ayaki!”

His voice cracked—angrier than I remembered it ever being. Not the careful, measured kind he used with adults. This was real. This was the edge of something sharp.

My twelve-year-old self clenched the hem of my shirt in both hands, guilt coiling tight in my chest. The air on the staircase was heavy, dust motes suspended like ash. I didn’t even realize I had walked halfway up until I caught my reflection in the window—eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears.

“I can fix it,” I pleaded. “I swear I’ll fix it, I’ll—!”

"You can’t fix it. You can’t fix anything, Ayaki. You ruin everything you touch!"

That silenced me. I remember the look in his eyes—like someone had scraped him raw from the inside. His hands trembled, fists at his sides, and he wouldn’t look at me. Not once.

He turned his back then, and I hated how small he looked. Like someone who had lost something more than just an instrument.

The violin had been the last thing left of his mother. I had known that. I had known.

I barely noticed the ache in my knees as I slowly sat down on the bottom stair. My fingers ghosted over the wood, tracing nothing. That old house was long gone now. Only pieces like this—memories tangled in regrets—remained. Buried just beneath my skin.

My ears still echoed with the weight of his voice. That violin wasn’t just an instrument. It was his mother’s voice, the one he had to pretend to forget. It was every piece of softness he thought he had left.

And I had shattered it.

I reached out toward the stair rail, my fingers curling around it to ground myself, but it felt too smooth, too warm. Like skin instead of wood.

This wasn’t real, I reminded myself.

But the shame was. The guilt. The sickening, childhood fear that I had broken the only thing that still tied him to a mother he never talked about.

Upstairs, the voices dimmed. Footsteps moved. Then a door slammed.

The staircase under me twisted, the wood breathing, warping under my gaze like something from a fever dream. A door creaked open at the top, beckoning me upward. I took a breath and started climbing.

I could hear Madoka's voice, muffled and distant, as if he was calling to me from the depths of the ocean, something dark and heavy in his tone.

"Ayaki... focus," his voice filtered through, but it sounded wrong, like it was echoing off the walls of a long, empty hall.

Fumiko's laugh followed, soft and sickly, the kind of sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. "She’s just like him, isn't she? Even now, after everything." She paused, then sighed. "It’s almost poetic, don't you think? How history always repeats itself with them."

I couldn't answer her—my body refused to listen, my senses were pulling me deeper, deeper into that space. I felt weightless, disconnected from the world, falling through a thick veil of fog.

And suddenly, I was back there, in that room. The walls were too close, the air too thin, and Osaka...

Osaka was there.

The memory hit me like a punch, sudden and violent, and I was a child again, not a teenager. I was eight, standing at the edge of the room, peeking through the crack of the door to where Osaka was.

He was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, and his face was so serious—so cold. The light from the window casted harsh shadows across his sharp features. I watched him from the doorway, unsure if I should approach.

“Aya-tan, come in.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that makes me hesitate. “I know you’re there.”

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. He was holding something in his hands—something dark, glinting. A knife. I froze.

“Osaka-nii…” My voice trembled, tiny and weak.

He didn’t look at me immediately. His focus was on the blade, his fingers running along the sharp edge, testing it.

Then, he looked up. His eyes were distant, but there was a flicker of something there—a sadness, maybe, or something darker.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like to not feel, Ayaki?"

I took a step back, heart pounding in my chest. "What do you mean?"

“Like, if we could just forget... all the things that hurt. Forget everything that happened before." He raised the blade, turning it in his hands. “You could just... let it go. Like this knife.”

I felt the blood rush from my face. "Stop it."

But he didn't. Instead, he leaned forward, the knife still in his hands. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"You won’t understand. Not yet. But one day, you will. And when you do, you’ll wish you never had.”

I couldn’t move.

Even though the room spun and my limbs burned like static, something rooted me in place. My body had collapsed, sure—back in the shrine, face-down in a pool of something warm and thick that may have been blood or sea water or nothing at all—but my mind had slipped somewhere else.

Somewhere quieter.

I opened my eyes—no, my consciousness did—and I was standing barefoot on worn tatami. The air smelled of old incense, grandma's cooking and summer rain. Familiar. Too familiar. There were shadows dancing on the paper screens. The light outside was diffused like late afternoon.

I recognized the room before I saw him.

There he was. My Osaka.

Sixteen. A little thinner than I remembered. His jaw sharper, eyes duller. But it was him. My brother. He sat cross-legged by the window, flipping through an old paperback like he’d read it a hundred times. The same loose, dark blue button up shirt. The same sleepy frown when his bangs fell over his eyes.

And sitting close to him—me. A little version of me, barely nine. So small, legs swinging off the edge of the bed, arms crossed. I could recognize that sweater anywhere—soft and washed-out purple, with the fraying cuffs I used to chew on when I was nervous. A childish pout sat on her face. Her expression somewhere between stubbornness and heartbreak. I remembered that feeling in my chest. That ache.

I wasn’t in this scene.

I was just... there. Watching.

I remembered what Fumiko had said—“Don't talk to him. Don't change anything. If you do, the tether breaks.”

The tether to what? The ritual? Or something worse?

My child self turned her head, looking up at him.

"You're always tired," she said. Her voice was soft. Scared of the answer. "Are you sick?"

Osaka didn’t look up. He flipped the page and mumbled, "No. Just work."

She blinked. Disappointed.

"Don't lie."

He looked at her now, and even in the memory, I felt the way his eyes softened. "I’m not lying, Aya-tan. I just... can’t explain it."

There it was.

That sadness I used to try so hard to ignore.

I stepped closer, though I wasn’t sure how. My feet made no sound. I was a ghost to this moment, just like Osaka was a ghost to the present.

I wanted to scream. To wrap my arms around him and tell him not to leave. Not to do whatever it was that broke him. That tore him out of time.

But I didn’t.

I couldn't.

Instead, I stared at his face.

The way his cheekbones caught the light. The slight dimple in his chin. His lips, always a little chapped. His long fingers, the ones that used to ruffle my hair. His eyes—the sharp, knowing eyes of someone carrying too much for someone so young.

I burned every detail into memory, even though I already knew them by heart.

“Why’d you run away?” my younger self asked, voice small and petulant.

He didn’t look at her—at me—at first. Just stared out the window, blinking slow, his eyelids heavy with something I now recognized as exhaustion. “I didn’t run,” he said. “I just… walked away.”

My younger self frowned. “That’s the same thing.”

Osaka chuckled under his breath. The sound hit me in the gut.

“I got tired,” he murmured. “Work. People. All of it. Besides, Obaa-chan is getting too old for some things and I–"

“Liar,” the little me muttered, hugging her knees closer. “You love working."

“...Not when it makes me forget things,” he said. “Not when it makes me leave you behind.”

I flinched. Even now, his words stung.

He turned his head then, finally looking at the girl on the bed—at me—and his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer. She just leaned toward him, pouty and quiet, before eventually crawling closer, letting her head drop onto his chest. He shifted to make space without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I stepped forward instinctively—but the world rippled around me, like I’d brushed against something sacred. I froze.

He ran a hand through her—my—hair.

I knew how that felt. The warmth. The quiet weight of him breathing, barely there beneath my ear.

“You’re not allowed to get sick again,” little me grumbled into his shirt.

“I’ll try,” he said.

I wanted to believe that.

But the memory began to unravel around the edges. The light dimmed, warped, the edges of the scene starting to flicker like film stuck in a reel. His face started to blur, but I still remembered it. The shape of his jaw, the curve of his smile, those steady, tired eyes that always felt like home.

And then...

...he turned his head. Not to the younger me.

But to me.

The real me.

As if he knew.

As if he saw me.

The room cracked like glass.

And I was falling again.

Falling backward into a body that wasn't quite mine anymore. The incense and rain were gone, replaced by the coppery bite of blood, by chanting, by the too-bright, too-holy silence of a shrine.

I gasped. My lungs filled with something too thick to be air.

Then—

"Ayaki!"

Madoka’s voice. Harsh, but distant.

"Ayaki, stay with us—"

"Don't move yet," Fumiko said, her voice tight with something sharp beneath it. "The barrier’s fragile. If it breaks—"

But I wasn’t listening.

My mouth was open.

And I was sobbing.

Chapter Text

The Guest Room

Where the past lingers with its eyes half-shut.

I didn’t know how long I’d been on the floor.

The tatami felt like it had grown roots through my spine—aching, damp, too alive beneath me. My fingers were curled against the fabric, nails pressing shallow grooves into the woven straw. It took effort just to peel them away.

When I finally sat up, the ache spread down my back like a bruise. I tried to swallow. My mouth was dry. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket, but the salt stuck there, clinging like the smell of ocean rot.

Fumiko was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, the ceremonial box tucked beside her. Her sleeves were stained. She looked up, her voice steady but low. “You passed out after the incense bowl shattered. The backlash wasn’t strong, but your spirit’s delicate.” She said it as if she was commenting on the weather. “The ritual didn’t fail, just… cracked something open.”

Next to her, Madoka was strangely quiet. He didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he reached out and brushed my hair away from my forehead with fingers that were almost too gentle. It made something inside me knot up in disgust. Or grief. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

I hated that comfort.

Hated that he still tried.

The candles around us had all gone out, snuffed mid-breath. Smoke trailed toward the open window, thin and silvery, like veins unraveling into air. The room was still, except for the churning in my stomach.

“It’s not supposed to go like this,” I had whispered, more to myself than anyone else. “This whole thing… it’s wrong.”

No one answered.

Outside, the wind picked up, brushing the shoji screen like a fingernail across skin. Everything felt too quiet. A mocking quiet. The kind that hums behind your ears when you’re about to cry in front of someone you wish you hated.

The world hadn’t changed. I had.

And I hated that, too.

I sat up slowly, wiping at my nose with the back of my sleeve, sniffling. My limbs still felt sluggish, my skin clammy. Everything smelled faintly of incense and sea salt, like memory and sickness. My heart was still racing, even though the room had gone quiet, even though I was here, and not wherever that… place had been.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t have to.

Madoka didn’t look at me, his gaze lowered, fingers absently brushing back Fumiko’s dark bangs as she knelt beside him. The flicker of candlelight danced across their faces.

Fumiko exhaled, not even sparing me a glance as she spoke, as if reciting something she’d long since memorized.

“It doesn’t always work,” she said. “Even if you bleed, even if you speak the name right, even if you beg.”

My throat tightened. “What doesn’t?”

Fumiko continued, unfazed. “Some people linger. Some leave pieces behind. But him—he tried to tear himself in half. And you’re still clinging to one of those pieces.”

Madoka’s fingers paused in Fumiko’s hair. A silent warning, maybe.

I flinched.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I whispered. “What are you trying to say?”

Fumiko turned then, slow and steady, meeting Ayaki’s eyes. Her voice dropped low.

“He didn’t disappear. He fractured.”

My stomach dropped.

Before I could ask what that meant—before I could scream, or beg, or demand the truth I was owed—the nausea returned, twisting in my gut like a tide dragging me under. My vision swam, the room stretched sideways.

I was falling again.

Not through air.

Through memory.

Through blood.

As my body crumpled onto the floor, the voices of Madoka and Fumiko faded into a distant, low hum—like voices underwater.

I didn’t feel the impact. Didn’t feel anything, really, as the darkness swallowed me whole.

And then—

Soft light, warm and golden, filtered through paper walls. The shoji doors rattled gently with a breeze. Cicadas screamed in the background.

I blinked slowly, my hands suddenly smaller—familiar but foreign. My legs dangled off the edge of a porch I hadn’t seen in years. The smell of sun-warmed wood and overripe plums filled the air.

Someone sat beside me.

I turned my head—and there he was. Osaka.

Not the apparition, not the flickering memory from before. He looked real. Alive. Seventeen. His hand rested lazily behind me, a stick of strawberry pocky hanging from his lips. He looked out at the rice fields with that quiet, sleepy-eyed calm of his, but I felt my chest tighten.

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but my throat closed up.

“You look like you're about to cry,” he said, voice light, teasing.

I didn’t answer.

“…Was it a nightmare?” he asked after a pause.

I finally turned my face away, trying to mask the quiver in my lips. “You’re the nightmare.”

He laughed, short and quiet. “Guess I deserve that.”

I wanted to hug him. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to ask what had happened.

Where he’d gone. Why he’d left.

But my small hands just clenched at my knees.

He took the pocky out of his mouth and passed it to me. “You can have the rest.”

I stared at it.

“I know you hate the strawberry ones,” I said.

“I know,” he replied.

The world around us shimmered—barely noticeable, like heat rising off pavement.

“…You’re not real,” I whispered.

Osaka looked at me then, and the warmth left his face.

“I know,” he said again. “But you still came looking for me.

I blinked, and the light shattered.

Darkness poured in like ink spilled across a page, and the porch cracked under me. The memory split apart at the seams.

It felt like I was falling—no, sinking. The floor had crumbled beneath me, or maybe I was the one unraveling, thread by thread, until nothing tethered me to the room, to Madoka’s voice calling my name, to the sharp cold of the shrine.

Everything was water and weight and darkness.

Then... warmth.

Faint light filtered through cream-colored curtains. The smell of tatami, incense, and old books wrapped around me like a blanket.

i knew this place. My chest ached before I even looked up.

Grandmother’s house.

The sound of birds outside was soft, almost muffled, like the memory itself was too fragile to play at full volume. I sat on the edge of Osaka’s bed—my legs barely reached the floor. I couldn’t have been older than eight.

My hands were small and clumsy in my lap, picking at the hem of a skirt I hadn’t worn in years.

Then the door creaked open, and there he was.

Osaka, fifteen again, lanky and always tired-looking, leaning against the doorframe like he didn’t quite know how to be home. His hair was longer back then, messier. His eyes met mine, and something like surprise flickered there.

"You're in my bed again," he said, voice rough like he hadn’t spoken all day.

I blinked at him. “You weren’t using it.”

He huffed a laugh. That rare, quiet laugh that he only ever gave to me. “Fair enough.”

He crossed the room, stepping over piles of books and worn-out notebooks, and sank down beside me. I felt the mattress shift, the way it used to. Like even memories had weight.

“Did you eat?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“You gotta stop skipping meals, Aya-tan.” His voice was gentle. Almost scolding, but not really. He nudged my shoulder. “Come on. You’re gonna wither away.”

I looked at him, really looked. There was a bruise blooming along his jaw. Faint, but real. His knuckles were scabbed. The collar of his shirt didn’t hide the angry red mark curling along his neck.

I remember thinking I should ask—but I didn’t. I never did.

“Are you going to stay this time?” I asked instead, small and stupid.

Osaka’s gaze shifted, and he looked away. “For a while.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t a promise either.

Outside the window, the birds stopped singing. I don’t know why that’s the thing I noticed.

“I missed you,” I whispered.

“I know.”

I reached out and clung to his sleeve, like it would keep him here. Like if I held on tight enough, I could freeze time and live in this moment forever.

But I could feel the memory dissolving at the edges. The scent of incense faded. The light dimmed. Osaka turned to me again, but his face was blurring—his smile, his eyes, the mole beneath his left one.

“Don’t go,” I said.

But I was already slipping away.

I blinked, struggling to piece myself together as a dull ache crawled through my spine. The last thing I remembered was the candlelight bending in on itself, voices echoing in two directions at once, and the sound of waves—inside my ears, my chest, the floor.

I felt my body collapse onto the cold, unforgiving floor, the ritual’s pressure dragging me deeper into some unseen void.

Everything blurred and trembled around me, as if the world itself was losing its hold on reality. I could hardly breathe—each inhalation felt heavier than the last, suffocating me, the air thick with something vile and oppressive.

I couldn’t focus. My vision flickered, the edges of the room warping in a sickening spiral, and I felt as though the world was crumbling around me. Everything was fading, slipping away. And yet, in the thick of the silence, there was a distant hum—a low, vibrating pulse that thrummed in my ears. It was his voice, I realized, mingled with something else, something dark and foreign.

Then, the stillness broke.

“Ayaki!” Madoka’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and desperate. “Ayaki, wake up.”

I barely heard him, my body rebelling against me. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The world felt as though it was closing in on me. I was floating—no, drowning—sinking into that void where nothing existed but a thick, suffocating fog.

“Ayaki!” Madoka’s voice came again, more insistent now. The sound of him shaking me—a distant, disconnected sensation—dragged me back, but only for a moment. His grip was warm, but everything about it felt so far away.

So distant.

I gasped. My lungs burned, the air around me too thick to breathe, too heavy to handle.

Everything snapped back into focus, but it was all wrong. I could feel my body trembling, the edges of my vision still blurry, the pulse of energy from the ritual still pressing against me, like a weight I couldn’t escape.

Madoka’s face loomed over me, pale and concerned, a sharp contrast to his usual detachment. But even his face didn’t feel real. Everything felt like a distorted reflection, like I was watching myself from a distance. His voice, however, was unmistakable.

“Come on, wake up. We need you here.”

His voice cut through the fog again, and I managed to blink, just barely. Fumiko was standing off to the side, watching me, her eyes cold, unreadable. The tension in the room was thick. I could feel it in my bones.

“Ayaki,” Madoka’s voice pierced through the haze, quiet but firm.

I opened my eyes to find his face close to mine, eyes narrowed with something between concern and annoyance. His hand hovered above my shoulder, unsure whether to shake me again or let me be.

"You shouldn’t have pushed yourself so hard,” Fumiko said, her voice sharp and reprimanding. “The ritual is not something you should take lightly.”

I blinked, trying to clear the haze from my mind. The remnants of that darkness still lingered, crawling at the edges of my thoughts, making it hard to focus.

“What... what happened?” My voice felt hoarse, foreign in my own ears.

Fumiko’s gaze softened, just slightly, as she stepped closer. “You passed out. The energy... it was too much for you. You were overwhelmed. It happens sometimes. You should rest.”

I tried to sit up, but my body felt as if it belonged to someone else—heavy, sluggish, like I was moving through water. “I’m fine. I just need to—”

“No.” Fumiko’s voice was firm, unwavering. “You need to rest. The ritual is not over yet, and you’ll be more help once you’re rested. Trust me."

I wanted to snap at her, say something biting and defensive, but the words stayed lodged in my throat. Instead, I stared at the floor beneath me, as if the swirling salt lines could offer a better answer.

"I said I'm fine."

“Nakamura,” she continued. “We haven’t even reached the invocation yet. If your body’s already responding like this, pushing further could be dangerous.”

“I said I’m fine,” I repeated, sharper this time.

But even I could hear the tremble in my voice.

My hands were cold. My chest still tight. I felt like I’d been dunked in cold water and dragged back up too fast.

Madoka stood, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh. “We’ll give you a moment,” he said. “We still have time.”

And just like that, they turned away. I remained on the floor, knees tucked to my chest, as their voices faded to hushed murmurs.

The battle to stay awake wasn’t worth it. I felt my eyelids growing heavier, the world slipping away again. Just for a moment, I thought.

I closed my eyes, my body finally yielding to the exhaustion, surrendering to the chaos swirling inside my mind.

But then, as if I had been swallowed by the darkness once again, memories began to surface.

I was back at the church, sitting on the cold pew next to Osaka, the smell of incense heavy in the air. We hadn’t spoken much since we arrived, but I could feel his presence beside me, steady and familiar. I looked up at him, at the way the light from the stained glass windows caught in his hair, the faint glow around him making him look almost ethereal.

“You believe in God, don’t you?” I asked quietly, my voice small in the vastness of the cathedral.

Osaka glanced at me, his usual cool expression softening for a moment. He didn’t respond right away, just staring at the altar like he was trying to figure something out.

“Do you really believe?” I repeated, a little more insistent this time.

Osaka finally spoke, his voice low. “I believe in what I can see. In what I can touch. And that’s... not much.”

I frowned, a wave of confusion washing over me. “But you’re here. You’re praying.”

He didn’t answer right away, but I could feel the heaviness of his thoughts weighing him down. “I’m just here for you,” he muttered. “Does it really matter?”

It was then that I realized how much he was carrying, how much he was hiding. The weight of his words hung in the air between us, an unspoken truth I wasn’t ready to face.

The memory shattered as quickly as it had come, and I was back in the present, still lying on the cold floor. The energy of the ritual pulsed around me, distant yet persistent. I could hear Madoka’s voice again, but it sounded distant, muted.

“Stay with us, Ayaki. Focus.”

I tried to lift my head, to pull myself back to the here and now. But my body refused to move. All I could do was listen to the echoes of my past, the lingering weight of my brother’s absence pressing down on me.

But then, as I closed my eyes—
—the floor beneath me was tatami, warm with sunlight. I was small again. The scent of miso soup drifted from somewhere, and the sound of birds echoed outside the sliding doors. I could hear Osaka’s laugh somewhere close, faint but distinct.

And I knew I was falling—again—into memory. Or something like it.

The light was golden. It filtered softly through the rice paper screens, dancing in patterns across the floor. I sat cross-legged, small hands in my lap, the fabric of my summer dress bunched under my knees. The world was quiet in that particular way only childhood mornings could be — slow, sweet, and suspended.

“Osaka-nii!” I called, my voice high and playful.

He didn’t answer right away. But I heard movement — a door sliding, footsteps padding down the hallway. And then, there he was. Younger, his hair still too long, falling into his eyes. He looked tired even then. But he smiled when he saw me.

“You’re up early, Aya-tan,” he said, kneeling beside me and tugging gently at the edge of my dress. “Waiting for me?”

I nodded. I always waited for him.

There was something off in his smile. A subtle pull of the lips that didn’t reach his eyes. At the time, I didn’t understand. Now, even in the haze of memory, I could feel it. The heaviness behind his gaze. The way he moved slower than he should have, like he was already fading from the room.

“I had a dream,” I told him. “You weren’t there.”

He blinked at me. For a moment, the air shifted. Grew still.

“I’m here now,” he said, his voice quiet. “That’s what matters, right?”

But I knew — even then, even now — he was already somewhere else.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a tiny object: a bracelet of carved wooden beads, worn smooth at the edges. Purple, the colour of wisteria. The colour of his eyes. He held it between his fingers for a second, rolling it gently, then dropped it into my palm.

“For you,” he said. “A piece of magic. To keep you safe when I can’t.”

I stared at it, awed. “Is it real magic?”

“The strongest kind,” he whispered, pressing my fingers closed over it. “But it only works if you always keep it by your side.”

I still have that bracelet.

Some nights, I find it tangled in the lining of an old coat or hidden in the bottom of drawers I don’t remember opening. It always finds its way back to me — or maybe I keep losing it on purpose, hoping it’ll return with him instead.

That was the summer before everything changed. Before his smile disappeared for good. Before the dreams stopped being just dreams.

It started slowly, like rot beneath floorboards. Whispers through the paper walls at night. A chill that settled into the house even in the height of August. I’d wake up and find him sitting in the dark, facing the window, the bracelet of worn wood and purple beads that he’d given me twisting around his wrist.

It wasn’t mine anymore. He had taken it. It never looked quite right on him — too small, the beads strained and stretched — but he wore it anyway. He’d say nothing when I asked about it, only staring ahead, as though there was something just beyond the glass that only he could see.

And then he started talking to things that weren’t there.

At least, that’s what they told me. But I saw them too — in the corners of my vision, in the flickers of the dim hallway light. Dark shadows, too fast to follow, but just slow enough to know they weren’t just tricks of the mind.

He wasn’t scared of them. No, he spoke to them like old friends. Or enemies he respected. He’d whisper things under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out, and though I asked, he always answered with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

One night of January, I asked him if the magic had stopped working.

He just looked at me then, eyes wide in a way that felt too much like a warning. “It never worked on me, Aya-tan. Only you.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, curling, shifting in ways that felt wrong. I should have asked more. Should have reached for the bracelet, or the warmth in his smile.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I watched him walk away, slowly, barefoot, down the hallway. His steps made no sound against the wooden floor, and when he disappeared into the dark, the house fell silent, the kind of silence that stings in your ears.

I didn’t see him again for three days.

When Osaka disappeared that night, it was like the house itself held its breath. His absence stretched like an echo through every room, muffling the world outside. At first, there was confusion. Questions. People came by to ask if we’d found him — a neighbor here, a distant relative there. But it wasn’t just his disappearance that left a hole. It was the way everyone started acting like something was wrong.

Like there was something in the air that none of us could name.

Mother—no, June, she was always ‘June’ to me even then, though I never called her that aloud—stopped smiling. She was already quiet, always a little too distant, but this was different. Her eyes never left the door, like she was expecting someone to walk through it at any moment, but every day that passed, she only grew more hollow.

It wasn’t the kind of sadness you could fix with a hug or a kind word. It was the kind that settled into your bones and made you forget what warmth even felt like. She stopped asking about him, stopped searching. She just sat, staring, her hands folding and refolding whatever she held.

And Etsuko… Obaa’s eyes were always wide with worry, but she didn’t speak of it. She would pray in the small shrine by the door, the incense curling in long, slow spirals, like the smoke was trying to reach him wherever he had gone. But even she, who usually had an answer for everything, stopped making sense. She would mutter things to herself, things that sounded like warnings, like the soft chanting of a forgotten incantation.

When I asked her if she thought Osaka would come back, her face grew pale, and she turned away without saying a word.

But Father… He was different.

Before Osaka disappeared, Father was the anchor of the house — the one who kept everything grounded, a quiet force that kept us in balance. He was a man of few words, but the weight of his presence filled the rooms. I used to find comfort in the way he would read his old books, sitting in the corner of the living room with a soft, steady rhythm.

It was a world I understood, the kind where things didn’t change without a reason.

But when Osaka vanished, our father became a stranger.

At first, he was just quiet — no more stern commands, no more tender conversations over breakfast.

He withdrew into himself, staring at nothing in the same way mother did, but with something colder in his eyes. Something deeper. There were nights when I would hear him pacing in the dark, his steps too heavy on the old wooden floors, and I’d find him standing by the door — just standing there — as though waiting for something to knock.

The police came. They searched. But Father didn’t ask questions. He didn’t press them for answers. He didn’t even shout like other parents would. He simply nodded along, his jaw clenched so tightly that I wondered if he’d ever let go of the tension.

By the time three days had passed, I had almost forgotten how to speak to him. He had become a shadow in the house, a ghost of the man I once knew.

But then, one night, I found him in the attic — the place we weren’t supposed to go. It was dark up there, the air thick with dust and the smell of old wood, and as I entered, I saw him standing near a box, his hands trembling as he rummaged through something.

I didn’t make a sound at first. I just watched him.

In his hands, he held an old photograph — one I’d never seen before. It was Osaka, yes, but younger. His expression was too serious, too intense for a child. And he wasn’t alone.

Standing beside him was a woman.

Her face was blurred, not from motion, but time — like the edges of her had faded, as though the paper itself had tried to forget her.

But I knew. I knew without needing to ask.

It was his mother. The one who had died three years ago. The woman I had only seen in framed photos on Obaa's dresser, the kind you don’t touch or move.

She wasn’t smiling either.

They were standing in front of something — an old gate, maybe, or a shrine. The background looked wrong, uncanny in a way I couldn’t explain. There was something about the shadows that didn’t match the light. Like the photo had captured something it shouldn’t have.

Father’s face twitched as he stared at it. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, but his voice didn’t carry the usual firmness. Instead, it was raw. Like he was talking to himself more than to me.

“Where’s Osaka-nii?” I asked again, my voice small, desperate.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned the photograph over, his fingers brushing over something on the back. It was faint, but I saw the marks — the strange symbols, almost like a language I couldn’t read.

Then he looked at me, his eyes hollow and distant. “We don’t talk about this, Aya-tan. Understand?”

I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what he meant by “this,” or why he was hiding it from me. I didn’t know that the symbols on the back of that photo were connected to something darker, something he had never spoken of, something he had tried to bury.

And I didn’t know that he was already trying to distance himself from the truth. The truth that whatever had taken Osaka away was something they had all known about, something they had been hiding from me for a long time.

But I would learn.

Not all at once. The truth revealed itself in slow fractures — hairline cracks in the walls of memory, dreams that felt more like warnings, voices that didn’t belong in the quiet of night. At first, it was the little things: doors that creaked open when no one was near them, the faint scent of incense in places no one had prayed, the shadow of someone tall standing at the end of the hallway — gone the second I turned to look.

I told myself I was imagining it.

I had to.

Because to believe otherwise meant accepting that the silence in our home wasn’t just grief. It was fear. It meant that the symbols on the back of that photo weren’t just meaningless scrawls but something Father had seen before. Something he had recognized.

Years later, I would find the photograph again. After everything. After the rituals, after the breaking point, after I stopped being Ayaki and started becoming someone else.

It had been hidden in the back of a drawer, inside a hollowed-out book — one of the few things left untouched when we moved out of that house. The paper had yellowed further, and the ink had faded, but the feeling it gave me hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had grown heavier.

And there, at the edge of the image, I saw something I hadn’t noticed as a child. Behind Osaka and the woman — his mother — there was a figure in the shadows. Blurred. Watching.

Too tall, too thin. Wrong.

It was the first time I realized: Osaka had always been marked. Not by fate, not by misfortune — but by something old. Something that had lingered in our family long before I was born.

And somehow, even then, I think he knew. That day in the sun, the bead bracelet in his hand, the forced smile…

He had already begun saying goodbye.

The photograph was gone. The light, the warmth, the sound of his voice — all gone.

I woke up to cold.

The scent of wet fabric, the low rumble of a car engine, and the ache behind my eyes told me I was no longer dreaming. My body felt heavy, like I’d sunk to the bottom of something thick and quiet, and it hadn’t quite let go of me yet.

I stirred. The seat beneath me shifted with the weight of my movement — the passenger side, reclined slightly, a blanket draped over me. I blinked up at the ceiling, then toward the silhouette driving.

It was Madoka.

Of course it was.

He didn’t speak right away, just glanced at me from the corner of his eye. The kind of glance that didn’t ask if I was okay, because he already knew I wasn’t.

The windows were streaked with rain, casting the world outside in smears of yellow and gray. I didn’t recognize the road. I barely remembered leaving the shrine.

I sat up slowly. The blanket slid off my shoulder, and I caught the faint scent of sandalwood and ash — a holdover from the ritual. From Fumiko’s sleeves, probably. She had wrapped me in it before I collapsed.

“She finished the rite,” I said, more to myself than him. My voice came out hoarse. “Did it work?”

Madoka didn’t answer. He gripped the wheel with one hand, knuckles pale. The other rested near the radio, as if he wanted to turn it on just to fill the space between us.

“She said it would open something,” I continued. “Not a gate — a memory. Something sealed.”

“You passed out before we could see if it opened anything,” he said, finally.

I pressed a hand to my chest. My pulse was shallow but steady. My bracelet shifted with the motion — the purple bead cold against my skin. A weight. A reminder.

“I saw Osaka,” I whispered.

That made him flinch. Just barely, but I caught it.

“In the vision. He gave me this,” I said, lifting my wrist. “I think… I think it was real.”

“I know.”

Of course he knew. Madoka had always known more than he let on. He had been Osaka’s mentor — or handler, depending who you asked — long before I was ever involved.

Whatever took Osaka, whatever pulled him out of our lives and into something else… Madoka had been standing closer to the edge than any of us.

“You should’ve told me,” I said. “About the photograph. About his mother. About the symbols.”

His jaw clenched. “You weren’t ready.”

I scoffed, the sound breaking somewhere between a laugh and a breath. “When was I supposed to be ready, then? After another week of pretending he just walked out? After the silence hardens and everyone starts calling it a tragedy?”

I turned toward the window, but my reflection stared back.

“He’s only been gone for days,” I said, softer now. “And you all act like he’s already dead.”

He didn’t respond.

Outside, a cluster of crows passed overhead, shadows rippling across the windshield. I watched them scatter, weightless and loud. The rain smeared the world into a watercolor blur. The trees lining the road blurred together like they were watching.

Waiting.

“Fumiko said the seal was connected to me,” I murmured. “That it had to be someone of blood to undo it.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “She’s right.”

“And what happens if I open it?”

Madoka’s silence was longer this time. Measured. Then:

“Then we find out if Osaka is truly gone.”

I turned away, resting my forehead against the window. The rain was softer now, but still falling. The world felt tilted. Fragile.

The bracelet against my wrist pulsed like a heartbeat, cold and steady — like a clock I hadn’t meant to wind. Like a countdown I didn’t understand.

And I realized — I hadn’t been dreaming. Not really.

I had remembered something the world wanted me to forget.

By the time we reached Madoka’s apartment, the rain had slowed to a whisper.

I lingered by the door, half-shivering, my fingers curled in the fabric of the blanket still draped over my shoulders. The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead. I could smell old incense in the walls — not fresh, but buried, the kind that lingers after too many nights of rituals and prayers that didn’t work.

He unlocked the door with his usual quiet efficiency. No creaking. No wasted motion. Just a soft click, a sigh of hinges, and the hollow sound of the apartment welcoming us back.

Finley wasn’t there to greet us.

The little shoes she always left scattered were lined up neatly, untouched. Her flashlight — the one with the cracked jellyfish sticker — sat on the entry table, off. She must’ve waited up. I imagined her on the couch, eyes drooping, pretending she wasn’t worried. She always tried to be brave when Madoka was gone too long. Just like I used to be like with Osaka.

Madoka hung his coat on the peg by the door, shaking the rain from his sleeves. His movements were careful, deliberate, like someone who didn’t want to make noise in a house that wasn’t quite empty.

I slipped out of my shoes, toes curling against the cool floor. Neither of us spoke.
It wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. Just... full. The kind of silence that carries too much. That presses into your chest without meaning to.

He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment. I heard the click of a kettle, the clink of two mugs.

I stayed in the doorway, arms wrapped tight around myself.

Something about this place — the dim light, the smell of tea and dust and burnt wood — made the ache behind my eyes return. The kind of ache that meant the vision wasn’t fading. It had settled into me. It was becoming part of me.

And maybe that was what scared me most.

I slipped away while he busied himself with the kettle.

The apartment was dim, lit only by a few warm bulbs and the dull glow of a salt lamp near the hallway. Familiar shadows clung to the corners, stretching like old friends — or warnings. I'd been here before, once or twice, when Osaka brought me for meetings I was too young to understand. But the place felt different now. Smaller. Quieter. Less like a home, more like a waiting room between worlds.

Finley’s drawings still clung to the fridge with mismatched magnets — scribbled wards, circles of salt and stars and owls with eyes too wide. One of them was newer, in darker pencil. A sketch of a tall, thin man with too many fingers.

I frowned.

I moved down the hallway, trailing my fingers along the wallpaper. There was a door that was always shut. Osaka had once told me it was a guest room, but no one ever stayed there. I paused in front of it, not sure why.

Just listening.

Nothing. But the air near it felt colder. Still.
I didn’t open it.

Instead, I wandered into the small alcove where Madoka kept his books. The shelves were packed to bursting — grimoires, half-burnt scrolls, old theology texts written in languages I couldn’t read. On one shelf, a frame sat tucked behind a row of thick tomes. Hidden, almost. I pulled it out.
It was a photograph. Faded, but not old enough to be forgotten.

Osaka stood there, stiff in a black uniform, next to Madoka. They weren’t smiling. Neither of them ever did in photographs. But it was the third figure that stopped me.

A girl. Not much older-looking than I was now. Curly hair tied in a black ribbon. Her eyes were blanked out — scratched, deliberately. Not worn by time, but defaced.

Something in my stomach turned.

Behind me, the kettle began to scream.

I stared at the photo for a long moment, thumb brushing over the scratch marks where her eyes had been. Whoever she was, someone had wanted her erased — not forgotten, but removed.

I slid the photo out of the frame with a careful tug, the glass cool against my skin. It made the smallest sound, a papery whisper of guilt, but I didn’t stop. I folded it once, twice, and slipped it into the pocket of my jacket.

The kettle wailed louder, but I didn’t rush. I stepped back into the hall, only to find the guest room door still half open — not wide, but enough. Enough to make me pause.

I hadn’t heard it open.

The air near it still felt colder, like the warmth of the rest of the apartment couldn’t reach it. A soft draft moved past my ankles. My bracelet, Osaka’s bracelet, pulsed once. Faintly. Like it was responding.

I stepped past the frame of the door, just enough for the angle to shift.

And froze.

There was someone on the futon.

At first I thought it was a trick of the shadows — the folds of a blanket shaped like a body, the curve of a pillow suggesting a head. But no. There was a figure. Lying perfectly still. Turned away, as if asleep. Hair red, trailing off the edge of the pillow. A hand peeking from beneath the sheet, fingers curled inward.

I didn’t breathe.

My heart kicked, loud in my ears.

The figure didn’t move. Not once. Not even to breathe.

I took a step back, almost soundless. The door creaked, just slightly.

My voice came out before I could stop it — soft, bitter, not entirely my own.

“So that’s where she sleeps now.”

Not a question. Not even really an accusation. Just a fact, dropped like a stone into still water.

I let the door ease shut behind me, pulse still thrumming.

The kettle had gone quiet.

I swallowed hard, bile curling at the edge of my tongue.

He treats her like a tool.

Or a pet.

I wasn’t even sure where the thought came from. Only that it landed with certainty, like something I had always known but never let myself say out loud.

I turned fast, feet quiet on the floor, making my way back toward the kitchen.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have, shadows clinging to the walls like cobwebs. My bracelet felt heavier on my wrist, like it knew I had seen something I shouldn’t have.

By the time I reached the soft yellow light of the kitchen, Madoka had already set out two mugs and was pouring the tea with that familiar, infuriating calm.

He looked up when I stepped in, raising one brow slightly — almost like he expected me to say something.

I didn’t.

I sat down across from him, wrapping my hands around the mug. Letting the warmth soak into my fingers while the unease coiled tight in my chest.

The photo in my pocket scratched faintly against the lining of my coat.

I didn’t touch it.

We didn’t speak.

The tea cooled between us, untouched.
Madoka didn’t push — he never did. He only watched me from across the table, face unreadable, like he was waiting to see which version of me would show up tonight. The quiet one, the obedient one, the girl still pretending her brother might walk through the door.

Or the one slipping photographs out of their frames.

My eyes stayed fixed on the steam rising from my cup, but my thoughts pulled in every direction — back to the guest room, back to the figure on the futon, back to the look in Osaka’s eyes when he’d handed me the bracelet and whispered don’t forget.

I hadn’t.

But I was starting to think I’d misunderstood what he wanted me to remember.

Eventually, Madoka stood. Took both mugs to the sink, rinsed them without a word. The sound of running water felt too loud in the silence we’d left between us.

I followed him down the hall, the lights dim now, the apartment breathing its usual nighttime hush. As he turned into his room, he paused — just slightly — like he might say something.

But he didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I stood outside Finley’s room for a moment.

The door was already ajar. I pushed it open gently and slipped inside.

She was curled beneath the blanket, half-sprawled, one leg sticking out like she’d fallen asleep mid-complaint. A book still rested on the pillow beside her, open to a page she’d probably read a dozen times.

I climbed in quietly, careful not to wake her, and wrapped my arm around her waist.
She shifted in her sleep, murmured something incoherent, and pressed back into me.

And just like that — warmth. A steady heartbeat. A small anchor in a house that felt more like a cage.

I closed my eyes.

Tried not to think about the figure on the futon.

Tried not to think about how familiar she’d looked.

...Poor Ren.

Chapter Text

A Little More Broken

Lies build heavier cages.

The morning light sliced through the curtain, soft and pale, like the remnants of a dream I couldn’t recall. I woke up tangled in the sheets, my body stiff, almost as if it had been begging for release from the dream that now I can’t remember. Finley’s small frame was curled beside me, her steady breathing a quiet comfort against the stillness of the apartment. It was a relief, of sorts. The warmth she radiated, even in sleep, was the closest thing to peace I had felt in what seemed like ages.

But peace, like everything else, didn’t last. I stared at the ceiling, feeling the quiet of the room seep into my bones. There was this weight on me—heavy and constant, pressing down from somewhere deep inside. I tried to cling to the soft warmth next to me, but it was fleeting, like holding onto smoke. No matter how tight I closed my eyes, it was still there, gnawing at my chest, crawling in the spaces between my ribs.

Madoka.

I don’t know when it happened, but the man who used to be my protector, the one who gave me a sense of safety, became someone I can’t recognize. His presence in the apartment is suffocating, as if he’s seeped into the very walls, left his fingerprints in every corner. The way he looks at me now—the detached coldness in his gaze—it feels like he’s seeing right through me, or worse, seeing nothing at all. It’s unsettling. It’s as if he’s been waiting for me to fail, to fall back into the puppet I was before.

I remember how he looked at me the night of the ritual. That clinical look, like I was a problem to solve or a task to finish. It sends a chill down my spine. Even the way he treats Ren, with that same cold indifference—it’s all too familiar. I don’t think he sees people anymore. Not really. To him, we’re all just... pieces to move around.

The soft sound of him moving in the kitchen reached me, a quiet rhythm that filled the apartment. He was making tea, I think. But I couldn’t bring myself to feel comforted by it. He was too close. Too controlling. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wanted to leave, to escape the oppressive air he had created. But I didn’t know how. Not then.

I slipped out of bed carefully, trying not to disturb Finley. She was so peaceful, so unaware of the storm swirling inside me. I pulled on my clothes without thinking, just needing to move. It was impulsive. But I didn’t care anymore. I couldn’t stay there, pretending that things are fine, pretending that Madoka wasn’t pulling the strings again.

I scribbled a quick note on the bedside table, a vague message that was more for my own peace of mind than for his: “Went for a walk. Be back soon.” The words felt hollow as soon as I wrote them. But it was a small escape. A little rebellion. Maybe it wouldn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough.

Once I saw that Madoka wasn’t facing the hallway, I hurried and stepped outside. I took the stairs and made it out of the building, the cool air hitting me like a slap. It was sharp, like the world was reminding me that I had been trapped too long, that the weight of everything was starting to crush me. The streets were too loud, too bright, as if the world was moving at a pace I didn’t understand. It felt like I was walking through someone else’s life, not my own. But I couldn’t stop. I just kept moving.

I didn’t know where I was going. My feet carried me toward the park near the ASAJ building, but it was more out of habit than anything. There was something about the park—something quiet and empty—that called to me. I needed to breathe in silence, to feel like I wasn’t part of the chaos Madoka had wrapped me in.

The cold wind prickled my skin as I cut across the park, my footsteps crunching against the brittle grass. Once, I would have stopped there—let myself sit on the swings and pretend, just for a moment, that the world hadn't fallen apart. I used to go there with Osaka when I was small, tugging at his hand, begging him to push me higher, higher, until the sky cracked open above me.

But at almost twenty, the trees stood hollow and bare, and every creak of the chains in the breeze sounded like a warning. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and kept walking, refusing to look back.

It was far more silent than I remember. The gray light of the morning was soft, almost melancholic, draping everything in a gentle fog. The benches were empty, the paths silent except for the rustling leaves. The scent of cold iron clung to the air — swings groaning on their rusted chains, the distant clatter of something unseen.

I thought of Osaka, again.

Of the way he used to lace his fingers through mine, tight, almost bruising.

Of how he'd pull me close by the wrist when I tried to slip away, smiling like it was a game only we understood.

I remembered the press of his palm between my shoulder blades, holding me steady on the swing.

"Higher, Aya-tan. Don’t be scared. I'll catch you if you fall."

But the memory soured — a hand that never let go, a breath too warm against my skin, promises I hadn’t understood at the time.

I sucked in a sharp breath, the world tilting slightly.

"Ayaki?"

I flinched — Miki stood a few feet away, eyes wide, too close, her voice dragging me back before I drowned in it.

For a second, I just stared. Blinking the cold back into my bones.

Her figure came into focus as she stepped closer, her soft brown hair tumbling in gentle waves, the kind of hair people would envy for being naturally flawless. She looked so innocent, the curve of her face, the way she blinked as though the world was still new to her.

She wasn’t Osaka’s type.

Too pure. And innocent. Too... sweet, I suppose. He liked the broken ones, the ones who didn't mind getting lost. I couldn’t help the bitter thought that curled in my chest. No, Miki wouldn't have fit. She was too much of everything he liked to fix.

I glanced down at myself, a flash of self-loathing tightening in my chest. My skin was far too pale, sickly-looking in the dim light, like I was always half-dead. It stretched over bones that had long since stopped resembling anything close to soft. My hair fell in limp strands, so fine it barely seemed to have any weight, reaching past my back in a cascade of lifeless white. Too much. Not enough.

I wasn’t Osaka’s type, either. Not the way Miki was.

He had wanted to marry her.

He'd said it like a promise, like a sentence. And for the first time, I felt a vicious, hollow relief crawl up my spine.

Good, I thought.

Good that he disappeared before he could ruin her too.

Miki shifted her weight from one foot to the other, forcing a brittle smile. “Um... how have you been?” she asked, voice high and thin like a thread about to snap.

I didn’t answer. I just stared at her, arms limp at my sides, letting the silence stretch long enough that her cheeks flushed a blotchy red.

Her hands twisted harder in the fabric of her coat. She let out a tiny, nervous laugh, then stumbled forward with the real reason she was here.

"I... I was wondering if you’ve seen Osaka," she said, voice cracking. "I-I mean, you live with him, right? I haven’t heard from him in days and I’m—" she swallowed hard, “I’m scared. I’m worried sick. I don’t know what to do.”

Her eyes searched my face for something—comfort, maybe, or some promise that everything was fine.

I stayed silent.

I could’ve told her everything. The truth about Osaka.

I could’ve ripped her hope to shreds with a single sentence, let her know what I knew—how he had slipped somewhere I couldn’t reach, not even in my thoughts, not even in my dreams.

For a moment, I felt a twisted amusement at how little she knew. How tightly she clung to her pretty illusion.

But that amusement curdled into something darker. The temptation to crush her hope, to watch it crumble in her hands, clawed at me.

And still... I didn’t.

Because I knew.

I knew what it felt like to lose someone you love. To watch them turn into something you didn’t recognize.

So I lied.

"He's been... busy," I said, my voice flat. "You know how he is. Wanders off when he feels like it."

I didn’t bother to soften it, didn’t bother to offer her any real comfort. Let her stew in it.

Let her hope.

Miki blinked at me, as if waiting for more. As if I owed her more.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clutching her sleeves like a nervous child.

"I just... I just thought maybe you could tell him I’ve been worried," she said, voice small. "That I miss him. That I—"

She stopped herself, cheeks coloring.

Pathetic.

I watched her without blinking, feeling the bitterness pool deeper in my gut. She had no idea. No idea what kind of monster she was pining for. No idea what kind of person she was talking to, either.

"Sure," I said, the word sharp and hollow. "I'll pass the message."

Miki smiled—an awkward, desperate thing—and I almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, I just stared at her until her smile faded into something uncertain, something scared.

She looked like she wanted to say more, but the words caught in her throat. Good. Let them rot there.

Miki then gave a stiff little bow, mumbling, "Thank you..." before turning on her heel and scurrying away like a wounded animal.

I watched her go, her shoulders hunched, her pace quick and uneven, like she was trying to outrun the silence I left hanging between us.

So small. So desperate. So broken.

A slow, sick sort of pride unfurled in my chest, puffing me up from the inside out.

I had made her feel that way.

I had the power now.

And it felt good—too good.

I turned away from the park, walking faster, almost skipping like a child who had gotten away with something wicked.

But the farther I went, the heavier the air grew around me. The hollow feeling inside my chest gnawed deeper, colder.

I had protected her, hadn’t I?

Shielded her from the ugly truth.

Spared her from the same pit I had been thrown into, left to claw my way out of alone.

No one had protected me.

No one had reached out when I needed saving.

They had all turned their backs and let me fall, let me rot.

So why had I bothered with Miki?

Why did she get to keep her hope when mine had been ripped away like a bad joke?

I slowed down, a deep frown tugging at my mouth.

My steps grew heavier, the bitterness curling around my legs like chains.

I pouted without meaning to, the childish gesture slipping free before I could catch it.

It wasn’t fair.

By the time I reached Madoka’s apartment building, the weight pressing on my chest felt a little lighter.

Maybe it was the walk.

Maybe it was the lie.

Maybe it was the fact that, for the first time in days, I had made a choice — even if it was a small, petty one.

I was done pretending.

I hovered near the entrance, waiting until a couple pushed the door open from the inside, laughing about something I couldn't care less about. I slipped past them before it closed, keeping my head low, ignoring the sharp look the woman gave me.

The building smelled the same as always — faint mildew, too much cheap cleaning product, something stale clinging to the walls.
I grimaced as I stood before the stairs, glaring up at the chipped steps like they were a personal insult.

They stretched upward, steep and endless, like a bad dream I couldn’t wake from.

With a low sigh, I curled my fingers tighter around the strap of my bag and started climbing, one step at a time.

The hallway stretched on forever, every step creaking louder than the last. I could already feel the tightness gathering between my ribs, like something was winding itself around me, ready to strangle.

When I reached the door, I didn't hesitate. I didn't knock either.

I twisted the handle and pushed it open.

Madoka was inside, standing by the window, one hand resting lazily on the frame, like he’d been waiting for me. The soft hum of the city buzzed in behind him, the world outside moving on like none of this mattered.

His head turned slightly, and I caught the glint of his eyes — dark, heavy, dissecting.

"Where were you?"

His voice was low, careful. Dangerous.

I shrugged off my jacket, letting it fall over the nearest chair with a loud, disrespectful thwump. "Out."

A silence stretched between us, taut and suffocating.

"Out," he repeated slowly, like tasting the word on his tongue. His lips curled into a half-smile, one that didn't touch his eyes. "You’ve never been good at lying, Ki-chan."

I didn't answer. I stepped further inside, pretending not to notice the way his body tensed, like a predator ready to spring.

The carpet muffled my footsteps. The air tasted stale.

"You think you can just come and go as you please now?"

There was an edge to his words, a bitterness he didn't bother to hide.

I lifted my chin, heart hammering. "I don't need your permission."

The mask slipped. For a fraction of a second, I saw it — the flicker of anger, of something colder curling behind his gaze.

"You forget where you belong," he said, voice dropping lower, more dangerous. He pushed away from the window and crossed the room in three slow, deliberate strides until he towered over me.

I didn't move. Not this time.

Not again.

"I'm not a stray dog you can leash," I said, breathing hard. "I'm not yours to keep."

The slap never came — but I felt it in the air between us, heavy and thick and waiting.

"You live under my roof now," Madoka said, smile thinning to a sneer. "You breathe because I allow it."

"Then maybe I should stop," I snapped.

His nostrils flared, but he caught himself, smoothing his expression into something calmer. Worse.

He shifted tactics — that quick, oily way he always did when he wanted to pull me back into his hands without force.

"You’re upset," he said softly, stepping closer, voice like velvet strangling my lungs. "You're tired. Lost. You don't know what you're doing."

I took a step back, my spine hitting the wall.

"I know exactly what I’m doing," I hissed. "I'm tired of waiting. Tired of being strung along."

He tilted his head, studying me. "Waiting for what?"

"For answers!" My fists clenched at my sides. "About Osaka. About everything. You think I don't see it? You think I don't notice how you keep me here, dangling promises over my head like scraps?"

Madoka's smile twisted. "Poor little Kii-chan. Always so desperate for love. Always so easy to break."

I hated him. I hated the way he said my name, like it belonged to him, like it was something fragile he could snap between his fingers.

But I swallowed the hatred down, turned it into steel.

"I want to meet Hoffman," I said, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. "I want to talk to him myself."

Madoka’s face hardened, all pretense of charm gone.

"No."

"You don't get to decide that anymore."

I pushed off the wall, stepping into his space, shoving my defiance into every inch between us.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he said, voice growing darker. "You don't know the things you're dragging yourself into."

"Maybe not," I said. "But I’m not afraid of it."

He stared at me for a long time.

The silence stretched until I thought it might snap in two.

I could feel his anger boiling just under the surface, like a pot ready to spill over.

"You think you’re strong enough?" he said finally, voice low and cutting. "You think you can survive knowing the truth?"

I met his eyes — the ones that once felt like safety, like home — and felt nothing but disgust.

"I already have," I said.

A beat.

A heartbeat.

Something in him cracked then — I saw it, clear as day. The moment he realized he couldn’t reel me back in.

That whatever control he thought he had left was slipping, crumbling like ash between his fingers.

Madoka stepped back, smiling that cold, ugly smile that didn’t reach anywhere but the corners of his mouth.

"Fine," he said. "You want to meet Hoffman?"

I nodded once, breathing hard, chest heaving.

"Then don't blame me when you wish you hadn’t."

I didn’t move.

The air between us still vibrated with the aftershock of the argument, but Madoka had already turned his back on me, as if I wasn’t worth looking at anymore.

As if I was already settled, another piece shoved into place.

I dropped my gaze, and only then noticed the mess I'd left behind.

Mud smeared across the wooden floorboards, ugly brown footprints trailing behind me like stains that couldn’t be washed out.

I hadn’t even thought to take off my shoes.

A knot tightened in my throat as I stared at the mess — at myself.

Wet, filthy, clinging to things I wasn't supposed to touch.

Like a stray kitten that had wandered inside during a storm, dripping filth onto polished floors, unwanted and too dumb to know it.

I shifted my weight, shoes squelching faintly against the floor. Shame prickled at the back of my neck, hot and choking.

Behind me, Madoka’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and dismissive.

“We’ll leave this weekend. You’ll meet them then.”

I didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Instead, he moved deeper into the apartment, his voice trailing after him like smoke.

"I have to get Finley ready for school," he said. "Try not to make any more messes."

The door to one of the side rooms clicked shut, leaving me alone in the silence.

I stared at the muddy footprints one more time, at the wreckage I had dragged in with me.

And for a moment, just a moment, I wanted to curl up right there and disappear into the floor.

But instead, I kicked off my ruined shoes and stood barefoot on the cold wood.

My feet left damp, smudged impressions with every step as I crossed the living room.

Small.

Filthy.

But still moving.

Still here.

I made it halfway across the room before I stopped.

The footprints behind me glared like accusations, like scars no one could pretend not to see.

I hovered there, breath shallow, before doubling back.

Dragging my feet, I found an old rag beneath the sink, soaked it under freezing water, and dropped to my knees.

The first swipe was rough, angry.

The second was slower.

By the third, I wasn’t cleaning the floor anymore.

I was cleaning me.

I scrubbed until my hands ached, until the rag turned dark and heavy.

The mud smeared, sank deeper into the wood no matter how hard I tried to erase it.

My skin stung with cold water, my knuckles red, raw.

Somewhere in the other room, I heard the muffled hum of Madoka’s voice.

Talking to Finley, maybe.

Laughing, maybe.

Life carrying on like I wasn’t even there.

I pressed the rag harder into the wood until my arms trembled.

If I just scrubbed hard enough, maybe I could wipe out the girl who had ruined everything.

The girl who stayed too long.

The girl who didn’t know when to leave.

I sat back on my heels, panting, my hair clinging to my face in pale, limp strands.

The footprints were still there, ghost-like stains even after everything.

I dropped the rag.

It landed with a wet slap.

And I stayed there, staring at nothing, until the cold finally started to seep into my bones and I realized I was shivering.

Maybe it would always be like this.

Maybe no matter how hard I scrubbed, no matter how much I clawed at the dirt, the stains would stay.

Maybe I was already too ruined to ever be clean again.

But for the first time, the thought didn’t crush me.

If I couldn’t be saved, then maybe—just maybe—I could be something else.

Something worse.

Something better.

Something they couldn’t throw away so easily.

I pushed myself up, my legs stiff, my hands dripping.

The world felt heavier, but my heart—

My heart felt light.

Chapter Text

You'll See

There’s always a twist at the end of the road.

I sat at the edge of the dining table, arms limp at my sides, eyes fixed on the opposite wall. The apartment was too quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed in your ears like guilt. I hadn’t said a word since last night. Maybe I was waiting for something to break the silence. Maybe I wanted to be the one to do it.

The apartment looked the way Madoka lived — like he never meant to stay. Everything was impersonal. Clean lines. Neutral colors. Not a single item felt lived in. The couch was barely worn, the kitchen spotless, and the art on the walls had that generic, pre-framed look, like he’d bought them out of obligation. Nothing screamed “home.” Not even a whisper of warmth.

Except for the drawings.

A few of Finley’s were stuck to the fridge with weak magnets — uneven crayon lines, pink skies and lopsided suns. One was curled at the corner, peeling off as if even it was tired of being there. Another had been shoved behind a stack of unopened mail. Still, they were the only things here that felt real. The only traces of life he hadn’t curated out.

My gaze wandered to the drawer near the hallway. A picture frame sat tilted there, glass dusty, as if it hadn’t been touched in years. I stood up and walked toward it before I could stop myself.

A younger Madoka stared back at me — early twenties, maybe. His expression wasn’t that different from the one he wore now, but his eyes… they hadn’t hardened yet. Next to him stood a tired-looking man and an exhausted woman — his parents, I guessed — and seven girls, each with the same sharp eyes and pale smiles. All siblings. All strangers. There was something suffocating in that symmetry.

Something too neat.

I put the frame back down. I didn’t know what I was searching for. Maybe a crack in the image. A smudge. Proof that even he didn’t come from something perfect.

I stared at the photo a second longer, then reached for the drawer beneath it.

It stuck at first, the wood warped just enough to catch. I hesitated. I wasn’t supposed to go through his things — I knew that. But knowing had never stopped me before. My fingers curled around the handle, and I gave it a harder tug. It creaked open.

The scent of old paper drifted out, something faintly metallic beneath it — ink, maybe. Dust. Time.

Inside were papers stacked in uneven piles, envelopes that hadn’t been sealed properly, and a few black notebooks with no labels. One had a torn corner and a faint coffee stain on its cover. I brushed my fingers over them, then pulled out a thin folder wedged in the back.

It wasn’t labeled either, but when I opened it, there were photographs inside.

Not like the one on the shelf. These weren’t posed.

Grainy black and white shots — people mid-movement, mid-blink. Children in uniforms, some looking straight at the camera with unreadable eyes. Others walking through temple gates, heads down. One photo caught my eye — a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, standing in the middle of a field. The way his limbs hung didn’t look right. There was a smear along the bottom of the image, like the photo had been taken just as something was happening. Something not meant to be captured.

A chill crawled up my spine. I slipped it back into the folder and pushed it aside.

Then, something else — a stack of letters bound together with twine. The paper was yellowed, the ink fading in places. The top one had a name I didn’t recognize. “To Mr. Hoffman,” it read in Madoka’s handwriting. I stared at it for a moment, heart thudding.

There was something deeply private about it — sacred, almost — and yet my fingers itched to untie the knot and read every word.

I didn’t.

Instead, I slid everything back the way I found it, closed the drawer, and wiped my palms on my thighs.

I had come looking for pieces of Madoka.

And I’d found too many.

I heard the soft creak of a floorboard in the hallway.

My spine straightened instantly, drawer still half open. Shit. I shoved it shut — not all the way, not perfectly — but enough. My hands fumbled behind me, smoothing my shirt as if that would erase the guilt from my face. The footsteps grew louder, quicker—

Then I was tackled.

“Oof—!” I stumbled back, catching the small body that flung itself against me like a heat-seeking missile. Arms latched around my waist. I blinked, breath knocked out of me, and looked down.

“Finley—?”

She clung tighter, face buried against my side. “I don’t wanna go to school!”

“God, you scared me.” I pressed a hand to my chest, heart still racing for a very different reason now. “What are you—? You’re supposed to be getting ready.”

“No!” she wailed, shaking her head. “I’m staying here. With you.”

I sighed, resting my chin lightly on the top of her head. Her hair smelled like strawberries and the cheap bubblegum shampoo Madoka bought in bulk. My arms slowly came around her, almost reluctantly. The tension in me didn’t melt—it just shifted.

“Did you already fight with your dad?” I asked.

“No. But I will,” she said with grave seriousness, muffled against my sweater. “If he tries to take me.”

A small, dry laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “You’re a little monster.”

Finley looked up at me, eyes wide and wet. “Only for you.”

It shouldn’t have hit me the way it did. But it did. I felt it — this awful, warm ache rise in my throat. A part of me wanted to curl around her and stay like this, like we were safe here, like none of the things outside of this little moment could touch us.

But we weren’t safe.

And the drawer behind me was still slightly ajar.

“Go put on your socks,” I murmured, brushing her hair back with a shaky hand. “I’ll walk you to the station if you’re fast.”

Finley looked at me like I’d promised her the moon. Then she bolted.

And I was left standing there — the drawer whispering behind me, the lie I’d just fed her settling in my chest like a stone.

The room was still again.

I stood there, arms loosely at my sides, listening to the house breathe — the hum of the refrigerator, the faint rustle of trees outside, the ticking clock on the wall. A smear of dust traced the surface of the drawer I hadn’t properly closed. My reflection stared back at me from the glass frame I hadn’t managed to examine.

My heartbeat had barely begun to slow when the door creaked open again.

“I told you to get your socks—Finley, come on—”

Madoka’s voice was strained, the kind of tired you don’t bother hiding anymore. He stepped into the room holding a wriggling child under one arm like a particularly angry cat. Finley kicked and protested with impressive volume, her backpack half-sliding off her shoulder, hair in wild disarray.

In his other hand, he dangled her shoes like an offering.

“She says—and I quote—‘School is a prison designed to kill my spirit.’” His deadpan delivery only highlighted the bags under his eyes.

“I’m not going!!” Finley howled. “Ayaki said I don’t have to if I’m fast!”

My eyes widened. “That is not what I said.”

Madoka looked at me, then at her, then back again, all with the same long-suffering expression. “You negotiated with a terrorist.”

“She ambushed me!”

Finley thrashed harder. “You’re evil! You don’t care about my dreams!”

“I care about being on time for the train,” he muttered.

With a sigh, I moved to help wrangle her, grabbing the offending shoes from his hand as he tried to peel her off himself without dropping her. She clung to his coat with every ounce of her will, yelling something about “oppression” and “systemic cruelty.”

“You’ve been teaching her new words again, haven’t you?” Madoka shot me a look.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I crouched and held up her socks like it was a peace offering. “If you put these on, I’ll tell you a secret about your teacher.”

Finley paused mid-screech.

“…What kind of secret?” she sniffled, narrowing her eyes at me.

“A good one. Maybe even scandalous.”

Madoka gave me a look that clearly said don’t encourage her, but Finley was already sliding off his arm and plopping herself on the floor, sticking her foot out with a huff. Her face was still blotchy, and her pout could have sunk nations, but she was cooperating.

As I helped her into her shoes, Madoka finally exhaled.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

I didn’t look up. “Don’t thank me. This is your kid, not mine.”

But the words came out wrong — bitter, sharp, like something scraped raw. He noticed. I felt the weight of his gaze pressing down on me.

The morning had only just begun, and already it was teetering.

The platform buzzed with the morning rush — squealing brakes, sharp announcements, the low murmur of conversations layered over the rattle of metal and wind.

Finley was glued to my side, her little arms wrapped tight around my waist like a life preserver. Her backpack, stuffed to cartoonish proportions, bounced awkwardly behind her with each shuffle she made to keep up. She looked like a grumpy kitten in pink sneakers.

“I’m going to die at school,” she whispered gravely into my shirt.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’ll wither away. They’ll make me do math.”

I glanced at Madoka, who stood a few feet away holding her lunch box. He looked like he hadn’t slept — again — dark circles under his eyes, mouth set in a flat line. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, this is your fault, and stepped forward.

“Come on, Finley,” he said gently, nudging her toward the train as the doors slid open with a sigh.

She growled. Actually growled. Like a tiny, disobedient bear cub.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, refusing to budge.

Madoka’s jaw tightened. He crouched and offered her the lunch box with slow, deliberate care.

She didn’t look at him. She stared hard at the ground like it had personally offended her, arms crossed so tightly across her chest it looked painful.

“Finley,” he said again, softer. “It’s strawberry today. You like that.”

Silence. Then a sniff. She snatched the lunch box from him and muttered, “I like Ayaki better,” under her breath.

I looked away quickly, pretending I didn’t hear it.

Madoka didn’t react. His expression didn’t even flicker. Just stood back up and motioned toward the train again.

“Go.”

After a few more seconds of stubborn silence, Finley stomped forward, making a point of dragging her feet the whole way. She threw one last pitiful look over her shoulder before disappearing inside the train, wedging herself between a row of seats and sulking like it was her job.

The doors closed.

We stood in silence as the train pulled away, Madoka’s shoulders sagging once it disappeared from sight. I watched him from the corner of my eye. He didn’t move for a while.

“…You okay?” I asked finally.

He nodded, but it didn’t look convincing.
I wanted to say something else. Something about how she’d be fine. About how he was doing okay. But the words didn’t come, and neither of us seemed willing to bridge that distance.

So we just stood there for a bit. Quiet. Tired. Still.

We didn’t speak much after the station.

Madoka suggested picking up some fruit before heading back, and I agreed, mostly because I didn’t want to go back just yet. The apartment felt too full lately — of noise, of ghosts, of everything unspoken.

The street market was already packed. Colors and smells flooded the narrow lane. Citrus and wet pavement. Vendors shouting over one another. The quiet sizzle of roasted sweet potatoes in the corner stall.

Madoka walked a little ahead, hands shoved in his coat pockets. People noticed him immediately — his height always drew attention, that and the way he carried himself, like someone constantly calculating exit routes. Girls whispered as he passed. One finally gathered the courage to ask for an autograph, eyes wide with nervous energy.

He blinked at the paper and pen in her hands, looked at me once, then scribbled something down with a ghost of a smile. The girls ran off giggling.

“You’re popular,” I muttered.

He glanced at me sideways. “Don’t be jealous.”

I rolled my eyes and turned away, but I wasn’t smiling.

At the grocery store, we wandered separate aisles. I heard him argue with the fruit clerk over persimmons. He said they were too green. The clerk insisted they were perfectly ripe. I found the whole exchange oddly soothing.

I ended up in the candy aisle. I didn’t buy anything.

Outside, the wind was picking up. We passed a clothing boutique with warm yellow lighting, and I lingered by the window without really thinking. Inside, everything looked soft and expensive. A mannequin wore a deep purple dress with bell sleeves and a high collar. My reflection hovered next to hers in the glass — white hair, pale skin, hollow under the eyes. We didn’t look alike.

“Wouldn’t suit you,” Madoka said behind me.

I didn’t move.

“I know,” I said. Then added, quieter, “I wasn’t looking because I wanted it.”

He didn’t respond at first. I thought maybe he’d walked ahead again, but when I turned, he was still standing there, watching my reflection instead of me.

“You’d look good in black,” he finally said.

“Of course I would.”

A pause.

“I meant it,” he muttered. “You’d look good in anything. Even like this.”

I blinked, unsure if I was supposed to feel comforted or insulted.

Then he turned and walked on. I stayed there for another beat, letting the chill in my throat sink deeper.

I caught up to him eventually, walking in step but a few inches behind, like always.

At some point, he pulled out his phone. His brow furrowed as he scrolled, lips pressed tight. Probably work. It was always work. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second too long, not moving, just... hesitating.

I watched him from the side, pretending not to. He looked normal like this — just a tall man on a busy street, phone in hand, eyes tired. Someone's dependable father. Someone's reliable coworker. Someone who had a life, a purpose.

But he wasn't mine.

He was Osaka’s boss. That’s how it started. Maybe a friend too, close enough that my brother left me in his care. Left me in that cold apartment with the wife he didn’t talk about and the walls he never decorated.

Madoka never asked for anything. He let me stay. He fed me. He bought my shampoo and vitamins without comment. But sometimes — sometimes he looked at me too long. Not with desire, no. Not exactly. Just long enough to make me wonder if he saw me or something else.

Sometimes he’d pat my head like I was a dog. Rough. Teasing. Sometimes he’d scold me like a child. Sharp voice, no room to answer back. And sometimes... sometimes he’d stand too close, close enough that I could feel his warmth without ever touching him.
It unsettled me. All of it.

And yet, part of me leaned into it. Like I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to see me or not.

He put the phone away without saying anything. Whatever it was, it could wait. Or maybe he didn’t want me to see it.

“You’re quiet,” he said, eyes ahead.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

I didn’t answer. Just walked a little faster, enough to step in front of him. Close to the edge of the sidewalk, where the crowd thinned.

Part of me wanted him to follow.

Another part hoped he’d let me go.

The sidewalk stretched ahead like a tide, pushing and pulling with the rhythm of strangers. For a second, I didn’t hear Madoka behind me. Just the sound of my own breath, too loud in my ears.

And then I remembered.

This street. This part of the city. I’d walked it before.

Osaka once held my hand through this very crowd. I must’ve been ten, maybe younger. The world was too big back then — faces too high, voices too loud, buildings tilting in like they wanted to crush me. I remember how tightly I clung to his fingers, how firm his grip was. Like he’d never let me go.

Until he did.

A slip. A tug. A breath between heartbeats.

And then he was gone.

The panic came fast — white-hot and dizzy. I remember spinning in place, trying to find the back of his coat, the sound of his voice. I cried, I think. Or maybe I just stood there, frozen, letting the crowd push past like I was nothing.

He found me eventually. Pulled me close and scolded me, but his hands were shaking.
I never asked why he let go.

And now, walking these same streets, I wondered if that was the first time he left me. If, maybe, he’d been letting go long before I ever noticed.

A breeze brushed my cheek. I turned, just slightly, and Madoka was there — one step behind, eyes narrowed like he could read my thoughts.

I almost asked him, Would you have come back for me too?

But I didn’t.

Instead, I looked away. Let the memory sink back down where it belonged.

He didn’t need to know that I still remembered being lost.

Or that I’d never quite been found again.

We walked back in silence, the city slowly giving way to the quiet hum of the apartment building. Madoka didn’t speak, but I could feel his gaze lingering on me, sharp, like he was trying to figure me out. But I didn’t care. I’d built walls, thick ones, and he couldn’t see past them.

When we got inside, the cold air of the street clung to my skin, and I shrugged off my jacket. Madoka was already unbuttoning his coat, a motion that had become so familiar, so routine. The door clicked shut behind us, locking out the world, and for a moment, I allowed myself to breathe.

But then—

Crash.

The noise was sudden, sharp, like something heavy falling against the floor. My eyes flicked to Madoka. He looked toward the bedrooms, brow furrowed, but didn’t say anything. The second sound came quickly after — a rustling of clothes, and then a sharp, burning smell, bitter and choking.

I froze, heart skipping a beat. I glanced toward the hallway, where the bedrooms lay at the end. The stench of smoke hung in the air, thick and unnatural.

"Shit," he swore under his breath. "Renée—?"

Her name cut through the quiet like a blade, and for some reason, it hit me harder than I expected. Finley was at school. It couldn’t be her.

A flicker of fear crawled up my spine. Had Renée done something? Was she alright? Or was this just… normal?

Madoka didn’t wait. His movements sharpened, though he didn’t look surprised—just annoyed, like this wasn’t new. But I saw it in his eyes. Beneath the surface, something had cracked.

I hesitated at the entrance to the hallway. Something deep in my gut told me to stay back. I wasn’t supposed to see this.

But then he was already halfway down the hall, and despite myself—despite the pounding in my chest and the way my feet felt like stone—I moved.

I ran after him.

I turned the corner just as Madoka threw the bedroom door open.

Smoke curled from the scorched remains of what must’ve been a small space heater—charred black, the wall behind it smeared with ash. The window was shut, the curtains drawn, trapping the heat and smell inside. It hit me like a slap.

Renée stood in the middle of it all, barefoot and still in her nightgown, her hair wild around her shoulders. She didn’t even flinch at the door swinging open—just stood there, arms loosely wrapped around herself, eyes unfocused. A cracked porcelain mug lay shattered at her feet, steam rising from what remained inside. Tea, maybe. Or something stronger.

"Goddammit, Renée," Madoka muttered, more under his breath than to her. His voice was tight, restrained—but his fists were clenched. “What did I say about the heater?”

She blinked slowly, like she hadn’t heard him, or hadn’t understood.

I hovered behind him, half-hidden by the doorframe, unsure whether to step in or disappear. The air in the room was thick, stifling—not just from the heat and smoke, but from something unspoken. Something old and exhausted and heavy.

“Just wanted to be warm,” Renée said eventually, voice thin and scratchy. She sounded much older than she looked. “...Didn’t think it would catch like that.”

Madoka took a step inside, kicking the broken mug aside. “You could’ve burned the whole building down.”

She turned her back to us.

And that’s when she noticed me.

Her gaze slid past Madoka and landed on me like a slow-moving shadow. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind her eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or morbid curiosity.

“Shouldn’t be here,” she said flatly, almost like I wasn’t.

Madoka sighed. "Ayaki lives here now."

Renée hummed.

I wanted to shrink away—to vanish into the wall. But something inside me hardened instead. She didn’t scare me, not really. What frightened me was the version of Madoka that appeared in her presence: quiet, tired, tired in a way that felt permanent.

Madoka glanced over his shoulder at me. “Go open the windows in the kitchen. Get some air moving.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

I nodded stiffly and backed away, retreating down the hall, still tasting the smoke on my tongue. But even as I walked, I kept hearing her voice in my head, low and deadpan:

"Shouldn’t be here.”

I pushed the kitchen window open with a creak, and the cold bit at my skin like it had been waiting for me. The air outside smelled like dust and city smoke, but it was better than the heaviness clinging to the hallway. I leaned out just slightly, breathing in, trying to forget the image of Renée standing there barefoot in that scorched room.

She hadn’t looked like I imagined Madoka’s wife would. Not elegant. Not warm. There was something... off about her, like she was stitched into this world by mistake. Her eyes were too dark and too still at the same time. Her movements, slow and gliding, like she was underwater—or pretending to be human.

No wedding ring. No warmth in her voice when she said his name. Just that glassy-eyed quiet, like a mirror with no reflection behind it.

It didn’t make sense. She didn’t match Madoka at all. He was methodical, harsh in his own way, sometimes cold but always deliberate. She looked like she belonged to a dream that had turned into a nightmare halfway through. Or maybe a story someone else had written, one where she was cast in the wrong role.

I could still hear her voice: "Shouldn’t be here."don’t belong here.”

His gaze snapped back to mine. “That’s not for her to decide.”

“But maybe she’s right.”

Madoka stepped closer, close enough that the kitchen light caught the strands of white hair falling into my eyes. He reached out, and for a second I thought he’d touch my head like he always did—those mock-gentle little pats that made me feel like a stray cat he kept around out of boredom. But he didn’t.
His hand hovered. Then dropped back to his side.

“You do belong here,” he said. “Because I said so.”

There was something final about it. Something possessive.

And yet... it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like a chain.

I hated the way his words wrapped around me like they were supposed to be warm. Like I should be grateful. Like he decided I was allowed to exist.

I stared at him. Hard. I wanted to peel back his skin, see what lay underneath that calm mask. That tired voice. That fake kindness.

“You’re not him,” I said quietly.

Madoka blinked. “What?”

“You’re not Osaka.”

He didn’t flinch—but his jaw shifted, his fingers twitched. Just enough for me to notice. Just enough to make me feel like I’d won something.

“I never claimed to be,” he muttered.

“No, you just keep pretending like you can fix the things he broke.”

Silence. A slow, heavy silence that pulled at the corners of the room like gravity.

“You think this is about him?” he asked, low, sharp.

“You took me in. You feed me. You look at me like—like I’m something broken you’re keeping around out of guilt.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why do you look at me like that?”

Madoka stepped forward, closer than I wanted. I didn’t move back.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” I whispered. “You touch my head like I’m a child. You scold me like I’m one of yours. But sometimes you stare too long. Sometimes you hesitate. Sometimes you forget I’m still his.”

His breath hitched. Barely. But I felt it. I saw it.

“Go to your room,” he said.

I laughed—bitter and thin. “What am I, twelve?”

“Now.”

And something in his voice cracked like a whip.

I stepped back. My chest was tight. My hands trembled—but I wasn’t sure if it was from fear, or something else. Something deeper. Something rotten.

I turned, walked away.

But not before I said it.

“I’m not going to be your replacement for him either.”

I shut the door behind me a little too hard. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment like a slap.

My hands were still trembling. I stared at them like they belonged to someone else, some other girl who didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut. My breath was uneven, like I’d been running.

I didn’t cry.

I refused.

Instead, I paced. Back and forth across the room, the same few steps. The floor creaked in the corner, so I avoided it. Everything felt too loud—my breath, the buzz of a light fixture, the whir of the radiator. My heartbeat.

And beneath all of that, the echo of what I’d said to him.

You’re not Osaka.

He wasn’t. And I wasn’t myself either, not really. I’d been left behind—half a person, full of someone else’s ghosts.

I looked around the room. Sparse. Cold. It didn’t belong to me. Nothing ever did.

Then I saw it—on the windowsill. A single glass cup with a wilted flower in it. Finley’s doing, probably. Some school project. A burst of bright purple in a room that had forgotten what color was.

I walked over and touched the stem. Soft.

Dying.

Just like everything else.

I sat on the bed, curling into myself. I thought about his stare. Madoka’s. How sometimes it made my skin crawl, and sometimes it felt like the only thing anchoring me to the now. And how I hated that. Hated needing anything.

The truth was… I didn’t know what I wanted from him. From any of them.

Maybe just to be seen. Not as a ghost of Osaka. Not as some broken charity case. Just—me.

Whoever that was.

I lay back against the mattress, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

And for the first time since I’d gotten here, I realized:

I was scared of what I might become.

Madoka’s footsteps had a rhythm to them—anxious, uneven, heavy. Back and forth, again and again, through the living room and into the hallway. I didn’t look up, just kept coloring inside the thick lines of Finley’s half-finished dragon. She hummed beside me, content with her own scribbles, oblivious to the storm forming just a few feet away.

“I can’t just drop her off again. It’s the weekend,” Madoka muttered to himself.

He walked past us again. The floor groaned.

“People would talk. Think I’m... unreliable. Selfish.” Another turn, faster this time. “What kind of father goes on vacation and leaves his daughter at daycare two days in a row?”

I glanced up, just a little. He was rubbing his temples now. Mumbling. Not really to me. Maybe not even to himself.

“Renée’s still not... right,” he muttered, barely above a breath. “And what if she pulls something again? I can’t— I can’t leave them alone. Finley can’t even use the stove. And what if she says something to her?”

He stopped in the hallway and stood still for a moment, breathing through his nose like he was trying not to panic. Then came the inevitable pacing again, footsteps heavier than before. “Fumiko might be free. Maybe. But if not she has the shrine to attend. And she’d be juggling all the kids if she’s at the villa. Can’t ask her to drive all the way out here.”

Finley giggled next to me. “Does dragons have eyelashes?” she asked, showing me a wide, scribbled creature with pink lashes and too many legs. I nodded and added a little bow on its head. She lit up with delight.

Madoka didn’t notice. He was in his own world, muttering like he could sort his thoughts out just by letting them rattle through the air. “I could take her with me—but no. That’s stupid. This isn’t a family trip. This is—work. Not really. Not entirely.”

He rubbed his face and let out a strained sigh. “Damn it. If even one parent sees her at daycare again, they’ll start whispering. I’ll be that guy. That father. And Renée—she’s already one foot out. If she…”

He trailed off.

Then: “I don’t trust her. Not after Friday.”

The words came out raw. And true. I saw it on his face. The fear. The guilt. The shame curling around his spine like smoke. His hands dropped to his sides, limp and useless.

I looked back down at the paper.

“They can come with us,” I said simply, not looking up.

He didn’t say anything at first. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he was pretending not to. I kept drawing. Finley had moved on to adding glittery stickers around the dragon, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. The sunlight through the window caught in her curls, in the shimmer of the paper, and for a second, everything felt... normal.

“I said,” I repeated, softer, “they can come with us.”

Madoka stopped pacing.

Silence settled into the room like a held breath. Then the creak of the floor as he turned.

“Are you serious?” His voice was flat, tired. “Do you even know what you’re offering?”

“I’m not offering anything,” I said. “Just... giving you a solution.”

“You don’t know what it’ll be like,” he said. “This isn’t some weekend trip to the countryside. This is a job. Dangerous. Complicated. And you want to bring a kid and a... a... Renée along for the ride?”

I shrugged. “You were going to leave them here by themselves. Isn’t that worse?”

His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes flicked to Finley. She was still too lost in her drawing to notice the tension thickening around her.

“I can help,” I said, more firmly this time. “You don’t have to handle everything alone. Not all the time.”

He stared at me, brow furrowed like he was trying to solve some equation he didn’t want to understand. For a second, I saw it again—that look. The one that lingered too long. That made my skin itch.

But then it softened. Just a little.

“You’d help me?” he asked. “Even after yesterday?”

I looked at him. Really looked.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

His face twitched with something—shame, maybe. Gratitude. Fear. All mixed together.

Finley suddenly shouted, “My dragon’s done!!” and shoved the paper toward him with both hands. “She has a name now!”

Madoka blinked down at her. Then smiled. Just a little.

“What’s her name?”

Finley beamed. “Princess Stabbersparkle!”

He let out a quiet laugh, like he’d forgotten how, and crouched to her level. “That’s a terrifying name.”

“She’s a fearless princess," Finley said matter-of-factly. “And she protects her friends.”

His gaze shifted back to me.

Maybe he was thinking the same thing I was.

Maybe he was wondering which one of us needed protecting more.

The hum of the engine lulled me into a sort of lazy daze. I rolled the window down halfway, letting the breeze wash over my face, lifting strands of my hair, brushing warmth across my cheeks. The sun hit just right—like hands on my skin—and I leaned into it, eyes half-lidded, a lazy cat in a patch of sunlight. The road blurred by in gold and green.

“You’re gonna burn,” Madoka muttered without looking, eyes fixed on the road. “Put on sunscreen.”

I groaned, exaggerated and slow. “You sound like my grandma.”

“Good. She’s smarter than you,” he said.
I scowled and rummaged through the glove compartment until I found the bottle. The cold cream made me hiss as I slathered it onto my face and arms, slouching lower in my seat.

In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of the girls in the back.

Finley had flopped sideways like a ragdoll, her cheek smushed against Renée’s shoulder, mouth slightly open in sleep. Her curls, wild and unbrushed, caught the light in little halos. Her resemblance to Madoka was impossible to ignore—the same jet-black hair, the same constellation of moles scattered across her cheeks. But where Madoka’s eyes were knife-sharp, Finley’s were wide, soft, baby-blue. Always full of something. Wonder, mischief, too many questions.

Renée sat stiffly beside her, not quite asleep. Her head was tilted just right, her breath even—but her eyes were cracked open, just barely. Still. Watching. Always watching.

Her hair was the first thing that ever struck me—wild red, layered and uneven, like fire shaped with scissors. It brushed her shoulders, caught the wind, seemed to move even when she didn’t. Her skin had a strange glow, like her blood ran closer to the surface than anyone else’s. Her eyes—dark, wide, irises a little too large—like a bug’s, glossy and unsettling. But they drew you in. Like if she stared too long, you’d forget your own name. Like they absorbed too much. Like they were hungry.

Her hand rested protectively on Finley’s back, but her fingers didn’t move. Not the way a mother’s would. Not warm. Not human.

Something about her didn’t add up.

I looked away before her eyes could find mine in the mirror. Let the sun hit me again, let the wind remind me I was here, now. Not back there. Not in my own head.

“She’s still pretending to sleep,” I said quietly.
Madoka’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “I know.”

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the low rumble of the car and the occasional chirp of birds through the open window. Finley snored gently in the backseat, her little body rising and falling against Renée’s side. The road curved, dipped, rose again.

“They’re not easy to catch,” Madoka said suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet. “Always on the move. Every time I call, They’re in a different prefecture.”

I blinked, straightened a little. “They?”

“Hoffman.”

I frowned. “That’s their name?”

“Last name,” he said. “First name’s a pain to pronounce. They don't like using it anyway.”

I hummed like I understood. Didn’t.

“They used to be an exorcist,” he went on, one hand drumming idly against the wheel now. “Mentored a lot of us when we were younger. Took on every kind of case. Didn’t matter how risky it was. They just… handled it. Like it was nothing.” His mouth curled like he wanted to smile, but didn’t quite manage it. “Then one day they just stopped. Said they were tired. Started traveling. Living off their savings and guilt-tripped favors.”

There was something like exasperation in his voice, but underneath it—admiration. Maybe envy.

“They sound cool,” I said.

Madoka shot me a glance. “They’re a handful.”

I leaned my head against the window, staring at the blur of trees and buildings passing by. I imagined someone older, but not frail. Strong, in that unshakable way. Sharp eyes. Maybe silver hair, or short-cropped black. Wore linen shirts and beat-up sandals. Tanned from sun, maybe a scar on the jaw. Mysterious. Free. Probably had a sleek suitcase and the kind of laugh that made everyone in the room turn to look.

“I mean, they just up and left the life behind, right? No responsibilities, no one breathing down their neck. Free. I bet they wear sunglasses indoors. And have silver hair. Like… a silver fox.”

Madoka said nothing.

“They probably have a long coat too,” I added. “And rings on every finger. Maybe even a walking stick that doubles as a cursed staff.”

Still nothing.

I turned to look at him, suspicious. “Wait. Is he hot?”

He didn’t even glance at me. Just pressed a little harder on the gas and muttered, “You’ll see.”

I grumbled at first. But then closed my eyes and smiled, sinking back into the seat. Strong and free and probably rich enough to never check their bank account. Hoffman. My new role model.

Chapter Text

Even If It Hurts

I would still go back.

Hoffman was a woman.

I stared.

Not out of rudeness, but because my brain had simply… stopped. For a moment, it couldn't process what my eyes were seeing. The name, the way Madoka had spoken about them — I had been so sure Hoffman would be an old, gruff man. Someone towering and stern. Maybe missing an eye.

I blinked hard, hoping the image would somehow change if I stared long enough — maybe she'd morph into the towering, battle-scarred mentor I had built up in my head. Some silver-haired giant with storm-gray eyes and a trench coat fluttering dramatically in the wind. Maybe a scar or two. Maybe a sword slung over her back.

Instead, sitting lazily in the chair in front of the windows of the office was... her.

Simple blonde hair chopped into a messy bob, sticking out in odd directions like she hadn't looked in a mirror that morning. A wrinkled beige coat was thrown half-on, half-off her shoulders like she couldn't be bothered to wear it properly. A chipped mug sat balanced on the armrest, filled with something that smelled suspiciously like instant coffee. Her mouth quirked up at the edges, like she was perpetually in on a joke no one else could hear.

She slouched, legs crossed, tapping one worn-out sneaker against the side of the chair in a slow, lazy rhythm. Her sharp brown eyes flicked to us — alert, sure, but not the kind of fierce, soul-piercing gaze I had imagined. More like the tired look of a cat forced to acknowledge house guests.

My stomach dropped.

This was Hoffman?

The Hoffman?

I narrowed my eyes, feeling strangely betrayed. She looked like someone’s weird aunt who lived alone with too many plants and forgot to pay her bills on time. How could this woman be the legend Madoka talked about with such begrudging respect? How could she be the one who shaped exorcists and fought things most people couldn’t even pronounce?

I gawked.

Behind me, Madoka let out a sound halfway between a grunt and a sigh.

"Don't get your hopes up," he muttered under his breath. "She's just good at hiding the crazy until it's too late."

The woman — Hoffman — raised her mug lazily in greeting, not even bothering to stand.

"You're late," she said, voice dry as old paper.

Madoka crossed his arms, clearly restraining himself. "Blame the kid."

Her gaze slid over to me.

"Ah. The kid," she repeated, like it amused her.

I stiffened under her lazy once-over.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be cool.

She leaned back further in her chair, looking perfectly content to do nothing for the next year.

And somehow... somehow, I was supposed to learn from her.

"You must be Nakamura Ayaki."

She knew my name.

There was no mistake.

No one corrected her.

She was Hoffman.

I swallowed, the air catching dry in my throat. For a second, the room felt too heavy, too wide, too much.

"Did you..."

My voice came out smaller than I meant. I cleared my throat and tried again.

"Did you ever meet Nakamura Osaka?"

Her eyes didn't waver. She tapped her fingers lightly against the armrest of her chair, a lazy rhythm, like a clock ticking underwater.

"A long time ago," she said.

That was all. No smile. No frown. Just the words, neatly cut and served without seasoning.

Something twisted inside my chest. I nodded like it was enough, even if it wasn't.

Madoka, who had been silent this whole time, shifted his weight like he was about to speak — but Hoffman was already pushing herself to her feet, stretching her arms overhead with a yawn so wide it made her seem harmless.

"Come on, I'll show you around," she said, tossing her coat over one shoulder.

I hesitated. Somehow, I had pictured this moment differently.

More... heroic? Legendary?

Instead, I was following a woman in scuffed slippers and a messy bob haircut down the dark, winding halls of an estate that creaked like it had a pulse.

The tour was... strange.

We passed through a massive dining room covered in white sheets and forgotten chandeliers.

A sitting room with a grand piano that was missing half its keys.

A library that smelled like dust and old wood, where the curtains stayed drawn, and the butlers flitted in and out of the shadows like polite ghosts.

Hoffman explained none of it. She simply walked, hands tucked into the deep pockets of her beige coat, humming under her breath.

I caught Madoka's eye once.

He just looked exasperated, like he had seen it all before and found it too exhausting to comment.

At one point, Hoffman gestured vaguely to a hallway that disappeared into darkness.

"Don't go down there," she said, breezily. "It’s a mess."

I nodded like that was normal.

Maybe it was.

As Hoffman droned on about the history of some boring painting we passed, I found my eyes drifting — not to the art, but to the butlers. All of them men. All of them dressed in neat, pressed uniforms, faces blank and polished like mannequins.

Why were they all men?

Was it a hiring requirement? Some weird taste of Hoffman's?

Ew...

Were they even real?

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at one of them as we passed.

He didn't blink.

"You're awfully quiet," Madoka murmured beside me.

"I don't like it here," I hissed under my breath.

He didn't even pretend to be surprised.

I could feel the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When Hoffman finally ended the tour at a modest bedroom tucked upstairs, I barely let her finish her lazy hand-wave at the bed before I spun toward Madoka, clutching his sleeve dramatically.

"Can't I just live on my own for now?" I whined, yanking at his jacket. "Please? Please, please, please? I can take care of myself. I'll be good. I'll do chores. I'll cook—well, I'll try to cook. I can't stay here! It's creepy! You’re creepy!"

He peeled my hands off him like I was a particularly annoying piece of tape.

"No."

"But—"

"No," he repeated flatly, and then added, almost with relish, "You’re lucky you're not staying in the haunted wing."

I gasped.

Hoffman snorted a laugh, not even bothering to hide it as she sauntered off down the hall, humming to herself.

I stared after her, wide-eyed.

Was that a joke?

Was it not?

I hated this.

I hated Madoka.

I hated this weird house and all its weird rules and weird butlers.

And most of all, I hated that no one was taking me seriously.

Later, after they'd both abandoned me to my sad little room, I sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, hugging my knees to my chest.

The sun was setting outside the narrow window, casting long orange shadows across the floor. The wood creaked under the weight of nothing. Distant footsteps echoed somewhere down the hall — or maybe above me — but they never got closer.

It was cold.

It was too quiet.

It smelled like dust and lemon cleaner.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and glared at the closed door.

This is fine, I told myself. I’m fine. I’m not scared.

Another distant creak.

I swallowed.

Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard on Madoka.

Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled.

Maybe he had a good reason to leave me here.

Or maybe—

Maybe he really was going to abandon me.

Just shove me off onto Hoffman like some unwanted suitcase and drive back home without even looking back.

My throat tightened. I pressed my forehead to my knees.

I hated it here.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted to go back.

To Osaka.

To before.

To a time when someone would have laughed at me and ruffled my hair and said, "Don't be stupid. I would never leave you."

I pressed my fists against my eyes until the burning behind them went away.

Another creak, closer this time.

A draft brushed my ankles.

I didn't move.

I really hated it here.

I curled tighter, as if I could shrink away from the silence that had wrapped itself around me. The air felt thick, heavy, like it was pressing against me from all sides. It wasn’t even the cold that chilled me. It was the stillness, the way everything was too quiet... like the world outside had forgotten to exist, leaving only the dark, oppressive silence to loom.

Madoka.

Had he really left me here? Left me with this... this?

A knot tightened in my stomach. Why did I even think this would be okay?

I pulled my knees up closer, wrapping my arms around them until my fingertips dug into the fabric of my jacket. The smell of the old room, the dust mixing with the faint trace of lemon cleaner, started to make me feel dizzy. My thoughts spun, and every time I tried to calm them, they came back to the same question: What now?

What about Finley? Would she miss me? Would she remember me when I was gone? Would she forget me the moment I wasn’t there to annoy her, to sit with her and color in between her lines?

I bit down on my lip, the tears threatening to well up. But no. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t give in.

And Renée…

Well. She didn’t think much of anything, so I didn’t think she would miss me either.

It was just me here now. Alone.

I pulled the blanket tighter over my shoulders and pressed my face into the cold fabric of the pillow. There, in the dark, with nothing but my thoughts, I tried to drown out the gnawing ache in my chest.

That’s when it came.

The sound.

A sharp buzzing, cutting through the stillness of the room.

It made my heart leap in my chest, and I shot up, eyes wide, staring at the bedside table where the old phone lay — an ancient, retro landline. Its plastic body was yellowed with age, and the coiled cord lay twisted in a lazy, messy heap. It buzzed again. The vibration was low, but the sound, that insistent buzzing, seemed to crawl through the air like a living thing.

I stared at it. The phone. The landline. How was it buzzing? Who was calling me on this thing?

My mind raced. No one had been in here, and I was certain Madoka hadn’t set it up. This phone wasn’t even plugged in the right way, with cords hanging loose. But still, the sound... It was growing louder. More frantic. Almost… urgent.

Who could it be?

A glance at the door — locked.

The window — shut.

No one else had been in here. There was no reason for the phone to ring.

I reached out with shaking fingers, almost afraid to touch it. My hand hovered above the phone for a moment, and the buzzing grew louder, more insistent, as if urging me to pick it up, to answer it.

But what if it wasn’t a call? What if it was something else? Something worse? Something from another time, another place? Something Madoka didn’t want me to see?

I let out a shaky breath, hands trembling as they brushed against the cold plastic. The moment my fingers touched the receiver, the buzzing stopped abruptly, and the room seemed to exhale, the air suddenly feeling too still.

I blinked.

Nothing. No dial tone. No voice. No message. Just silence.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, feeling a wave of frustration and confusion crash over me. What the hell was that?

But even as I set the receiver back down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. That something in this room was now... different. I glanced around again, unease creeping in, curling around me like a cold fog. My pulse raced.

My mind wasn’t calm anymore.

I couldn't push the thought away. Was I trapped here?

The room was too quiet. Too still.

And then, as if it had always been there, a single whisper slid across my mind: It’s never been this quiet. Has it?

The silence in the room was oppressive, suffocating. It felt like everything was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Then it came again.

The sharp, jarring sound of the retro phone buzzing. The vibration rippled through the air, cutting through the quiet like a knife. The phone. The same old, yellowed plastic relic from another time, now strangely purple, buzzing with an urgency that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Not again.

I didn’t want to touch it. I really didn’t. My heart was pounding, thudding against my chest like it was trying to break free. But the buzzing… it wouldn’t stop. It grew louder, more insistent. Like it was calling out to me.

I didn’t move at first. I just stared at it, frozen, trying to convince myself to ignore it. Maybe it was a mistake, just an old glitch, something that had been lying dormant for years, waiting to scare me.

But no. It kept ringing.

Why wouldn’t it stop?

I swallowed hard, the knot in my throat making it impossible to think straight. My hands trembled as I finally, reluctantly reached for it. The plastic felt cold against my fingers, as if it had been frozen in time. I hesitated for just a second before lifting the receiver to my ear, bracing myself for whatever was on the other side.

I waited.

No one spoke.

I couldn’t hear anything at first, just the muffled sound of static, the air between us thick and heavy. My breath caught in my throat, and I almost expected the call to end, to cut off like before.

But then…

A voice.

Soft at first, barely a whisper.

"...Ayaki.”

My body froze. The sound of my name sent a shiver through my spine, icy and unnerving. I wanted to pull away. To slam the phone down, to pretend this wasn’t happening.

But I couldn’t.

“A... Ayaki,” the voice repeated. It wasn’t a whisper this time. It was low, slow, almost deliberate.

“Who is this?” I managed to force out, my voice shaking. Who the hell is this?

There was a pause. Long enough to make my heart race even faster.

Then, just before the silence could choke me completely, the voice spoke again.

“Do you remember me, Ayaki?”

A cold rush of realization flooded through me, and I felt my stomach drop. The voice was familiar. Too familiar. Like something I should’ve recognized but hadn’t wanted to. It was buried under layers of time and silence.

“Who are you?” My voice was barely a whisper now, my grip tightening around the receiver, as if that could keep me grounded. As if the phone could save me from whatever this was.

The voice on the other end didn’t answer immediately. Instead, there was a quiet, unsettling laugh. Then, a cold, mocking tone.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

I felt a sickening chill crawl up my spine. The words seemed to linger in the air, heavier than the silence that had come before. Something was wrong. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t some mistake.

I was being watched.

The voice continued, each word sharper than the last.

“You were always so quick to forget, Ayaki. Too busy running from the past. You should’ve stayed in the dark where you belong.”

I gripped the phone tighter, trying to force myself to speak, but my throat was dry, frozen in fear. My mind spun, my thoughts scattered. The voice had an edge to it now, like it knew something I didn’t.

I could barely breathe.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the voice stopped.

I waited. My heart pounded in my chest. The phone in my hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

But there was no sound. No reply. The line was dead.

I lowered the receiver slowly, my hands shaking. What the hell had just happened? What did that voice want with me?

I couldn’t even process the words.

But one thing was certain.

Whatever that was, it wasn’t over.

I barely had time to register what had just happened before it came again.

The phone, the same purple retro phone, ringing once more.

I froze, but this time—this time—there was no dread. No eerie static creeping in to choke the air. It was a different kind of ring. Familiar. But not in the way it should’ve been.

I didn’t hesitate this time.

I picked up the receiver quickly, almost too quickly, as if I could outrun the feeling that had gripped me. The first thing that hit me was the voice. Warm. Familiar. It was the kind of voice you can’t mistake, the kind that slices right through the noise of everything else.

“Oi, Aya-tan. What took you so long?"

My breath hitched, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Osaka’s voice.

I could feel the tears welling up before I even realized it. My fingers tightened around the phone, and the words spilled out before I could stop them. “I— I missed you. I missed you so much, Osaka-nii.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then, a soft, almost teasing laugh. The sound of it tore through me like a jagged blade, mixing with the pain I hadn’t even realized I was holding onto.

“Yeah, yeah. I missed you too, brat.”

I could hear him now, shifting around on the other side. His voice was lower, but not cold. Not like before. There was a warmth to it, and I couldn't help but imagine what he looked like—how he always did, how I remembered him, the way he'd stand, the tilt of his head, the mischievous grin.

And then he said it, just like he always did.

“I’m coming home soon. Just wait a little longer. I’ll be there.”

A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to say so much. I wanted to scream at him, demand he never leave again. But the words felt too big to fit in the tiny space between my chest and my throat.

"I love you—"

And then, just like that, the line went silent. No static. No more voice. No more Osaka and I. Just the faint buzzing of the dead line in my ear.

I blinked, trying to catch my breath, my hands shaking. Was it real? Was I imagining it? I wanted to pick up the receiver again, to hear his voice once more, to know for sure.

But before I could do anything, the door to the room suddenly creaked open, and I didn’t even have time to react before Madoka appeared in the doorway.

His eyes landed on me, and I could feel his gaze freeze as he took in the scene: me, sitting on the floor, the purple phone still pressed to my ear, my hand trembling with the weight of it.

“What the hell are you—”

I didn’t hear the rest. I couldn’t.

I looked up at him, and my chest caved in. My breathing hitched as the tears I’d been holding back finally started to spill, my heart racing with the same fear and confusion that had torn through me just moments before.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t explain.

I just sat there, shaking. Holding the phone. 

Holding onto the last thread of a conversation I wasn’t sure was even real.

Madoka’s voice barely registered in the haze of confusion I was drowning in. His footsteps were a distant echo, but they didn't quite reach me. I was still staring at the phone, clutching it like it could somehow bring Osaka back.

My vision blurred as the weight of my thoughts pressed down on me, and just as it did, the world around me faded away—replaced by a memory, so vivid it hurt.

It was a cold morning, the kind that sunk deep into your bones even after you stepped inside the warmth of the train station. Osaka had always been there for me in a way no one else had—like he could read the quiet spaces between my words. I remember the way he’d drag me through the crowds, laughing when I stumbled behind. His hand wrapped around mine, warm and firm, guiding me through the sea of people as the world seemed to blur, becoming nothing more than flashes of color and sound.

The train was coming. We were running late, but Osaka always had time to stop.

“Catch up, Ayaki!” he had called back, always teasing, always knowing I'd never let go of his hand.

And I never did. Not until we got to the platform. Not until the train had arrived. I can still hear the screeching sound of the brakes, feel the vibrations underfoot.

It was like every part of me screamed to stay. To not let go. But in that instant, as I stood next to him, I felt it. That sudden, crushing emptiness, as though the distance between us had grown impossibly wide, even though he was right there beside me. I remember looking up at him, searching for something in his face—something that would tell me we were still the same. Still that pair of siblings who had made everything feel safe.

The train doors slid open with a mechanical hiss.

He squeezed my hand once, tightly, before letting go.

“Take care of yourself, Aya-tan,” he said with a smile, his voice strangely quiet for once.

I hadn’t understood it then. But I understood it now.

And just like that, I was alone.

The doors closed with a soft thud, and he was gone. The train whisked him away, leaving me standing there, frozen, my heart beating in a strange rhythm that I couldn't quite place. The whole world — my whole world would go with him, and he left.

I thought I’d never see him again. Not like that. Not in the same way.

But now—now it was like he was here, but not here. His voice on the other side of the phone. The cold, distant feeling that still lingered like his absence never left.

I was still kneeling on the floor, the phone gripped tightly in my hands, my fingers trembling against the plastic.

The ringing in my ears from the phone had faded, but the sound of Osaka’s voice still echoed in my chest. It didn’t feel like a memory anymore. It felt too real. Too close.

Madoka’s heavy footsteps reached me before his voice did. “Ayaki...?”

I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. His presence—always so big, so overwhelming—felt suffocating now. Every corner of the room was closing in on me.

“Ayaki?” His voice was firmer this time, his usual calm now tinged with concern, or maybe impatience.

I blinked, trying to shake the fog in my mind, but the phantom of Osaka’s voice clung to me like a shadow. I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to face the reality that had just slipped through my fingers.

“Are you okay?” Madoka’s voice softened, a fraction of worry slipping through his mask of irritation.

I felt the weight of his gaze before I heard his footsteps approach. He crouched down in front of me, his eyes flicking to the phone in my hand. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me—his expression unreadable. But I knew what he was thinking: was I losing it? Had I finally cracked under the pressure of this new life?

I wasn’t sure myself.

My voice barely made it past my lips. “It was... Osaka. I heard him. I heard him again. He... he said he was coming home.”

Madoka didn’t move, not for a moment. His eyes lingered on me, then he glanced down at the phone with a quiet sigh.

“Osaka’s not coming back,” he said quietly, his voice firm, but there was a trace of something else in it. Guilt? Regret? I couldn’t tell. “You know that, right?”

I swallowed hard, nodding, though it didn’t feel like I could believe it. Not when everything—everything—about the moment had felt so real. The tone of his voice, the way he laughed, the way he had always laughed.

Was I imagining it? Had I imagined him for all this time?

My grip tightened on the phone, knuckles white, as I pushed myself upright. The room spun for a second, but I steadied myself against the bedpost. I didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to hear his voice. His words felt hollow, like something distant. Something that wasn’t meant for me.

Madoka was still watching me. “You should rest. It’s been a long day.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him no, to say that I couldn’t rest with this gnawing feeling in my chest, but I stopped myself. There was no point. He didn’t understand. No one did.

Instead, I walked past him, my fingers brushing the doorframe. I heard him mutter something under his breath, but I didn’t turn around.

The air felt thick with silence. I didn’t know how to get out of it.

The hallway stretched ahead, long and silent, each step echoing against the stone walls of Hoffman’s estate. I walked without thinking, my mind a swirl of half-formed thoughts. The air here was heavy with unfamiliarity, a stark contrast to the humid warmth of the town I had known. My steps were slow, as though I were dragging the weight of my own memories behind me.

A festival. Our festival. It had been only a few months ago then, but it felt like a lifetime. I was newly eighteen, still too young to understand the sharp pangs of adulthood. I could still remember the way the lights had dazzled and flickered in the evening air, the chatter of neighbors mixing with the music, their laughter full of life.

Osaka had been beside me, of course—his stiff posture and distant gaze making him seem as out of place as a shadow in the bright sun. He didn’t belong there, not in the same way I did. The town had changed since we left, but it hadn’t changed him. Too many eyes, too many whispered words behind our backs. I could feel them even now, the weight of their stares pressing into my skin.

I waved to my friends from a distance, not wanting to draw attention to Osaka. He shifted uncomfortably beside me, his gaze shifting between the crowd and the ground.

“Let’s go,” I had said, trying to sound casual, but there was an edge to my voice. I could feel it—a deep, unspoken tension between us.

His eyes flickered to me, then quickly away. He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word, but I could see it in his face. That hesitation, the way his hand twitched as if he wanted to pull away from mine. And for a moment, I wondered if he had ever really wanted to hold my hand, or if he had just done it because it was expected of him.

The world around us felt too loud, too bright. The music, the laughter, the calls of vendors selling their wares—it all blended into something garbled, chaotic. I reached for his hand again, but his fingers pulled back, just enough that I barely touched him.

I didn’t pull away, though. Not immediately. I just stood there, caught between the past and the present, my hand frozen in mid-air.

You didn’t dare, because we weren’t children anymore.

Although you loved going to bed with me. You didn’t want anything — nothing more.

What was left now? What was left between us, if not the silence that stretched between every word we didn’t say? I had reached out to him, but he had pulled away, too quietly for me to hear the real reason. Had it been too much? Too soon? Had he never felt the same?

He didn’t see in me what I saw on him.

Maybe he didn’t see anything at all.

I didn’t want to think about it.

I continued down the hall, my footsteps almost lost in the vastness of the mansion. The walls seemed to close in on me as I walked, and for a moment, the weight of it all—the absence of Osaka, the confusion of my own heart—felt unbearable. The idea of being here, in this strange place, felt as distant and uncomfortable as that festival. Nothing about it was right. Not here. Not now.

I could still see his face, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he never fully looked at me. A part of me had known it wasn’t just about the crowd or the town. It was about us. It was always about us, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it. Not then. Not now.

I shook my head, my thoughts pulling me back to the present. I was just thinking too much.

But I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering back to a better time—one where I wasn't drowning in confusion or wondering why I was even here. Two or three years ago we were in Madoka’s family villa, and for once, I had felt the warmth of something close to normalcy.

The soft creak of tatami mats underfoot, the dim light filtering through paper screens. It was quiet. Too quiet. Except for the gentle, steady sound of Finley’s soft breathing in the next room. She was fast asleep, curled up like a little ball, her small body lost beneath the weight of a thick blanket. Madoka had let us stay there while he worked on some city stuff. He trusted us to keep an eye on Finley, but honestly, I think he just wanted a break from the house.

I remember the smell of the tatami mats, how they seemed to wrap themselves around you with an old warmth. There was a futon spread out in the middle of the room, and I lay there, my body sinking into the comfort of the thin mattress. It wasn’t fancy, but it was enough. And then there was Osaka, sprawled on the hammock Madoka had given him. It wasn’t his; it was something he had bought for Renée, but for some reason, he’d insisted it go to Osaka. He’d said it would look better hanging in his room. I didn’t question it.

Osaka lay on his stomach, his body twisted slightly so his head rested on his hands as he looked down at me. His gaze was steady, almost unreadable, but I knew he was just as lost in thought as I was.

“Comfy?” he asked quietly, his voice low, as though not wanting to disturb the calm.

“Very,” I murmured, my eyes half-lidded as I looked up at him. His hair was messy, falling around his face like he hadn’t bothered to fix it for the night. The way he tilted his head to the side as he studied me made my heart skip.

There was something so tender in his gaze—something that wasn’t there anymore, something we couldn’t bring back.

“You should try the hammock,” he said, though I could tell it wasn’t really an invitation—it was a way to shift his position, a way to close the space between us. He stretched out a hand toward me, an offering of warmth that felt oddly intimate.

“I’m fine here,” I replied, shifting just slightly so that I was facing him, my hands tucked beneath my head.

There was silence between us for a moment, save for the quiet sounds of the house settling around us, the low murmur of Finley in the other room. I let the moment linger before turning my gaze back to Osaka. He wasn’t looking at me in the same way anymore—not with the carefree openness of the past. There was something more measured now, something distant.

“You know,” he said after a long beat, his voice soft, almost wistful. “I never thought we’d end up here.” He gave a little laugh, but it wasn’t a happy one.

“Here? You mean in this villa?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure if that’s what he meant.

“No,” he said, shaking his head lightly, eyes now distant. “I mean... with all of this. Us. Life.”

It stung. It always did, talking about where we were and where we used to be. He hadn’t really answered, but then again, I wasn’t sure if I had either.

Instead, he dropped his head to the side, propping it up on his arm as he looked at me again, his expression softening, though just barely. There was a quiet intimacy in the way his eyes softened, just as there always had been.

“Do you think we’ve changed?” His voice was barely a whisper, like he was afraid of the answer.

I didn’t respond right away, unsure of what to say. It was so complicated, so much more complicated than either of us wanted to admit. I didn’t want to tell him the truth, that I missed the days before we started falling apart, that everything felt so much simpler back then, before all of it became heavy.

I could only nod slowly. “I think... we have.”

A pause. His expression darkened ever so slightly, but there was no bitterness. Just a kind of recognition.

“I don’t want things to change anymore,” he murmured, as if talking to himself.

But change had already happened. It was inevitable.

The silence stretched out longer, each of us in our own world, yet bound by the same space. And there, under the quiet hum of the night, I realized how badly I wanted things to go back to the way they were. But they wouldn’t. I knew that. We both did.

Osaka reached up, fingers grazing the hammock’s edge, as if reaching for something unspoken. Maybe for the closeness we used to share. Maybe for something else entirely.

I felt the distance growing between us, and yet—if I closed my eyes—I could almost forget. I could almost pretend that things were just as simple as they used to be.

And then, like a fleeting thought, I heard him chuckle softly to himself, the sound rich and deep, and I couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

"I love you, Aya-tan," he said quietly, though the words weren’t exactly romantic. They were just... us. A moment of simple affection that had always existed between us, unspoken but understood.

I wasn’t sure if it was the truth or if it was just a habit, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything back.

Instead, I just closed my eyes and let the moment wash over me. One last taste of something I’d never be able to return to.

The silence stretched between us, neither of us saying much after that. I could feel the shift in the air, how thick it had become. It wasn't just the quiet of the room; it was the weight of everything unsaid between us, things neither of us had the courage to voice aloud. Osaka’s words, "I love you, Aya-tan," still lingered in the air, but they felt more like a familiar refrain than anything else—something we both clung to out of habit, not because we truly understood what it meant anymore.

His hand, resting lightly on the hammock’s edge, seemed to distance us even further. It wasn’t like the touch I remembered—so open, so effortless. Now, it felt like he was holding himself back, like he was trying to find something in the air between us, but unsure of what to reach for.

I stared up at the ceiling, watching the faint light filtering through the paper screens, a pale moon that didn’t seem to care about what was happening below. It was the kind of night that felt like a limbo. Too many things were left unsaid, and I could feel the space between us growing.

I wondered, as I often did, what had happened to us. When did we become so... distant? What changed? Maybe everything, or maybe nothing at all. It was hard to say.

I turned my head to glance at him, trying to catch some glimpse of the person I used to know—the one who would hold my hand without hesitation, the one who would laugh at the silliest things, the one who used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered. But that version of Osaka seemed so far away now, like a ghost that was slipping through my fingers the more I tried to hold on.

His gaze met mine, but it wasn’t the same. 

His eyes had that flicker of something—something I couldn’t quite place—but it wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t the reassurance I’d been looking for. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and I couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t feel the same anymore or because he was trying to hide it. Maybe both.

“I guess we’re not kids anymore, huh?” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

He laughed softly, though it wasn’t full, more like a sigh. “No, we’re not. Too much time passed, I guess.”

There was nothing more to say after that. The words felt hollow between us, like they were being swallowed up by the space we couldn’t seem to bridge. I didn’t know if I was asking the right question. And I wasn’t sure if I was ready to hear the answer. But what else was there to do?

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the ache that had begun to settle deep in my chest. It wasn’t just the silence—it was everything that had changed, everything I couldn’t understand. My mind drifted to the memory of how things used to be, how we used to be. But that felt like a dream now, something I couldn't reach anymore.

Osaka shifted, his body moving silently against the tatami mat as he carefully slipped off the hammock. The creak of the fabric echoed in the quiet room, a soft, almost imperceptible sound that felt too loud in the silence we shared. I watched him move, but I didn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say, or if I was even ready to say it.

He knelt beside me on the futon, the distance between us now just a breath, but it felt like miles. His fingers brushed the edge of my pillow, and I almost flinched, unsure if it was because I still wanted him close or because everything inside me screamed to pull away. He hesitated, as though waiting for something—an invitation, maybe, or permission I wasn’t sure I could give.

The room seemed to close in around us. His presence was both comforting and painful, like being pulled toward something you know will break you, but you can’t stop it. His warmth was right there, just out of reach.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, as if afraid to break the stillness of the room.

I wanted to say something back—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. I didn’t trust my own voice in that moment. The truth felt too heavy, too sharp to speak aloud. Instead, I let my gaze linger on him, studying his face. I wanted to remember every detail—the faint lines that had started to mark his skin, the way his eyes held a tiredness I didn’t want to acknowledge.

He exhaled slowly, as though the weight of what we’d both been carrying was finally catching up to him. “I don’t know where we’re going, Ayaki,” he admitted, his voice barely audible in the dim light. “But I know I don’t want to lose you.”

For a moment, I let myself believe him. I wanted to. But there was something in the way he said it, the way he sounded like he was telling me something he wasn’t sure he believed himself. I swallowed hard, my throat tight.

“Do you think we can fix this?” I asked, barely able to hear my own words. I could barely even trust them. Did I believe we could fix this?

Osaka looked down at his hands, his fingers flexing against the fabric of the futon. “I don’t know. I wish I had an answer for you.”

There was a brief silence, and then, almost as if it was something instinctive, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from my face. The touch was gentle, familiar, but it didn’t make my heart race like it used to. It only made the ache in my chest grow.

“Maybe... maybe we’re not supposed to fix everything,” he murmured, as if he were thinking aloud. “Maybe we just need to learn how to live with it. With the mess.”

His words lingered in the air, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I felt a tear slip down my cheek. I didn’t want to cry, but it felt like there was no other way to release the pressure that had been building up inside me.

He shifted closer, laying beside me on the futon, not quite touching but close enough for me to feel his breath. I turned my head, glancing at him through the dim light.

“I don’t know if I can handle it anymore, Osaka,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I don’t know if I can keep pretending everything’s okay.”

His hand found mine, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t pull away. He squeezed it gently, the warmth of his touch grounding me. “You don’t have to pretend,” he said softly. “Not with me.”

I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes. The pain was still there, gnawing at the edges of everything, but in that moment, with his hand in mine, I almost convinced myself that it might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance.

My mind drifted back, and suddenly I was twelve again. It was a few years before all of that—the awkwardness, the strained silence, the undeniable distance between us. But that day... that day felt like the beginning of everything that’s still not fully healed.

I remembered the violin. The only thing left of his mother, the one thing he cherished and protected like it was the only real piece of his history. The one thing that had never been touched by anyone but him. And then it shattered. I didn’t mean to—it was just... an accident, but the way he looked at me afterward, as if the world had collapsed around us, was burned into my mind.

I stiffened, even as he laid beside me, my face against his chest and my body rigid under the weight of the memory. I swore I felt the air grow colder as his voice cut through my thoughts, a low murmur, like he was reading my thoughts aloud.

"I didn’t like being mad at you back then," Osaka’s voice came, soft but with an edge, as if he had been waiting to say that for years.

I didn’t respond immediately. Instead, my heart pounded in my chest, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. He continued, unaware—or maybe painfully aware—of the damage his words were doing.

"You don't know what it felt like," Osaka said, frustration creeping in, a rare vulnerability in his tone. "You just... you don’t get it. I was already holding on by a thread, and then you—" His voice broke for a moment, as if the words hurt him as much as they hurt me.

I didn’t want to hear it. I couldn’t. It was just a mistake. But I didn’t say anything. I never did when he talked like that, when he got like that. I just stayed still, pretending to not care, pretending his words didn’t hurt.

But they did. God, they did.

I couldn't breathe. I kept silent, gripping the fabric of my thin blanket as his words flood over me. I wanted to tell him that I was holding on by a thread too. That I had been suffocating under the weight of his anger, the way his hands had held my wrists just a little too tight, his eyes so sharp and cutting, and his voice... so unforgiving.

But the words got caught in my throat. I couldn’t speak because I was scared of what he might say, scared of how far it would go if I opened up. So I laid there, pretending to be still, to be unaffected. But inside, everything was shaking.

He was still talking, but then, his words were harsher, like he was finally letting it all out.

“You never understood how much that hurt, did you? You broke the only thing I had left of her... of my mother. I was angry. I was furious, and I—” He swallowed thickly, a soft exhale of breath escaping him.

I could feel the tears behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Instead, I turned my body away, staring at the floor, willing the lump in my throat to go away. I didn’t want him to see me cry. I never wanted him to see how much his words had hurt me.

Instead, I spoke, my voice barely a whisper. “I suffered too, you know.”

The words hung in the air, a confession that had been buried for years. I remembered how his hands felt on my wrists—how he held me so tight that I thought he might break me. How he yelled at me like I was the one who had taken everything from him. I had felt small, like I was the one who had done something wrong, even though I never meant to break the violin. I never meant to break him.

For a long moment, there was nothing. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even move. It was like the air in the room had gone still, and I felt the coldness of the silence pressing in on me.

Finally, he shifted, and I felt his hand on mine. The touch was light, tentative. It was almost like an apology, but it didn’t fix anything. Not really. It didn’t undo the hurt. It didn’t make everything okay.

And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do with all the things we had left unsaid, with all the things we could never take back. The cracks between us were still there, and no matter how close we got, no matter how much we touched, I don’t think they will ever fully heal.

His voice cut through the silence, low and almost absentminded.

“Do you remember why Dad left?”

I stiffened.

Why now?

What did it have to do with anything?

For a moment, the hallway tilted sideways, and I had to grab onto the wall, palm flat against the cold surface to keep from collapsing. My breathing stuttered. I was barely aware that I was stumbling forward, pushing myself along the endless stretch of Hoffman’s estate, trying—desperately—to outrun the memory that was suddenly dragging me under like an undertow.

“You know he went to prison, right?” Osaka said, soft, almost gentle, as if he was telling me something I had already known for a long time but refused to hear.

I slammed my shoulder against the nearest doorframe. No time to cry. No time to think. I forced myself forward, the glossy floors stretching endlessly ahead of me, the distant chandeliers spinning overhead. Somewhere, I found a door, shoved it open, and stumbled into the bathroom. The cold marble bit through my socks.

I gripped the sink, head bowed, knuckles white.

I had to push through it. I had to.

Confront it.

And so I did.

It was winter again in my head. The sky outside was gray, the kind of gray that squeezed your chest and made the air feel heavier. I was little. Twelve years old. I could barely reach the pedals of the battered piano tucked away in the corner of the old church. My fingers were stiff from the cold, but Naoki sat beside me, laughing as he corrected my posture.

Naoki.

Osaka never liked him.

Older. Reckless. Too many ideas in his head and not enough fear in his heart.

I remembered the time Osaka caught him slipping a crumpled pack of cigarettes into my jacket pocket while we sat on the porch, giggling over stupid jokes. The way Osaka had dragged me inside, furious, his hands shaking. He hadn’t yelled then—no, it was worse. It was the disappointment, the way he couldn’t even look at me.

Naoki’s father was the priest of the old church. The one that had been rotting away at the edge of town until he showed up with his too-sad eyes and his widower’s smile.

My parents were too busy working.

Grandma stuck to her Shinto prayers.

I was lonely. Curious.

The first time I snuck into the church, it felt like stepping into another world—a warm, golden place filled with something I couldn’t name. I kept going back. I wanted to learn. I wanted to feel something.

Naoki taught me piano there. Smuggled candy into my coat pockets. Told me stories about angels and saints.

I think I loved him, a little. Not in the way I loved Osaka, but in the way lonely children love anyone who notices them.

But before the memory could pull me any deeper—before the snow outside the church doors turned red and ugly and wrong—

I was yanked back.

Back to the villa.

Back to the low, golden light and the creak of the hammock swaying slightly.

Osaka’s voice broke the fragile stillness.

"Can I confess something to you, Aya-tan?"

Chapter Text

In the Halls of Winter

Old wounds have a way of finding you, no matter where you run.

If I closed my eyes too long, he was there—whispering, watching, waiting, his face a perfect mask of what I once loved.

The cold tiles pressed against my knees. My palms were slick with sweat, gripping the porcelain edge of the sink. I could still taste acid in my throat. The estate was quiet—too quiet. It felt like it was holding its breath with me.

I rinsed my mouth. The faucet squeaked, water hissing like static in my ears. I didn’t dare look up at the mirror. I already knew what I’d see.

Pushing myself up, I stumbled into the hallway. My shoulder brushed against the faded wallpaper. Somewhere behind me, his voice still lingered like smoke:

“Can I confess something to you, Aya-tan?”

I didn’t answer. Not yet.

The corridor stretched ahead like a wound, long and trembling. Light filtered in through the windows—thin, wintery, almost blue. My socks dragged with each step. The floor creaked under me like it remembered.

And then I heard it: a single piano note.

Soft. Wrong.

Real.

My breath caught in my chest. I knew that melody. My knees buckled slightly, and I reached for the wall. Everything around me tilted—bent. I blinked hard.

The hallway fell away.

I was twelve years old and the church was freezing. That kind of damp cold that seeped through my coat and into my bones. Dust swirled in the colored light from the stained glass, and I sat at the piano with Naoki next to me, his fingers guiding mine with slow patience.

He smiled when I hit the right note—too close. The bench creaked under our weight. I could feel his breath when he leaned in to whisper corrections, low and flat like the keys we played.

Osaka didn’t like him. I never really knew why.

Now I think I do.

The door creaked open behind us, heavy and slow.

I looked up.

And there he was—Osaka, standing just past the threshold, still in his uniform, hair a little wet from the snow outside. His eyes weren’t on Naoki. They were on me. Like I’d done something wrong. Like I’d forgotten something important.

But then—

I was laughing.

Not in the church anymore.

I was ten and barefoot in the garden, my fingers sticky with syrup from the dango we’d stolen off Obaa-chan's altar tray. Osaka was chasing me, yelling half-heartedly about curses and angry spirits. The sun was warm. My stomach hurt from laughing so hard. He caught me by the waist, spun me around until we fell back into the grass.

"Don’t eat altar food, brat.”

"You did it first!”

My mouth opened to throw back a joke—but the taste changed.

It was ash now. Dust and cold air.

The piano again. Naoki leaning too close. His fingers brushing mine.

I blinked.

I was in the old hallway again. The one in the estate. The one I’d just left.

The light outside had changed—sharper, more gray. The hallway extended further now. Longer than it should be.

“Aya-tan,” Osaka said behind me again, but his voice was younger this time. Tired. Like the boy he used to be.

“Do you remember why Dad left?”

I turned to answer—

And suddenly I was eight. Sitting at the train station, legs swinging, clutching Osaka’s scarf in both hands. He was silent beside me, headphones over his ears. I remember how tightly he held my hand that day. I remember how Mom was crying into the phone, pacing in circles. I remember not knowing why we were there.

I still don’t know why we were there.

My stomach churned. My palms were sweating. Something inside me begged me to stop. To not dig further.

But I couldn’t. The memories were pushing through me now. They didn’t care if I was ready.

I was talking again.

Walking.

The street felt familiar. I knew this turn. I knew this air.

“—and then she actually said that in front of everyone, can you believe it? I almost wanted to die on the spot—oh, and did I tell you about the science fair? I got third, but only because Hayato bribed the teacher with candy—anyway, my skirt ripped in gym class, and it was so embarrassing—”

Osaka chuckled softly. The kind of sound that barely touched his eyes.

He hadn’t said much since picking me up. He looked different—his shirt was nicer, his shoulders broader. There were rings under his eyes I didn’t remember seeing before. The streetlight caught the angle of his jaw in a way that made him look older than he should’ve. Not grown—just worn.

“You okay?” I asked, tugging on his sleeve like a little kid again. “You’re being weird.”

He smiled at that. Sort of.

“I’m listening,” he said.

But he wasn’t.

His mind was walking somewhere else.

Still, I kept talking. I couldn’t help it. It was the first time he’d come home in months. And I’d missed him like hell. Even if he didn’t really answer, even if his steps felt a little too heavy, even if his hand flinched just slightly when I looped my arm through his.

And then we turned the corner.

A car passed. The sun was falling behind the old buildings, soft and cold.

That’s when I saw his shoulders tense.

I felt it in the pit of my stomach—the shift. The weight in the air.

He said nothing, but his eyes followed something across the street. And for a second, his whole face changed.

Like he’d seen a ghost.

And then everything… stilled.

There were lights—blue, red, spinning quietly like a lighthouse in the fog, flashing in silent rhythm against the late afternoon haze. It painted the whole block in strange colors. Cold colors. Like the world had been drained of all warmth and replaced with sirens that didn’t scream, only whispered.

There were police cars—two, maybe three. An unmarked vehicle parked half on the curb. A woman in uniform speaking into a radio, her face lit up in pulses of electric red. Yellow tape had already been drawn across the gate.

Our gate.

The house stood in its usual place, but suddenly it felt unfamiliar. Hollow. I could see the tips of the old trees leaning over the roof like nervous eavesdroppers. The front door was ajar. The shape of someone I didn’t recognize moved inside.

I blinked.

Everything felt too far away and too close at once.

I felt something cold inside me. A slow, sinking cold, like the kind that creeps in through the soles of your shoes during winter, unnoticed until your toes are numb and aching. I remember gripping Osaka’s sleeve again, the same way I had when I was smaller, when I had nightmares and he was the only thing that made the dark feel less alive.

“Osaka?” I asked. But my voice cracked.

He didn’t answer.

His face was pale. Eyes locked onto the scene like he was trying to will it away.

I looked up at him, waiting for him to say something, to tell me it was a mistake, that maybe someone else lived there now. That maybe we’d gotten turned around, and this wasn’t our street, wasn’t our house, wasn’t our life.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He let out a long breath and started walking again.

And I followed, even though my legs didn’t want to move.

The closer we got, the more the buzzing in my head grew. I started noticing little things—the broken plant pot near the step, my father’s coat draped over the porch railing like he’d tossed it there without thinking, the muddy tracks across the tiled floor just past the door.

I didn’t see my mother.

I didn’t see grandma.

I saw a man I didn’t recognize.

He stood a few paces from the gate, speaking to one of the officers in a low voice. He wasn’t in uniform—his clothes were plain, beige coat half-buttoned, black slacks, polished shoes too clean for this town. His face was unreadable. Pale. Like he hadn’t slept in days. He looked like he didn’t belong there, and yet he stood with the confidence of someone who had already been told everything.

He was holding a notebook.

He glanced at me, briefly, and I flinched. Not because his eyes were cold—but because they were soft.

Too soft.

Like someone watching a tragedy he already knew the ending to.

I remember thinking: He knows something about my family that I don’t. 

I remember hating him for it.

I blinked.

The sirens were gone

So was the street, the car, the weight in my limbs.

Instead, I was ten again.

The kitchen smelled like miso and burnt rice.

The curtains danced with the breeze. I was sitting at the table, feet swinging, the hem of my uniform wrinkled under me. I remember—I had spilled juice earlier that day and tried to scrub it with a towel before Osaka noticed.

He was at the sink.

Back turned.

Washing the dishes like he always did when he was home.

The sun caught the tips of his hair, turning the black soft and almost blue.

He hummed something under his breath. I never knew the song, but I always remembered the sound of it—low, steady. Almost like a lullaby. It made me want to sleep. Or cry.

"Osaka," I said, mouth full of rice.

He didn't turn around.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think Dad will come to my recital?"

There was a pause. A long one.

Long enough for the faucet to drip three, four times.

"...Dunno," he said finally. Voice light. Almost like a joke. 

"But I will."

The warmth in my chest was immediate.

That strange, fluttery hope.

Even if it was a lie. Even if I’d known he’d have work again, or get called out of town. He always said it like he meant it. Like he wanted to believe it himself.

But then—

The kitchen fractured.

Split like glass.

And I was back—thirteen again and in the living room. It had been only a few days since we were told we’d be staying here “for a while.” No explanations. No apologies. Just the forced smiles of our parents, and the worn-out look behind Osaka’s eyes.

The television's blue light flickered across the walls. The air was still, like even the house was holding its breath.

Osaka stood just behind me, arms crossed. Our grandmother clutched the hem of her apron with white knuckles.

The screen showed a still photo—an old one. A man in ceremonial robes, smiling at the camera, a gentle look in his eyes.

Father Hoshino.

Victim of brutal assault. Body found in church rectory. Investigation ongoing.

I remember the way my breath caught.

Not in grief. Not yet.

In disbelief.

Because I had seen him just the day before.

He had pressed a hand gently to my head in blessing.

Told me to be patient with the world.

Told me God’s light finds those who look for it.

I had looked for it.

And found blood instead.

Osaka moved first.

He switched off the TV.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes stormy—but not surprised.

"You knew him," I whispered, not facing him. "Right?"

He didn't answer.

But I already knew the truth was deeper than that.

Something personal. Something he'd never wanted me near.

And then the memory—like a film reel catching fire—snapped.

I was back at the church.

Winter sunlight spilled in through the tall stained glass, making everything look painted—like we were all part of some unreachable story. The pews were mostly empty. The air was heavy with candle wax and incense, but it didn’t smell like comfort. It smelled like grief pretending to be sacred.

Naoki sat beside me on the wooden bench, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. His black uniform was wrinkled, one button missing from the cuff. His fingers drummed against his lips in that twitchy, agitated way he always had when trying not to cry.

“He wasn’t supposed to die like that,” he muttered. “He was just... my dad. Just a guy trying to start over.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He was more than that to me. He was a way out. A door to something warm and kind and not full of yelling or silence.

Naoki’s eyes flicked to mine. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Anything. Just—don’t sit there like this doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not.”

“You look like you’re somewhere else.”

I was.

I was thinking about Osaka’s silence. About how he’d looked at the television like he’d seen this coming.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Naoki’s mouth twisted. “He was trying to help people. You know that, right? Even your brother hated him.”

I flinched.

Naoki caught it. His voice softened. “He never liked me either. That’s why you always had to sneak around.”

“I know.”

“We were just playing piano.” He turned toward me fully, face pale. “That’s all it was.”

But it hadn’t been just that.

Not for Naoki.

Not for me.

And then—like all the warmth had been sucked from the room—I saw the blood again. Not here, not now, but somewhere else.

Memory bleeding into memory.

The organ at the front of the church looked cold and abandoned.

Like everything else.

Naoki had looked different that day. Nervous. Paler than usual, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie instead of reaching for the piano keys like always.

The chapel was empty except for us. The windows threw long, fractured shadows across the floor. It had snowed that morning. I remember that because my shoes were still wet, and I’d taken them off at the door like it was home.

Naoki wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Did you hear them fighting again?” I asked softly, not sure who I meant—my parents, his father, or Osaka.

He gave a short laugh, but it didn’t sound real. “Everyone’s always fighting.”

I sat next to him on the piano bench, shoulders just touching. “You okay?”

“No.”

Silence.

Then, suddenly, “I think something’s going to happen.”

My heart skipped. “What?”

He finally looked at me. “I think he’s in danger. My dad. I think someone’s going to hurt him.”

I blinked. “Why would anyone—?”

“Because people lie. Because power makes people scared. Because he knows things, and someone doesn't want him to.”

His voice cracked halfway through. I didn’t understand. I think a part of me didn’t want to.

“You sound paranoid,” I whispered.

But my hands were trembling.

Naoki laughed again. “Then why won’t he talk to me anymore? Why is he locking up the church office every night like he's hiding something?”

I looked down at the piano, fingers twitching. I didn’t want to hear this.

I was thirteen. I just wanted to play the same sad song again and again and pretend it meant something.

But then he said it

“I think your family’s involved.”

The words hit me like ice water.

I stood up. “Don’t say that.”

“I didn’t want to. But you need to know. Before it’s too late.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Inside, everything cracked a little.

I ran out without my shoes.

I remember the day I went to pick him up like it was wrapped in gauze—soft, a little hazy, and unbearably warm.

It had been snowing, just like now, but back then the snow felt gentler. Lighter. I had my purple scarf wound twice around my neck, the one he left behind before his last mission. It still smelled like faint cigarette smoke and that weird cologne he swore wasn’t expensive.

The train station was nearly empty—mid-morning lull. I stood by the vending machines, gripping a can of milk tea that I bought too early so it was already going lukewarm. My fingers fidgeted with the tab. I didn’t even like the taste—it was sickeningly sweet, but it was his favorite. Or it used to be. Things like that start to change.

When the train finally pulled in, I felt it in my chest before I saw him.

He looked... tired. Not in a fragile way. In a way that made you wonder if sleep even helped. His black coat was dusted with snow, and his hair was still that mess he never bothered to fix. Fringe falling to the right. I had this stupid, full-body relief when I saw it. Like, There you are. Still you.

I waved and jogged up, holding out the milk tea like a trophy. “I brought you this! The gross one.”

He raised an eyebrow and took it, cracking it open right away. “Still tastes like diabetes.”

I laughed. “Still makes me cringe.”

He looked at me then, and for a moment—just a flash—I saw the older version of that boy who used to sneak snacks into my school bag and complain about his bike chain breaking again. The weight of the years sat heavy under his eyes, but when he smiled, it cracked through.

“You wore the scarf.”

I reached up to touch it unconsciously. “Of course I did.”

He nodded, almost like that mattered more than anything else.

We walked side by side for a while after that, snow crunching under our feet. He didn’t say much. He never really did after returning from missions, especially the long ones. I learned not to press. Instead, I filled the silence with idle chatter—about school, the new kids in the class, the piano piece I was butchering, the new boots grandma got on sale.

Osaka didn’t laugh much, but he made this soft noise sometimes—almost like a breath—but I knew it meant he was listening. That was enough.

I remember passing the bakery where we used to sneak out to buy melon bread. I pointed it out with a grin, “Still remember getting scolded by grandma for spending all our lunch money there?”

He smirked. “You cried. Told her I forced you.”

“I was small and clever.”

“You were a menace.”

I shoved him with my shoulder. He let himself stumble a little, dramatic as ever, and then straightened, sipping his tea with a lazy look in his eyes. For a second, I forgot the weight he carried. Forgot the blood on his hands I never saw but always imagined. He looked like any tired older brother walking home with his little sister, warm milk tea in one hand and peace in the other.

The wind picked up, rustling the corner of his coat, and he looked down at me. His voice was lower now. “You’ve grown.”

I blinked up at him. “You too.”

“No, I mean… you’ve really grown. It’s weird.”

It struck me then how rare these moments had become—when we weren’t ghosts of what we used to be.

I wanted to tell him I missed him. That I hated how quiet the house felt without him. That sometimes I kept the radio on even at night just so I wouldn't feel the space he left behind.

But I just said, “Yeah. Weird.”

We didn’t need more than that.

We took the long way home. The kind of detour you only take when you want to stretch the moment just a little longer. There was snow on the rooftops, muffling the world in that soft, heavy quiet that only winter knows how to hold. My scarf—his old scarf—scratched against my chin in the wind, and the milk tea in my hands was lukewarm now. Too sweet. Just the way he liked it.

A truck passed. Then another. I didn’t think much of it.

“I saw Saiko trip on her own bag today,” I said, smiling. “It was really dramatic. She acted like the floor cursed her.”

Osaka made a quiet noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “You’re still hanging around that weirdo?”

“She’s my weirdo,” I shot back. “She thinks our school’s built over a yōkai graveyard.”

He gave me a look, sharp at the corners. “She might be right.”

I laughed. Then nudged him. “Let’s visit grandma later, yeah? She said she made mochi again."

“If we go today, she’ll make us shovel snow.”

“So what? I’m strong.”

“No, you’re annoying.” He smirked, and before I could swat him, he gave me a gentle push.

I slipped. Fell back into a bank of snow with a muffled thump. Cold shot through my uniform and I let out a bark of protest. “Hey!”

He was already walking ahead.

“You jerk!” I shouted, flailing upright.

He turned, crouched a little, and without a word, motioned for me to get on.

I climbed onto his back, grumbling into his scarf—the one I still wore. It smelled like home. Like him.

“You’re getting heavy,” he said.

“You’re getting old.”

Osaka began walking ahead as he held me close, shoulders drawn in. His eyes flicked from corner to corner, but his expression never changed. That’s when I noticed it—he was listening more to the silence than to me. Watching the stillness like it might shatter.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“No,” he said, and offered a small smile that didn’t reach anything but his lips. “Just tired.”

But the air shifted. I couldn’t say how. The snow still fell the same, soft and aimless. The wind still rustled the branches above. But the houses up ahead looked… off. Like the world had paused right before something spilled over.

Inside the house, we kicked off our shoes at the genkan. Warmth hugged our faces immediately. I caught the scent of nikujaga wafting from the kitchen—soy sauce, potatoes, that slight sweetness that stuck to your ribs. Mom was humming again, and dad’s voice rumbled from the living room, half-lost in the television’s drone.

I closed my eyes.

And then—flickers. The warmth began to shudder at the edges. The memory trembled.

A different scene threatened to bleed through. Lights. Tape. A cold silence. A sense of something not yet named.

But I held onto this instead—his back beneath my arms, the scent of dinner, the dull ache of laughter.

I didn’t want to remember. Not yet.

Dinner clinked and steamed between us. Mom kept fussing with the portions, saying I was too skinny and Osaka looked pale. Dad grumbled about the heater. I watched my brother across the table—he was answering with soft nods, offering the smallest smile when my mother poured him more tea.

I tried to etch this moment into my skin.

Osaka caught me staring and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, chewing a potato that had soaked up too much broth. “Just… you’re home. That’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah. I guess I am.”

The light above us buzzed softly, and in the corner of my vision, the edges began to smear again. Just for a second. The steam rising from the pot changed shape—narrowed into beams. The clinking of chopsticks became something sharper, more mechanical.

A flicker. A flash of something red on snow.

I blinked. It was gone.

After dinner, Mom patted her hands dry and sighed about laundry. Dad turned on the radio. Something old and cheerful crackled through, bouncing gently off the paper walls. I sat on the floor with a mug of hot barley tea, legs tucked beneath me, watching Osaka thumb through a stack of newspapers our grandmother had saved.

He looked older than he should. Not in the lines of his face, but in the way he moved—deliberate, like he was wading through something unseen.

"Grandma keeps everything," I said, nudging him with my foot.

He huffed out a laugh. “She once kept an egg carton because it ‘held memories.’” He shook his head. “I think she misses the time when we were all here.”

“We still are,” I said too quickly.

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Mm.

Outside, snow whispered against the windows. Inside, everything was warm. Still. Safe.

And then something flickered.

The mug in my hand felt heavier. The tea smelled wrong—sour. I blinked down at it and the steam danced like smoke. The lights dimmed, just slightly, and the shadows stretched.

I looked up—and for the briefest moment, Osaka wasn’t there.

It was someone else sitting cross-legged beside me.

And then he was back.

"You’re being weird,” he said.

I flinched. The steam from my cup curled between us, dense and twisting.

Osaka leaned closer, brow furrowing. He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead, his palm warm and rough with calluses. “You feel hot,” he muttered. “You sick?”

I shook my head, pulling away too quickly. “Just tired.”

He didn’t buy it. I could tell. His frown deepened as he studied me—not just with concern, but with that calculating silence he always used when he didn’t believe a word I was saying.

I stared down into my tea, suddenly nauseated by the sweetness. “You’re the one who looks worse,” I mumbled, hoping to shift the spotlight. “Your eyes are all sunken.”

“You always say that,” he muttered.

“Because it’s always true.”

He exhaled a short laugh, but the silence after it was thick. Neither of us moved. The radio played some warbled enka ballad in the background. Mom was folding laundry in the other room. Everything should’ve felt like home—but I couldn’t shake it.

His hand was still warm where it had touched me.

And beneath the warmth… something cold was rising.

“I mean it,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You didn’t text for, like, two weeks. Obaa-chan was starting to say you’d gone and joined a cult.”

He didn’t laugh.

That cold thing in my gut twitched.

“Osaka,” I said, softer now. “Where were you?”

His jaw clenched. It was subtle, but I caught it—like I always did. A flinch beneath the skin, a shadow behind the eyes.

“I told you,” he said after a beat. “Out of town. Long mission.”

I nodded, but it was mechanical. I felt the way he was looking at me now, with that faint tension behind his eyes—like he was waiting for me to press, just so he could shut the door.

I remembered what Saiko said. About the kid who’d gone missing. About the footprints leading to the river.

“Was it… dangerous?”

He didn’t answer right away. He picked up his cup, drank, then set it down again too carefully.

Then, quieter than before: “Yeah. It was bad this time.”

His voice was rough. Not tired. Not annoyed. Haunted

I should’ve stopped. I should’ve just let him sit in that silence.

But I said: “Did someone die?”

He looked at me.

And for a second, something flickered across his face—not guilt, not sadness. Something darker. Like a shadow of something he hadn’t yet told even himself.

Then he blinked, and it was gone.

And just like that, the moment shattered.

I was back on the tatami floor of my grandmother’s house, the room dim except for the soft glow of the television. The kotatsu warmed my legs, but the chill inside me had never quite thawed.

On the screen, the newscaster spoke in low, urgent tones, his voice too calm to match the words.

A photo of Father Hoshino flashed onto the screen.

Missing.

Last seen three days prior. No signs of forced entry at the church. No blood. No clues.

Just gone.

I remember the way Osaka stiffened beside me. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stared at the screen like it had said something only he could hear. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, white-knuckled.

“Wasn’t he at your school’s blessing ceremony last month?” Grandma asked, stirring her tea with that ever-gentle smile. “He seemed so kind.”

I said nothing.

Because all I could think about was the way Osaka had flinched when I mentioned the river.

The way he’d shut down when I asked about death.

And the way Father Hoshino’s eyes had looked the last time I saw him—kind, yes, but distant. Sad. Like he knew he wasn’t going to stay long.

It must’ve been a few weeks before.

The church was cold that day. The heat hadn’t been turned on, or maybe the old building simply refused to hold warmth anymore. My breath came out in faint puffs, misting the air as I stepped carefully between pews, my school shoes echoing faintly against the stone floor.

He was there, kneeling near the altar, the soft creak of his joints lost beneath the hum of quiet hymns from the cassette player in the back.

“Father Hoshino?” I remember my voice sounding small, like it wasn’t meant to disturb this place.

He turned, slowly. His smile was tired. That’s the first thing I noticed. Tired, not from lack of sleep—but from carrying something too long, too far.

“Ah, Ayaki-chan,” he said, the warmth in his voice still real, even if it had dimmed. “Come to make a confession?”

I shook my head. “I just wanted to bring these,” I said, holding out the little paper cranes I’d folded from my homework scraps. “You said you wanted to decorate the prayer shelf.”

He took them in both hands, like they were sacred. “They’re beautiful,” he said, then added, as if to himself, “Thank you for remembering.”

I stood there for a moment, not knowing what else to say. But I could feel something underneath the surface, like a riptide pulling at still waters.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached out and gently patted the top of my head. His hand was warm, heavy with meaning.

“You’re very kind,” he said, and there was a pause—like a breath caught in the throat—before he added, “Take care of your brother. Even when he doesn’t want you to.”

And that was it.

The last thing he ever said to me.

The memory slid away as if the fog had swallowed it whole.

I blinked back into the present, breath unsteady, the sterile bathroom light burning too brightly overhead. My reflection stared back at me—hollow-eyed, damp hair sticking to my forehead, lips still tinged pale from the aftertaste of bile. I looked like a ghost.

Why now?

Why that memory?

Why him?

I gripped the edges of the sink until my knuckles whitened. My body remembered more than my mind wanted it to. That heaviness in my chest—like something unfinished had burrowed into me and refused to leave.

I should’ve forgotten him by now. I wanted to.

But the last thing he said to me kept echoing, louder than anything else.

“Take care of your brother. Even when he doesn’t want you to.”

As if he knew. As if they all knew, long before I did, that one day everything would fall apart.

And I’d be the one left behind, still trying to pick up pieces of people that didn’t want to be found.

Back at the villa, the weight of his voice still echoed between us. We were lying on the tatami mat, side by side but not touching. The silence was thick, the kind that buzzes in your ears and makes your own heartbeat feel intrusive.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. My breath was shallow, eyes fixed on the ceiling where the shadows from the paper lamp trembled ever so slightly.

Then he spoke, barely louder than a whisper.

“Then maybe you’ll finally see me for who I am.”

His words sank through me, slow and heavy, like melting snow. And just when I thought he might stop there—just when I felt I could brace myself—

He added, quieter still,

"Promise me you won’t hate me after this.”

I turned my head then. Not because I was ready, but because I couldn’t bear not to.

His eyes were already waiting for mine.

I slid down the hallway wall like a marionette whose strings had been quietly cut, knees drawn to my chest. My head lolled against the plaster, the chill seeping into my skin as I mouthed something that never fully formed. Maybe it was "help". Maybe it was his name. I couldn’t tell anymore.

But the silence dragged me somewhere else. Somewhere even colder.

It was a few days after Osaka came back from Tokyo.

We were all staying at Obaa-chan’s house by the sea—tucked deep in the woods, where the pine trees bowed in the wind and the ocean murmured like an old lullaby. The kitchen was steeped in warmth, filled with the soft chatter of my mother and grandmother as they moved around the old stove, their aprons stained with broth and sweet soy.

I hovered near the edge of the room, watching the steam curl from the pot. My fingers gripped the table. I was bouncing on my heels.

Obaa-chan glanced at me over her shoulder and chuckled, “Ayaki, go call your father. He’s been glued to that television all afternoon.”

I groaned, dramatic and loud, and puffed out my cheeks. “But I’m helping.”

“You’re hovering,” my mom said with a smirk, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Go.”

“Fiiiine,” I sighed, dragging my feet on purpose.

I padded through the hallway into the living room, where my father sat cross-legged on the tatami, eyes fixed on the screen. A muted political debate flickered in blue and gray.

“Dad,” I said, plopping down beside him. “You’re missing food magic in the kitchen.”

He grunted, half a smile on his lips. “I’m soaking in peace while it lasts.”

I laughed and leaned into him slightly. “Did you talk to Osaka yet?”

“He’s out walking, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he’s been acting weird…” I paused, scrunching my nose. “You think Tokyo turned him into a businessman or something?”

Dad chuckled again, rougher this time. “He’s got things on his mind. He’ll be alright.”

Just then, a sound broke the soft hum of conversation and television static—the creak of the backdoor, the subtle rustle of pine needles outside.

My head perked up.

“That’s Osaka!” I chirped, already standing. “I’ll go get him!

“Tell him to wash his hands!” Mom called from the kitchen.

I grinned, hopping to the sliding door. The dim light in the genkan made the wood gleam faintly. I called out, “Osaka? Dinner’s almost ready!”

No reply.

Just the steady sound of footsteps, creaking softly across the old deck. Too slow. Too heavy.

My hand hesitated on the doorframe. “Osaka…?”

Still nothing.

The air changed.

I stepped outside, the cold immediately brushing my skin. The sun had dipped, painting the trees in deep, blue shadows. I squinted toward the edge of the woods, where the trees met the garden.

And then I saw him—or I thought I did. A figure, standing motionless by the tree line.

My smile faltered. “Hey… why aren’t you answering?”

I took a step closer.

And that’s when I saw the way he was standing. Too still. His shoulders hunched—not in exhaustion, but in dread. His face half-turned toward me, not fully, as if afraid to be seen.

And when I saw his eyes—wide, distant, almost gone—I knew something had followed him back from Tokyo.

Or maybe something had stayed behind.

He was facing the woods. Not quite looking at me. His shoulders were stiff beneath his long coat, the one I remembered him buying years ago, slightly too big on him then but now fitting like armor. His hands were tucked into his pockets, head slightly bowed.

“Osaka?” I called softly again.

He didn’t answer. 

Something tightened in my chest.

I stepped forward, squinting as the porch light flickered above us. That’s when I noticed it.

A stain. Dark, maroon, sunken deep into the fabric just above his hip. Spattered, but unmistakable.

Blood.

I blinked, my mouth suddenly dry. “You’re hurt…”

His shoulders twitched—barely. He turned, slowly, his eyes meeting mine in a strange, glassy kind of way. Not cold, not distant—just empty. Like he was still somewhere else. Dragging pieces of himself back.

“It’s not mine,” he said hoarsely. “Go back inside, Aya-tan.”

But I didn’t move.

Because something about the way he stood there—drenched in winter and silence and that strange, stained coat—told me the person who left for Tokyo wasn’t the same one who came back.

And part of me, even then, already knew it.

The porch light faded.

The smell of nikujaga, of pine, of blood, dissolved.

And I was back—gasping, heaving—in the hollow hallway of Hoffman's estate.

My knees buckled as the memory tore away, leaving me gutted in its place. I slumped down against the wall, my back scraping the cold plaster. My lungs clawed for air, throat tight, chest burning.

He wasn’t the same. He never came back the same.

I pressed my palm to my ribs, as if trying to hold something in—my breath, my mind, my soul from slipping. Everything felt too narrow. My body, the hallway, even time. Like I had been stitched back into something too small to contain me.

“Help…” I tried to say.

It came out a whisper. Broken. Useless.

My head tilted back, and through blurred lashes, I caught a flicker of motion.

A silhouette. At the end of the hallway.

Madoka.

Still, unmoving. A smudge of black against the dim lamp light. Watching.

Was he there? Had he always been there?

“Don’t—” I choked, unsure what I was warning. Him? Myself?

The memory still rang inside me like a struck bell. And his coat—Osaka’s coat—was still stained, even when I blinked. The blood wouldn’t leave.

Madoka took a slow step forward.

And I couldn’t tell if the tremble in my chest was fear, or if my heart had simply forgotten how to beat right.

He didn’t speak.

He just stood there, the weight of his silence pressing against my skull like static. I could see the shape of him more clearly now—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hands hung at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like he was seeing something he wasn’t meant to.

Maybe he was.

“Ayaki?” he finally said.

My name, spoken gently. Like a thread tugging me back to the surface.

I curled in on myself, one arm clutching my stomach, the other bracing the wall behind me.

“Don’t—” My voice cracked. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not—” he started, but the lie trailed off.

He was looking at me like that. Like I’d shattered into pieces he didn’t know how to gather. Like I was something precious and broken. Or maybe something dangerous and familiar.

“Go away,” I breathed, squeezing my eyes shut. “Please.”

Madoka knelt a few feet away, careful not to touch me. “What did you see?”

The words were like cold water poured down my spine. I opened my eyes, blinking past the dizziness. He wasn’t asking out of curiosity. He knew.

I wanted to scream at him. Ask how much he really knew.

Instead, I just whispered, “He didn’t even notice the blood.”

Madoka stiffened. Just for a moment. Then he nodded. Slow. Understanding too much.

There was another long pause, filled with nothing but my ragged breathing and the distant creak of old floorboards. I wanted the moment to end. I wanted someone to drag me out of this body, this time, this place.

But all Madoka did was say, “You’re not alone.”

And maybe, for a second, I almost believed him.

Then his voice softened, like he was speaking to a scared child.

“…Dinner’s ready.”

I didn’t respond right away. My throat burned, my limbs felt heavy, and I wasn’t sure if I could move even if I wanted to. But then I felt his hand—warm and firm—wrap around my wrist. Not forceful. Just steady.

“Come on,” he murmured, as if coaxing me back from some edge only he could see. “You need to eat something.”

I didn’t realize I was crying until he brushed his sleeve against my cheek. I let him pull me up, my legs shaky beneath me, the hallway spinning slightly. He didn’t let go.

He didn’t say anything about the stains on my sleeves or the way I flinched when the light overhead flickered. He just walked beside me, slow and careful, guiding me past the cold silence of the hallway and into the warmth that spilled from the kitchen—where the scent of simmering broth and rice tried its best to bury the ghosts behind my ribs.

But they were still there.

Waiting. Watching.

Just like he was.

Dinner passed in a blur. I sat at the table, chewing without tasting, nodding when spoken to. The heat of the soup didn’t quite reach the center of me. Madoka made light conversation with someone—I didn’t catch who. My eyes kept drifting to the window, to the reflection of the lights behind us, and the way the night outside seemed too still.

After the dishes were cleared, I excused myself to wash my hands, but Madoka was already standing. He touched my shoulder—gentle but firm—and nodded toward the hallway.

“We should talk.”

I followed him into one of the quiet rooms tucked behind the dining area. The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the walls. He didn’t sit, just leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable gaze of his.

“We’re staying just for tonight,” he said, voice low. “Tomorrow, if you still want to talk to Hoffman… you can. I won’t stop you.”

I blinked at him. “Why only one night?”

“Because this place isn’t safe. And you know it.” He paused, then added, “But I won’t keep you from doing what you need to. I’m just asking… be careful, Ayaki.”

The way he said my name made something flicker in my chest.

I looked away. My hands were trembling again.

“All right,” I whispered.

He waited a second longer, then turned to leave.

But I didn’t follow right away.

I just stood there, watching the shifting shadows on the walls, thinking of old wounds and snow-covered porches and the way blood looks when it dries into wool.

Somewhere deep within the walls of this house, winter still lingered—quiet and waiting, like a breath held too long.

Chapter Text

The Devil in the Study

Some truths must be pried open with trembling hands.

Hoffman’s study smelled like woodsmoke and wax. It reminded me of a church, or the inside of a coffin.

She stood by the tall window with her back to me, hands folded neatly behind her spine. She looked more like a statue than a woman—still, distant, and carved from ice.

“I don’t have all morning,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “You said I could ask questions.”

“I did,” she said without turning around. “But I never promised you’d like the answers.”

I clenched my jaw. My fists trembled at my sides. “Don’t play with me. Not about this.”

Finally, she turned. The light caught her glasses just right—they flashed like a scalpel. 

“You’re not ready for what you want to know, Ayaki.”

“And you’re not God,” I snapped. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Her lips twitched, almost into a smile. “You sound just like him.”

The breath hitched in my throat. “Then tell me. What happened to him? Why did he leave?”

Silence. A long, stretching pause like a held breath.

“I remember… little things,” I said, quieter now. “But they don’t make sense. They’re out of order. And after the ritual—” I faltered. “Everything’s worse. Louder. I keep seeing things I’m not supposed to. I feel things that haven’t happened yet. Or maybe they already did.”

There was a sound behind me. Madoka. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dark. He wouldn’t look at me.

Hoffman studied him for a second, then back at me. “The mind protects itself, Ayaki. Sometimes it builds walls so tall, it forgets what it’s hiding from.”

“Then break them,” I said. “Tear them down. I want the truth.”

“Do you?”

Something in her tone made my blood run cold. I hesitated

“I—I just need to know. Why he left. Why he never came back.”

Madoka shifted at the door. Hoffman’s gaze flicked to him, and I caught it. Like they knew something. Like they’d always known.

“I don’t know if I can trust my memories,” I whispered. “Sometimes I think I remember something terrible. And other times it’s nothing. Just a shadow. A blur.”

“Memories aren’t just facts,” Hoffman said, walking slowly to her desk. “They’re feelings. They’re stories we tell ourselves. To cope. To survive.”

“And lies,” I added bitterly.

She didn’t disagree.

I felt my hands start to tremble again.

“There was a day..." I started, unsure. 

I stared at the floor. The memory slithered forward like something feral.

I was twelve.

And I was furious.

The recital had ended an hour ago. My parents were smiling politely. My grandmother clapped a little too hard. People kept asking, “Where’s your brother?” like he was supposed to walk in at any moment, arms wide, proud of me.

"He’s working," I lied.

"He’s busy. He said he’ll come later."

"He promised."

But he never showed up.

So I stormed down the hall, socks slipping over tatami, face burning. I didn’t even say goodnight. Didn’t say anything. The house was quiet—too quiet. Everyone still murmuring in the kitchen. Still pretending it didn’t sting.

He wasn’t supposed to leave his door unlocked.

He wasn’t supposed to miss me.

But that night, rules didn’t apply.

I pushed the door open. It creaked. 

His room looked the same. Neat, minimal, untouched. Like he barely lived in it anymore. Just another ghost.

And then I saw it.

The violin case sat on his desk, black velvet absorbing the moonlight. I knew what was inside. His mother’s violin. The one he never played anymore. The one he still polished every Sunday like a ritual. The one that used to sing through the halls when he thought no one was listening.

I don’t even remember walking toward it. Just… reaching. Shaking. My throat thick with heat and shame and disappointment. I opened it. The violin sat inside like a relic. Untouched, but not unloved.

“I hate you,” I said, barely a breath.

And then I lifted it.

Too fast.

It slipped.

A sharp crack split the silence—and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

The neck was snapped. Strings curled like tendons. I stared, frozen, as if I could will it back together, undo it somehow, rewind time just a second before—

Then his shadow hit the floor.

I didn’t hear him come in.

Didn’t hear a door. A step. A sound.

Just—

He was there.

And I knew, without even looking up, that everything had changed.

“I didn’t mean to break it…”

The words slipped out before I even realized I was speaking.

I blinked. The cold light of the past dissolved. The wooden floors of Osaka’s room vanished. I was back in the cold office of the villa, seated across from Hoffman. Madoka shifted beside me, stiff with silence.

My hands were trembling.

Hoffman’s gaze didn’t waver. She studied me like I was a specimen under glass.

“I—I dropped the violin,” I whispered, throat tight. “His mother’s violin. I was angry. And I broke it.”

Silence.

Madoka turned slowly toward me, his face unreadable. “You never told me that,” he said softly.

I almost laughed. “I barely remembered it until now.”

The guilt was like oil in my lungs.

“That’s when things started to fall apart,” I murmured. “That was the first time I saw him look at me like he didn’t know who I was. Like I ruined something he couldn’t forgive.”

I looked at Hoffman. “Is that why he left?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just crossed her legs and leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.

“I think you know why,” she said quietly. “You just don’t want to remember the rest.”

My voice cracked. “Then tell me.”

Hoffman’s eyes narrowed, but not with cruelty—more like caution. “You already remember more than you admit.”

“I don’t!”, I snapped, my fists clenched in my lap. “Not really. Bits and pieces, like—like broken glass in water. I need you to stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what happened to my brother!”

Hoffman remained infuriatingly still.

“She’s not lying,” Madoka said quietly. His voice held a tremble I never had heard. “The ritual… it might’ve made things worse.”

My head whipped toward him. “You said it would help.”

“I thought it would!” he shot back, guilt thick in her throat. “But maybe your mind’s been… protecting you. And now that it’s unraveling, everything’s leaking out faster than it should.”

“So what?” I spat. “You broke my brain and now you’re telling me I have to piece it back together alone?”

No answer.

My breathing was shallow again. My skin cold. And somewhere in my ribs, a sharp ache pulsed like a bruise being pressed too hard.

“I keep thinking,” I said, “if I can just find the right thread, everything will make sense. Why he left. Why I let him. Why I helped him…”

That silenced them both.

I stood, swaying. The room felt too small. Too quiet.

“I need air,” I muttered, and pushed open the heavy door, stepping outside.

The wind hit me like a slap. I stumbled onto the hallway, clutching my arms.

It was true, wasn’t it?

That day. The beach. The walk by the shore. The broken violin.

And something else… something darker still, clawing at the edges.

He didn’t come out of his room for three days.

I tried knocking the first night. Once. Softly. No answer. Just silence thick enough to choke on.

So I left him a tray with dinner—rice, miso, the pickled radish he always pretended not to like. I set it on the floor by his door and whispered I’m sorry, even though the words felt too small.

In the morning, the tray was still there. Cold. Untouched.

The second day, I didn’t knock. Just left the food again. Then sat by the door for a while, knees tucked into my chest, forehead pressed against the wood. I didn’t cry. Not yet.

By the third night, the violin was gone. Not just broken—gone. As if it had never existed. Like he’d buried it somewhere only he could reach.

I curled up outside his room that night. My body ached from sleeping on the floor the night before, but I couldn’t go far. Not until I knew he’d come back to me.

When the door creaked open, I was already half-asleep. My cheek against the wooden boards. My face puffy and hot from crying.

Strong arms scooped me up without a word. He smelled like cedar and old smoke. My brother.

He tucked me into bed like I was still a child.

And then he sat beside me.

Said nothing. Just brushed my hair back from my forehead with trembling fingers. Like he wasn’t sure I’d let him.

I didn’t move. Didn’t open my eyes. But I felt the way his hand lingered. The way his breath hitched.

Because he had scared me.

Because I was the only one left.

Because if he lost me too, there wouldn’t be anything left of him either.

I walked out of the estate and into the garden. The cold met me like an old friend—gentle, almost. The snow had started falling again, soft as ash, drifting down over the moss-covered stones and the brittle grass that refused to die. The garden was quiet, untouched. Just wind and white.

I drew my coat tighter around me and kept walking, my boots crunching faintly beneath me. And then, without warning, memory rose—like a tide I hadn’t prepared for.

I was four.

Wrapped in a purple scarf too long for my tiny frame. It wound around me twice and still dragged on the floor behind me like a train. I remember giggling as it caught on my feet and tripped me up, and how Osaka reached out with one arm to steady me—his other hand already busy holding the snowball he was shaping into the snowman’s head.

We were behind Obaa-chan’s house, in that stretch of open space nestled between the woods and the dunes. The sea breeze always snuck in from the east, making the air saltier than it should’ve been, even in winter.

He told me to be careful with the coal buttons, because they were from Obaa-chan’s old stove and "held the ghosts of every stew she’s ever burned." I shrieked at that, laughing so hard I nearly knocked the snowman over.

His gloved fingers were red from the cold, but he never complained. Just kept building. Eyes focused, brow furrowed in that way I used to call his “serious face.” I mimicked it once and he burst out laughing so suddenly that I forgot what I was mad about that day.

That memory ached.

Because when I turned ten, we weren’t building snowmen anymore. We were on a stage.

A recital hall in the city. The smell of polished wood and floor wax. Bright lights burning too hot over my skin. I wore a black dress that made me itch, and my fingers were slick with sweat before I even touched the keys.

Osaka stood beside me, violin in hand. Older now. Seventeen, maybe. Already quieter than he used to be. More tired. I remember looking at him and thinking: He’s so tall now. He didn’t smile much anymore.

Still, he whispered you’ll be fine, and gave my hand a light squeeze before the curtain rose.

I played first. A piece we both made. Short, but fast. My fingers stumbled in the middle. Just slightly. I don't think the audience noticed. But I did.

And I think he did too.

Then he started playing along.

And it was perfect.

Like it always was.

His bow moved like water, smooth and effortless. Notes blooming into the air with this impossible weightlessness. Like breathing. I sat there beside him on that bench, frozen in place, staring—not just at his hands, but his face. That look of total focus. That quiet power.

I was in awe. Even then.

Even when I hated him.

Even when he forgot my birthdays, or missed dinner, or made me cry—I never stopped being in awe.

Because he was flawless. Untouchable.

And I was always just… trying to catch up.

I blinked back into the present. The garden still cold. Still empty. My breath left a ghost in the air. I pulled the scarf tighter around me. That same purple one. I’ve patched it three times now. The ends are frayed. It smells like him. Still.

And I hate how much I want to believe he was perfect.

Because I know better.

But part of me—the part that still builds snowmen, still misses notes, still waits by the door—still wants to believe.

I looked up. The sky had turned that quiet shade of gray that meant winter was finally waking up for real. Not just teasing us with a few scattered flurries, but coming to stay. The trees had already surrendered—branches bare and black like veins etched against the clouds.

I crouched by the old garden bed, where the lavender used to grow in wild, crooked rows. Most of it had withered by now—thin gray stalks poking out of the frosted soil, crowned with the faintest traces of purple. I reached out, fingertips grazing a dried bloom. It crumbled the second I touched it.

Even dead, it still smelled faintly like summer.

Lavender. That was his favorite scent. Not that he ever admitted it. But I remember catching him using the linen spray Obaa-chan gave us, the one that smelled like crushed lavender and warm wood. Said it helped him sleep. Said nothing helped, actually. Then shrugged like it didn’t matter.

But I remembered.

I always remembered.

My breath came out in pale bursts. I held my hand to it, half-expecting it to form shapes like smoke signals. Messages I could send to someone. To him.

A gust of wind danced through the garden, and I remembered again.

I was three. The first time I saw snow falling from the sky like that—lazy and soft, like feathers. We were staying at Obaa-chan’s again. Osaka opened the shōji just wide enough for me to poke my head out, and I gasped so loud he laughed.

“Did you think it only came out of the freezer?” he teased, ruffling my hair.

I remember flapping my arms, trying to catch the flakes like a bird trying to take off.

He brought me outside, barefoot. Said it would build character. We only lasted five minutes before he picked me up and ran us both back in, howling from the cold. My mom scolded him. He just shrugged and dried my feet with a towel.

That was the thing. He always ruined everything. And then somehow made it better again.

And now… he’s just ruined everything.

I sat down on the edge of the stone step, staring out at the frost curling across the edges of the garden pond. I could feel it: the hush of the world before it turns white. The kind of hush that makes you think maybe I’m the only one left alive.

I remembered one more thing.

Twelve. The first winter without him.

I waited outside the train station after cram school. He’d promised to come. Even called me that morning. Said, “Don’t move. I’ll be there.”

I stood there for an hour.

Then two.

The scarf I wore that day wasn’t purple. It was new. A gift from our dad. I left it on the bench when I finally gave up and went home.

I never saw it again.

I thought, Maybe he’ll find it and know I was there.

But he didn’t.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he just didn’t care.

The snow began falling heavier now. Gathering on my sleeves, in my hair. I didn’t brush it away.

I stayed there, watching the sky fall down one flake at a time, and let the memories pile up like snowdrifts.

Waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.

Again.

I don’t know how long I stayed out there.

Long enough for the tips of my fingers to go stiff. Long enough that the hush stopped feeling peaceful and started pressing into my ears like cotton. Like the world was underwater.

A part of me wanted to stay. Let the snow bury me where I sat. Like a seed. Like maybe I could grow into something better in spring.

But then I heard footsteps crunching behind me.

I didn’t turn. I already knew who it was.

Madoka stopped a few steps away. I could feel his hesitation, like heat against my back. He’d been following me for a while, I think. Always watching. Always knowing more than he said.

“What,” I said, my voice dry and cracked, “no lecture this time?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“You shouldn’t be out here without a coat,” he finally murmured.

I laughed. It scraped my throat. “Then go get me one.”

More silence.

And then—

“You were always chasing after him, weren’t you?”

That made me freeze.

I turned my head slowly. “What?”

Madoka stepped forward, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. His face unreadable. “Even when you were small. You followed him like a shadow. It used to scare me, how much you looked up to him.”

I stared at him. His words clung to me like frost.

“You don’t know anything,” I whispered.

“I know enough,” he said.

My fists clenched on the fabric of my skirt. “Then tell me why,” I snapped. “Why did he leave? Why did he lie? Why didn’t he take me with him like he promised?”

Madoka looked away, jaw tight.

“I don’t know what he promised you,” he said. “But I do know what he asked me.”

My heart thudded once, painfully.

“He told me,” he went on, “if anything ever happened to him—if he disappeared—I was supposed to stay with you. Keep you safe.”

I stared at him, barely breathing.

“Did you know that?” he asked quietly.

I shook my head. Everything inside me trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you weren’t ready.”

The wind picked up again. I turned back to the garden. My eyes stung.

“I remembered something,” I whispered.

Madoka didn’t speak.

“I think I was the reason he did it. What happened to Father Hoshino."

Madoka inhaled sharply. “Ayaki—”

“I didn’t understand it back then. I was just a kid. But I knew what I was doing. And I didn’t stop him.”

Silence stretched between us like a tightrope.

Then—

“Come inside,” he said gently. “You’re freezing.”

I didn’t move.

But after a long moment, I let his hand wrap around mine.

And I let him lead me back in.

Back into the warmth.

Back into the dark.

It came back in flashes.

A dark hallway. The smell of gasoline. The weight of silence, like the house itself was holding its breath.

I was thirteen. Old enough to know better. Too young to stop myself.

I remember Osaka’s voice. Low. Urgent. "If you trust me… just do what I say.”

I remember how I nodded. I always nodded.

He didn’t smile, not like he used to. His face was carved from something colder. Older. He looked tired. Scared. But certain.

He gave me a pair of gloves. Told me not to touch anything without them. I thought it was a game. A mission. Just like in the movies.

“Why?” I asked, fingers fumbling with the fabric.

He looked down at me, and for a second—just one second—his face broke. Like something inside him cracked wide open.

“So they won’t know you were there,” he said.

I remember standing by the sliding door to the study. My father’s study. The one I was never allowed in. My heart was a rabbit in my chest. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I knew that. But Osaka kept his hand on my shoulder the whole time.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “Just breathe.”

We moved quickly. He handed me a small glass vial. Told me to pour it over the corner of the carpet. Not a lot—just enough. I didn’t ask what it was.

He set the timer on the stove. Made sure the house was empty. Then pulled me outside.

I remember sitting in the grass as the sun came up, hands still shaking. I looked at him. His eyes were fixed on the house. And then—then the smoke began to rise.

“Why are we doing this?” I asked, my voice barely a breath.

He didn’t answer at first. Then—

“Because it’s the only way we can leave,” he said. “You want that too, don’t you?”

I nodded. Again.

Because he was my brother.

Because I loved him.

Because I didn’t know what love meant yet—not when it asked you to burn something to the ground.

Madoka guided me gently through the front door of the estate, his hand hovering near my back like he didn’t trust me not to collapse again. Maybe he was right not to. I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My throat was thick with the weight of memory pressing down like a storm cloud about to burst.

The garden's cold gave way to the warmer hush of the entrance hall. The floors creaked beneath our feet. My boots felt heavy. My legs moved, but they weren’t really mine. I was still outside. Still thirteen. Still staring at the smoke rising from the eaves of a house we used to call home.

“Sit down,” Madoka said softly. “I’ll get you some tea.”

He walked ahead of me, and I took one step toward the parlor before everything inside me gave out.

I dropped to my knees.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. Not really. But my breath hitched, and I clutched at my sleeves like they could keep me grounded. I pressed my forehead to the floor and whispered something—words I wasn’t even sure were real.

“I helped him…”

My voice cracked. My chest felt too small for everything inside it.

“I helped him do it.”

Madoka had already turned around. I saw his shadow shift, hesitation written into the tilt of his shoulders.

“He said—he said it was the only way. That if we didn’t frame dad, they’d come for us instead. That he had proof, but no one would believe him. And I—”

I swallowed back bile.

“I wanted to leave. I didn’t want to live like that anymore. I didn’t think he meant that."

Madoka walked over quietly and crouched beside me.

“You remembered,” he said, voice unreadable.

I nodded, barely.

“I poured the vial. Just a few drops. Like he told me. He did the rest. I didn’t even… I didn’t even ask what it was.”

The words spilled out now, frantic, shame-drenched.

“I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to lose him. So I said yes. I always said yes.”

And then the silence, like the house was listening.

Like it had always been listening.

I looked up.

"Madoka..." 

“You idiot,” he said, sharply enough to cut through the silence.

I flinched.

He didn’t shout. His voice never rose above that harsh whisper, but it felt louder than anything. He stood up abruptly, turning his back to me, running a hand through his hair.

“What were you thinking?” he hissed. “No—no, you weren’t thinking. You were thirteen, Ayaki.”

“I know—”

“You don’t,” he snapped, whirling around. “You really don’t. Do you know how lucky you are that it didn’t kill him? That it didn’t kill you? What would have happened if they caught you?"

“I didn’t know what it was,” I said, small and brittle. “He just said—he said it would distract everyone. That it would buy us time. That it wasn’t—”

“And you believed him? Just like that?”

“Yes!” I shouted. “Because he was all I had!”

That shut him up for a second.

I pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes, breathing hard. My voice shook when I spoke again.

“You don’t get it. You never saw how things were back then. With dad. With the missions. The house. He came back with bruises and blood and never said why. He smiled at me with broken teeth. And no one asked."

Madoka stared at me, expression unreadable.

“I just wanted to save him,” I whispered. “I thought I was helping.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stood there, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

“You were a kid,” he muttered. “He should’ve protected you from that choice. Not dragged you into it.”

I looked down at the floor. My palms were still shaking.

“He thought we’d run away together. He said once dad was gone, we could finally leave. Be free. Just the two of us.”

Madoka scoffed bitterly. “And where did he go after that, huh?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I still didn’t know.

“I can’t...” I said again, quieter this time, more to myself than to him.

Silence settled between us, heavy and thick. Madoka looked like he wanted to say something else—maybe even apologize—but then the floor creaked behind us.

We both turned.

Renée stood in the doorway like a shadow, arms crossed beneath her shawl, eyes like black wax—smooth, dull, and empty of flame. I hadn’t seen her since we’d arrived. Maybe it had been days. No sound. No voice. Just that looming presence haunting the halls like incense smoke.

“Regret,” she said.

My breath caught.

“What?” I croaked.

Renée stepped forward. Just one step.

“Regret,” she repeated.

I blinked at her, my heart skipping. “What are you talking about?”

Her expression didn’t change. “You loved him. Still do.”

I took a shaky step back, my mouth opening, closing.

“And guilt is the price,” she murmured, almost like it wasn’t for me at all. “You paid it young.”

I felt my knees start to buckle.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” I whispered.

Renée tilted her head slightly, like a bird examining a wounded creature. “Would you have believed him?”

The words sliced through something brittle in my chest.

“No,” I rasped. “I— I don’t know—”

“Exactly.”

That was all she said.

That one word.

Exactly.

Like she’d seen the inside of my ribs. Like she knew the shape of my worst thoughts, the ones I hadn’t even spoken aloud.

My hands shook. My throat closed.

And just like that—I cried.

Not the quiet kind. Not the polite kind.

The full-bodied, shame-ridden kind that made you fold in on yourself like a dying star. The kind that had no place in sacred homes or quiet gardens or broken memories. The kind you couldn’t take back.

I fell to my knees, and for a moment, no one said anything.

Then—Renée knelt, too.

She didn’t touch me. She didn’t speak.

She just stayed there, a shadow beside my ruin, until the sobs burned themselves out.

The old porch creaked beneath my slippers as I stepped out into the cold. I was small. Barely thirteen. The sky above was gray with the threat of snow, and the air carried that frozen silence that only came before a storm.

I remember holding my breath.

Osaka was there.

Standing just beyond the porch steps, his back to me, facing the forest. The wind tugged gently at the hem of his coat—the long one he only wore when he went into town, the one with the silver buttons.

There were stains on it.

Dark.

Damp.

Red.

I stopped moving.

He must’ve heard me, but he didn’t turn around. Not at first.

I remember the way his shoulders rose and fell, just once. Then—slowly—he turned.

His eyes were soft.

Not cold. Not wild. Soft.

Like he’d just come home from the market. Like everything was fine. Like the world hadn’t just gone quiet inside me.

He walked up the steps. Each one slower than the last. And then he kneeled in front of me, like I was royalty, or a ghost.

His hands cupped my face. Warm. Shaking.

“Aya-tan,” he said.

His voice was so gentle.

Like he was offering me candy and not—

Not this.

“If you help me with this… if you say he did it…” His thumbs brushed my cheeks, like I was a doll about to crack. “I’ll do anything for you. Anything you want. We’ll be together. Just us. Like before. We don’t need anyone else.”

I couldn’t speak.

My lips were parted, but the words wouldn’t come.

I didn’t understand what he meant.

But I understood the fear. The pounding in my chest. The way his words slithered around my ribs like a promise. The way I didn’t want to lose him again.

I’d lost him too many times already.

So I nodded.

Wordlessly.

And my hand—my tiny, trembling hand—slipped into his bloodstained one.

He smiled at me. Gently. Like I’d saved him.

And maybe, in that moment, I thought I had.

That night, I felt the weight shift before I even opened my eyes.

The mattress dipped behind me, slow and careful, like a ghost slipping between the sheets. I didn’t have to turn to know it was him. I knew his warmth. His smell. The way his breath always hit just beneath my ear.

“You don’t hate me, right?” he murmured.

His arm snuck around my waist, drawing me close. Like nothing had changed. Like we were still kids and the world hadn’t gone quiet between us.

“You still love your nii-chan?” he asked, softer now.

My throat tightened.

“Then help me,” he whispered, lips brushing the nape of my neck. “Just this once. And I’ll forgive you… for everything.”

I froze.

His voice was too gentle for the things he was asking. Like if he said it sweetly enough, it wouldn’t matter that he was dragging me deeper. Like softness could make it right.

“We’ll blame father,” he said. “He deserves it anyway. You know he does.”

I hesitated. I breathed. And he heard that hesitation like a crack in the ice.

So he kissed the corner of my jaw. His fingers ghosted through my hair.

“And after…” he said, breath warm on my skin, “it’ll be just us again. Just like before. We don’t need anyone else, do we?”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

His hand settled over my wrist, gentle. Possessive.

“I forgive you,” he said. “For the violin. For everything.”

And I wanted to believe it.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not because I was afraid of him.

But because some part of me still hoped—hoped he’d wake up and take it all back.

I had said yes.

Not because I wanted to. God, I didn’t.

But because love had taught me how to obey. How to shape myself around someone else’s need. How to be small, and soft, and quiet enough to be loved back.

Because fear doesn’t always scream.

Sometimes it sounds like a lullaby.

And my brother…

My brother was shaped like a god.

Later that night, when I couldn’t sleep—when I was curled into myself, nauseous and shaking, my throat raw from holding in the sobs—he pulled me close in his bed. Like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t ruined me with a smile.

He stroked my hair and whispered those same old promises. That we’d run away someday. That the world was cruel, and broken, and never deserved people like us.

I never told him I cried myself sick.

He thought it was the guilt.

But it wasn’t.

It was grief.

And I shook—not just from fear, but from the weight of it. The unspeakable bargain. The trap he dressed in sweetness.

Because he knew I’d say yes.

He always knew.

And maybe this time, I said it not because I believed it…

…but because I didn’t know any other way to keep what little of him I still had.

I couldn’t say it.

The words swelled up, hot and wet in my throat, burning behind my teeth—but they wouldn’t come out. I just stood there, trembling like a kicked dog, my fists clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms. If I opened my mouth, I think I would’ve screamed.

Or worse—begged.

Renée didn’t ask. She didn’t press.

She just stepped closer, expression unreadable, and placed a cool hand on my head. Not gentle. Not harsh. Just… there. Like I was a kitten throwing a tantrum. Like she’d seen it all before.

I hated it.

I hated how comforted I felt.

Madoka stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. Always unreadable.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

And in that moment, I realized something. Something small, but sharp.

Renée—strange and distant as she was—had more humanity in her than he did.

More warmth. More weight behind her silences. She looked at me and saw something still worth touching.

Madoka… didn’t.

Not anymore.

And maybe that hurt more than anything else.

I remember the air more than anything.

The way it buzzed in my ears like a trapped fly. The way the light from Madoka’s window made the dust dance—slow, suspended, like the world was holding its breath.

I’d walked all the way from my new school to the ASAJ, my shoes soaked from a puddle I didn’t bother dodging. My backpack hung low and heavy, like an anchor I couldn’t drop. Every step felt like dragging myself through molasses.

When I knocked on Madoka’s office door, my hand barely touched the wood.

He didn’t even look up. “Back again, Ki-chan?” he said, distracted, smiling a little like always. “You’re really trying to be a little exorcist, huh?”

I didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. I just stood there.

Watching him.

A beetle trapped in amber.

When he finally looked up, his expression changed. Subtle. A little wrinkle in his brow. A pause.

“Ayaki?”

I walked in. Sat down across from him. My legs felt too short for the chair, like I’d shrunk again—like I was seven, not thirteen.

And for a while, I said nothing.

Then, finally, I forced it out.

“I want to talk about my brother.”

That made him sit straighter. A flicker of concern. “Osaka? Is he okay?”

I blinked. Slowly. My lips were numb.

And then I told him.

Not everything. Just… enough.

Just one truth, peeled like skin from bone. Quiet. Dry. Like my soul had been wrung out before I even stepped into the room.

The scene cuts in my mind, like someone yanking the reel from a film projector.

I don’t remember hearing myself say it. I only remember his face.

His lips parted. Eyes frozen mid-blink. A stunned silence that stretched too long.

“…What?”

“I don’t want to go home.”

My voice cracked on the last word. I hated how small I sounded.

“Please.”

And then—he floundered.

Not like a lifeline, but like a man watching someone drown and offering a paper straw.

“Are you sure? He’s always looked out for you—he talks about you all the time—maybe it was a misunderstanding, maybe you’re confused—”

And that was it.

That was the moment I caved in.

Not like a wall breaking.

Like a star imploding.

Silently. Completely.

I stopped talking. Wouldn’t say it again.

Because if Madoka—my mentor, my hero, my second chance at being believed—if even he didn’t believe me…

Then maybe it was my fault.

Maybe I misread everything.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad.

Maybe I’m just broken.

So I smiled more after that. Said “thank you” louder. Didn’t talk about home anymore.

And Osaka still walked me to the train.

Like nothing had changed.

Like we were still a duet.

But the piano had gone out of tune.

And I—I just kept playing along.

I didn’t remember walking to Hoffman’s office.

One moment I was in the hallway, the next I was pushing the door open like I had every right to. Like I hadn’t just unraveled in front of them. Like my voice wasn’t still raw from holding back a scream.

Hoffman barely looked up. She was always composed. Always calm.

Madoka walked in as well, and stood stiff near the window. His arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching me like I was a splinter he didn’t know how to pull.

Renée settled in the corner, half-shadowed by a bookshelf, hands folded like she was at a funeral. Or waiting for one.

I dropped my bag on the floor.

“I want to move back.”

Silence.

Hoffman blinked slowly. “Back where?”

“To the apartment,” I said. My voice came out clear this time. Barely shook. “Mine and Osaka’s.”

Madoka turned like I’d slapped him.

“That’s not—Ayaki, it’s not safe. That place hasn’t been cleaned. There’s no one there to watch you, and you’re not—”

“I’m not a child,” I cut in. “And I’m not staying here. I’ve been good. I’ve followed every rule, every schedule, every test. But I’m not—” My throat tightened. I swallowed it down. “I can’t be watched anymore.”

Hoffman leaned back in her chair, studying me like a puzzle with too many pieces missing.

“And why now?"

Because I saw it again.

Because I remembered what he said, what I said, what I did.

Because grief has teeth and I’ve been feeding it sugar and silence.

“Because I have to,” I said instead. “It’s mine. It was mine first. Before the ASAJ. Before you took me in.”

Madoka moved closer, voice low, like that would make it safer.

“Ki-chan, I know it’s hard—what you’re remembering—but isolating yourself won’t help. You can’t face all that alone.”

“She’s not alone.”

Renée’s voice drifted from the dark. Quiet. Flat. Cold enough to raise goosebumps.

Madoka turned toward her like he forgot she was there.

“She shouldn’t—”

“She will,” Renée said. One word. Final. Like a judge slamming a gavel.

Hoffman raised an eyebrow. “You support this?”

Renée tilted her head, all porcelain stillness.

“She’s dying slow in here,” she murmured. “Let her haunt her own ghosts.”

I almost laughed. Or choked. I wasn’t sure which.

Madoka looked between us like the room had tilted sideways. Like the math didn’t add up anymore.

He stepped forward. “I’m just trying to protect her.”

“Then let me go,” I said, barely above a whisper.

He froze.

I looked at Hoffman. “You don’t have to believe me. You never did. But it was my home. And I want it back.”

More silence.

Then Hoffman exhaled. Long. Slow. Like she’d seen it coming the whole time.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” she said.

And just like that, it was done.

I should’ve felt triumphant. I didn’t.

Just tired.

Renée reached out as I turned to leave, fingers brushing the top of my head—light, catlike. Like she was petting something fragile and angry.

“Good girl,” she said.

And I hated how much I needed to hear it.

The ride was silent for the first ten minutes.

The kind of silence that wasn’t really quiet. It buzzed. Stretched. Settled into the cracks of my bones. Madoka kept his eyes on the road like it was the only thing he trusted. His grip on the steering wheel looked like it might break it in half.

I sat stiff beside him, hands folded in my lap. Not looking at him. Not looking at anything.

From the backseat came the occasional sound of Finley poking at Renée. Literally.

“Hey. Mama. Mamaaaa. You didn’t dodge.”

Renée didn’t respond. Or blink. I wasn’t sure she even breathed.

Finley giggled like that was the funniest thing in the world. “If I keep poking you, will you teleport into the void again? What if I find your off-switch—”

“Finley,” Madoka said gently, without turning.

She quieted. For about thirty seconds.

Then:

“Mama, tell them to stop fighting. They're annoying.”

I flinched. Madoka’s hands twitched on the wheel.

“We’re not fighting,” he said.

“Then what do you call it?” I muttered.

His eyes flicked to me, quick, unreadable.

“Ayaki—”

“You didn’t believe me,” I said. Still soft. Still looking out the window. “You can’t pretend that never happened.”

“I didn’t know what to believe. You came in half-shattered, you wouldn’t tell me anything—”

“I did tell you. You just didn’t want to hear it.”

He exhaled. Like he was holding something back. “You were a child.”

“I still am,” I snapped. “That’s why everyone keeps treating me like I can’t think for myself.”

“You were scared,” he said, quieter. “Confused. You’re still sorting it out.”

“And you’re still trying to protect a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.”

That landed. His jaw clenched. His hands tightened again on the wheel.

“Laurier,” Renée said suddenly, so quiet it almost disappeared.

He glanced in the rearview mirror.

“Let her speak.”

She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t even move. But it was the kind of tone that felt like cold hands on your spine.

He went quiet again.

The rest of the drive passed like a wound trying not to bleed.

Finley eventually went back to humming.

Renée resumed her statue impersonation. 

And me—I just stared out the window at the blur of trees, wondering what the apartment would smell like. If it would still remember me. If it would still hurt.

I hoped it did.

Because if it didn’t, I wasn’t sure I’d know what to do.

The key felt heavier than I remembered.

Maybe because it had lived at the bottom of Madoka’s desk drawer for the past month. Maybe because it used to dangle from Osaka’s keychain, tangled with a miniature manta ray and a guitar pick he never used.

I slipped it into the lock.

The door creaked open.

The apartment smelled like old wood and air that hadn’t been touched. The curtains were drawn. The faintest glimmer of light filtered through dust motes that hung like suspended memories in the air.

I didn’t step in right away.

Just stood at the threshold.

Half of me wanted to run. The other half… didn’t know how to breathe.

It looked almost the same. The battered couch. The low coffee table stacked with magazines Osaka never read. The little ceramic cup that still sat on the counter with loose change and broken lighters.

Time hadn’t frozen.

It had rotted.

I walked in slowly. Each step felt like a trespass. Like the floorboards might scream at me.

There were still shoes by the door. His.

I sat down on the edge of the couch and suddenly—

I felt something.

Not the past. Not a memory. Something closer. Thicker.

Like someone watching me from just over my shoulder. Like breath on my neck.

I turned.

Nothing there.

But then—

The light flickered.

Just once.

And the air pressed in tighter, like the walls were leaning closer to listen.

I looked down at my hands. My fingers were trembling—but not from fear. From sensation. Like something inside me had cracked open.

A soft noise echoed from the kitchen. Not loud. Just enough to draw my eyes.

A spoon.

It shifted.

All by itself. Just a tiny clink against the porcelain mug beside it.

I froze.

Another flicker.

The shadows felt deeper now. Familiar. Not dangerous—but not safe, either.

Like someone was there with me.

I stood up. Stepped toward the kitchen. My heart in my throat. My voice barely above a breath:

“...Osaka?”

Silence.

But the air was thick with something. Something that recognized me.

Or maybe…

Something that remembered.

I took another step into the kitchen.

The spoon didn’t move again.

But the light above me buzzed faintly, like it wanted to blink out. The hum of the refrigerator sounded too loud. Too steady. Like the only thing anchoring this place to reality.

I reached out, just to touch the counter. To feel something solid.

And that’s when I heard it.

Soft.

Too soft.

Right behind me.

“Aya-tan…”

My blood froze.

That voice.

Warm and low. Laced with that teasing affection he always had when he called me that. The name that used to make me laugh. 

That now felt like a collar.

“I missed you.”

I didn’t turn.

Couldn’t.

My chest rose and fell too fast. My hands clenched around the edge of the counter.

The room didn’t feel empty anymore.

It felt occupied.

Not with a presence—not yet. But with memory. With emotion so dense it took shape.

My voice barely came out:

“…You’re not here.”

Silence.

But the lights didn’t flicker again.

Instead, the hallway grew darker. Like it was listening.

Like the air itself had been holding its breath for me.

And I knew—deep down, somewhere in the part of me that never stopped waiting—

That wasn’t just a memory.

It wasn’t my grief talking.

It was him.

Or something wearing his voice.

And it was close.

Chapter Text

Salt in the Wound

Some memories never wash away.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Even the fridge had gone silent now, as if it too was waiting. As if the whole house had collapsed into this single moment.

My fingers were numb against the cold countertop.

“Aya-tan…”

Again. Closer.

I squeezed my eyes shut. My knuckles turned white.

No footsteps. No shift in the air. Just that voice—

So him it made my stomach twist.

So wrong it made my skin crawl.

“You never came to find me,” it whispered. “Why?”

A tremor slipped down my spine.

He wouldn’t say that. He—he would’ve made a joke. He would’ve laughed it off, ruffled my hair, told me to stop being dramatic.

He wouldn’t sound hurt.

I turned.

Slowly.

The hallway was darker than before. The edges blurred, warped, like heatwaves rising off pavement.

And in the center—

A silhouette.

No face. Just the outline of a body, too tall to be mine, too narrow to be real. Like someone had sketched him from memory but got the dimensions wrong.

My brother.

My ghost.

Or something that learned how to mimic both.

I took a shaky step back.

“I didn’t come looking because you left,” I said. “You chose to disappear.”

The shape tilted its head.

“So cold,” it said, voice still warm. Still honeyed.

Still coated in every bedtime story and inside joke and lie.

A low sound followed. A sort of chuckle—if you could call something so hollow a laugh.

And then—

It moved.

Not walked. Just… shifted forward. Like the dark had reeled it in. No footsteps. No weight. Like memory incarnate.

I stumbled, hitting the edge of the counter hard. Pain bloomed in my ribs, sharp and real.

I needed real.

I needed to remember that this house had floors and furniture and walls. That I had a body. That this thing was not him.

“You’re not real,” I snapped. Louder this time. “You’re not him.”

Its arms opened.

“I could be,” it said gently. “If you let me.”

And I—

I almost did.

For a split second, I saw him. The real him. Standing in the hallway like he used to after late-night shifts, jacket half-off, eyes tired, asking if we still had ramen.

I felt my chest cave in.

But then the lights flickered.

Not a soft flicker this time. Violent.

One bulb burst with a pop.

Glass hit the floor.

The thing's face twitched—where a face should’ve been, anyway—and for the first time, it looked unsure.

Afraid.

It stepped back into the dark.

I stood there, shaking, waiting for something worse.

And then—

A laugh. From somewhere deeper in the house. Not his laugh. Something wetter. Rotten.

Something new.

The laugh faded.

And for a moment, everything was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Like time had buckled.

Like something breathed in, and I slipped through the cracks.

Tokyo. Five years ago.

Cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling. A peeling couch dragged in from the last place. The sun hanging low in the window like it couldn’t decide whether to rise or set.

The apartment was still mostly empty. Smelled like dust and concrete and unfamiliar air.

Osaka sat on the floor, cross-legged, ripping tape off another box with his teeth.

He looked stupid doing it. Sharp-jawed, messy-haired, trying too hard to pretend he was put together. Still wearing that dumb jacket like it meant something.

I stood in the doorway.

Backpack still on.

Shoes still on.

“I don’t like it,” I said.

He didn’t look up. “It’s not supposed to feel like home yet. That takes time.”

“I didn’t say it didn’t feel like home.”

He paused. Then glanced at me. “Oh.”

I hated how he softened when he looked at me like that. Like I was something fragile. A responsibility. A burden he asked for.

He grinned a little. “Your birthday’s in two weeks.”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m gonna get you something stupid,” he continued, voice light. “Like, incredibly stupid. Like a singing toaster. Or a hat with built-in fans.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m serious,” he said, finally setting the box down. “I want this year to be good, Aya-tan. Better. We’re gonna have new routines. New traditions. Maybe even a cake that doesn’t taste like despair.”

I didn’t laugh.

He stood, brushed his hands off, walked over to me.

Too tall in the doorframe.

Too much of him all at once.

He reached for my shoulder—

I flinched.

He noticed.

Didn’t say anything.

Just let his hand hover in the space between us, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch me anymore.

“...We’ll make it work,” he said, quieter now. “Promise.”

I didn’t say I believe you.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Didn’t say you shouldn’t have taken me.

I just walked past him, dropped my bag by the couch, and sat down.

The silence grew roots.

And for the first time, in that too-bright, too-empty room—

I felt the shape of the ghost we were already making.

I don’t know how long I sat there on that old couch.

But the memory didn’t let go.

It never did.

It only shifted.

The sun vanished behind glass, and suddenly it wasn’t moving day anymore.

It was December 24th.

Still Tokyo. Still that same cramped apartment. Still those same stained floorboards, the hum of the heater kicking in and out like a dying breath.

I was fourteen.

And pretending not to care.

Osaka came in with a cheap plastic bag and snow in his hair. Jacket wet at the shoulders. He looked like he’d lost a fight with a vending machine.

“Don’t laugh,” he said.

“What?”

“I said—don’t laugh.”

He pulled out the saddest little cake I’d ever seen. The kind you find at a gas station. Frosting smudged. A weirdly lopsided Santa piped in pink.

I stared.

“You said you didn’t celebrate,” I mumbled.

“I don’t,” he said. “But you do.”

He looked... awkward. Like he thought he was doing it wrong. Like trying mattered more than succeeding.

“And I figured,” he went on, setting it on the counter like it might break, “you should at least have one good memory of this place. Just one.”

The heater groaned.

The window fogged.

I didn’t cry.

I just sat there in silence while he turned off the lights and lit one stupid candle from the kitchen drawer. It wasn’t even red or festive. Just leftover from a power outage. He stuck it in the cake like it belonged there.

“Merry... not-Christmas,” he said.

And he smiled. That crooked smile like he was bracing for a punchline that wouldn’t come.

And I—

I smiled back.

Not because I meant it.

But because he needed it.

And maybe I did too.

The memory bled out like warmth from a dying flame.

And the kitchen was cold again.

Dark again.

But the candle was still there.

Lit.

Right in front of me on the counter—

Except I hadn’t lit anything.

And that cake—

That same cake, lopsided and ruined, was sitting beneath it. Frosting half-melted. Santa’s face dripping like wax.

The voice returned.

“You smiled at me that day.”

I looked up.

The thing in the hallway was closer.

“I remember,” it said.

I backed away. “Stop it. Stop taking that from me.”

It stepped forward.

“I kept that smile,” it said softly. “You gave it to me.”

“No—”

“And I’ll give it back,” it promised. “Just let me stay.”

Something cold touched my hand.

Not fingers.

Frost.

Creeping in from the counter. I looked down—

The candle had gone out.

The cake had collapsed.

And the kitchen was no longer mine.

I sat there, blinking at the floor in Madoka’s office, the dull wood hard beneath my shoes. My hands were clasped in my lap like I was in confession. Like I needed to be small. Contained. Safe.

He said nothing.

Just stared at me with those sharp eyes of his. Calm. Controlled. But I could feel the tension there—like velvet pulled too tight over wire.

When I finally looked up, his voice came soft.

“Are you sure you’re not just… seeing things out of grief?”

That tone.

So gentle, it stung.

Like when someone hands you a glass of water and pretends it’s not poisoned.

I smiled. Or tried to. It didn’t reach my eyes.

“Is that what you think this is?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’ve been through more than most people could survive.”

I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. But all I did was clench my fists tighter in my lap.

“You and Fumiko,” I said. “You said the ritual would show you something. About Osaka. You said—” my voice cracked, “—you said I wasn’t strong enough to be there.”

“You weren’t,” he said quietly.

“And yet something followed me,” I snapped. “Something latched onto me in that moment. And none of you thought to warn me.”

He didn’t blink. Just leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning.

“You were marked long before that, Ayaki.”

My blood ran cold.

“What do you mean?”

His gaze flicked past me, to the window, though the blinds were closed.

“That bond between you and Osaka—whatever it truly was… it wasn’t natural. Not even before he vanished.”

“Don’t,” I said, sharper now. “Don’t make this about that again. About how we were too close. You don’t know anything.”

He didn’t flinch. But something in the air did. A shift. Like the room suddenly tilted just a few degrees off-center.

“Maybe not,” Madoka said, voice still level. “But something responded when his soul was called. Something that knew you. That wanted you.”

The lights above buzzed faintly.

I stood up.

Too fast.

My chair scraped back, my breath coming short. My body felt suddenly wrong—like it didn’t fit quite right in the space around me. Like my skin had too many seams.

“I didn’t let it in,” I said. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I believe you,” he said.

But something in his voice said someone did.

And then I felt it.

Not a sound. Not a voice. Not a flicker of light.
Just a presence—like being watched from inside your own chest.

Like your reflection suddenly breathing without you.

It curled up under my ribs, teeth pressed to my heart.

And for a second…

I wanted it.

I wanted to let go.

Let it take over. Let it tear through the doubt and the guilt and the aching pit of questions.

I closed my eyes and whispered something under my breath.

A prayer.

Or a warning.

I couldn’t tell anymore.

Madoka spoke again, with that softness he always used when he was about to say something sharp.

“How long has it been happening?” he asked finally.

I hesitated. “Since the night after.”

His shoulders tensed.

He straightened slowly, hand clutching a pen too tight. “You should have come to me immediately.”

I scoffed. “Why? So you could tell me it’s grief again? That I’m projecting?”

Madoka’s voice was smooth. Controlled. “I would have told you to be careful.”

He stood. Hands restlessly hovering at his sides.

“What did it say to you?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t want to say it. Saying it made it more real. Like an invocation in reverse.

But the words clawed their way out anyway.

“It said it missed me.”

Madoka didn’t blink.

“It called me Aya-tan.”

His gaze flickered. Not surprise. Just confirmation.

“Something,” I repeated, "latched on, didn’t it?”

He sighed, slow and tired. Like he’d known this moment was coming.

“I didn’t expect it,” he admitted. “We were trying to trace residual soul fragments. Echoes. Nothing more.”

“You told me it was safe.”

“It should have been.”

He looked older suddenly. Not in his face, but in the way he sat. Like someone carrying something too heavy for too long.

“There are things,” he said softly, “that slip through when you reach into the dark. Not souls. Not ghosts. Just… intelligence. Hunger. Things that know how to wear a voice.”

I swallowed. My skin prickled.

“Then what did it want?”

Madoka looked me straight in the eye.

“I think,” he said, “it wants to be him.”

My throat closed up.

Not out of fear.

Out of shame.

Because somewhere, deep down—where I keep all the bad thoughts I never say out loud—

I wanted it too.

Wanted him back.

Wanted that voice to call me Aya-tan again, even if it wasn’t real. Even if it was a lie stretched tight over something hollow and hungry.

Even if it meant letting it crawl inside me.

I dropped my eyes to the floor.

“You should have told me,” I said.

Madoka’s tone didn’t shift. “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“You could’ve tried.”

“I did,” he said. “You just didn’t hear it.”

The silence stretched again. Cold and sterile and judgmental in that way only religious offices can be—like God was watching me fidget.

I was sitting in the chair like a child being scolded. Small. Wrists tucked against my chest. My legs drawn up like a cat expecting to be kicked.

I hated how familiar it felt.

Like confession.

Like home.

“You said it was just a tracing,” I muttered.

Madoka nodded. “It was.”

“Then why did he come back?”

His gaze was steady. “Did he?”

The question hit something sore. Something raw and peeling.

Because the truth was, I didn’t know.

I wanted to believe it was a trick. A parasite. A hungry little god playing dress-up.

But then there were the memories.

The way it spoke.

The way it knew things only he would.

That nickname.

That awful, beautiful nickname.

I stared at the floor.

At the pattern of the woods I’d memorized years ago. Back when I was Ayaki. Back when I still thought God loved me if I just apologized enough.

“…What did you put in me?” I asked.

My voice broke.

Madoka didn’t answer right away.

And then, gently—

“It wasn’t something we put in you,” he said. “It was something he left behind.”

I was ten the first time I confessed I loved my brother more than God.

It slipped out between hiccuping sobs, my knobby knees pressed against the velvet stool of the confession booth, hands clasped so tight it hurt. My voice so small it felt like it could be swallowed whole by the darkness between the lattice.

“I know it’s wrong,” I whispered. “I know I’m not supposed to. Not like this.”

The priest had been quiet. Too quiet. I remembered thinking: maybe even God doesn’t want to hear this.

But eventually, a voice said: "God is love, child.”

And I had wanted to scream. Because it wasn’t the same.

The love I had for my brother had sharp teeth and warm hands. It had shadows. It had weight. It wasn’t holy. It wasn’t clean. It lived in my bones and my belly like a secret, not a virtue.

I had gone home, scrubbed my hands with soap until my knuckles bled, and thanked Him anyway.

Then, years later, I sat alone in the apartment’s bathroom, staring into the mirror with the door locked and the water running.

My reflection watched my me closely.

“Stop,” I whispered.

No answer.

But something inside me stirred.

A breath that wasn’t mine.

My lips parted without meaning to.

“You always looked at me like that,” I said. Or it said. I couldn’t tell anymore. “Like I held the stars in my mouth.”

My body recoiled—but my reflection didn’t flinch.

I dug my nails into the edge of the sink.

“This isn’t real.”

“You prayed for me.”

Tears welled up before I could stop them.

“You begged for me to come back.”

“Stop.”

“Would God really punish you for getting what you asked for?”

My throat closed. My hands trembled.

The reflection smiled. Crooked. Familiar.

“Let me stay,” it said. “Just a little longer. You don’t even have to say my name. I’ll answer to whatever you want.”

The faucet kept running.

The mirror didn’t blink.

And I didn’t run.

I didn’t scream.

Didn’t cry out for God.

Because somewhere, deep down in that ugly little place I keep locked behind faith and memory and blood—

I didn’t know if I was afraid of it.

Or if I was grateful.

I didn’t move.

Not at first.

Just stared at it—at me. At the wrongness swimming behind my eyes. At the shadow that had learned how to mimic light.

“…If I let you stay,” I whispered, “will you help me find what’s left of him?”

The smile deepened.

“Of course,” it said. “Isn’t that what you want?”

I bit my lip until I tasted blood. The faucet kept hissing behind me, water running cold over porcelain. I couldn’t feel my fingers.

“I want him,” I said.

It tilted my head.

“I am him.”

“You’re not.”

“You prayed,” it said again, gentler this time. “You asked. You begged. If God didn’t want me here… why did He let me come?”

I turned. Grabbed the nearest thing—my mother’s crucifix from the sink.

Without thinking, I slammed it into the mirror.

The glass didn’t shatter fully.

But I did.

The pain bloomed in my palm before I even noticed the blood.

The thing in the mirror flinched.

So did I.

And then we both laughed.

Soft.

Breathless.

Like we shared the same lungs.

“You can’t hurt me,” it said.

The blood from my hand dripped down the cross.

“You’d have to kill yourself to do that.”

I slid down to the floor, back against the cabinet, hand still bleeding into my lap.

I wanted to sob.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to crawl out of my own skin and leave it hanging somewhere on a hook—let her wear it. Let her take it.

Let her be me.

Because I didn’t know where I ended anymore.

Didn’t know if I even wanted to.

She sat across from me—no longer in the mirror, just there. Barefoot. Wearing the same clothes I was. Hair falling the same way. Head cocked like a curious cat.

“You could exorcise me,” she said sweetly. “Call Laurier. Tell him to bring the holy water and the Latin.”

I stared at her.

“But you won’t.”

She smiled.

“Because you still think I might be him.”

My lip trembled.

And I hated her for being right.

It didn’t always show itself.

Only when I broke.

When something inside me caved in, just enough for the rot to breathe. For the shadow in my belly to stretch and yawn and remind me it was still there.

Grief wasn’t the only door it used.

There was guilt.

Shame.

Bitterness dressed up as prayer.

And rage—God, the rage.

The kind I never said out loud.

The kind I buried under rosaries and lavender and all the little rituals I invented to make myself feel clean again.

I told myself it wasn’t real. That it was just stress. Trauma. Aftershock.

But deep down, I knew.

Sometimes I felt it watching. Waiting. Like a stray cat behind the church, lurking by the incense burners. Watching me cry in the pews, licking blood from its paws.

And the worst part?

Sometimes, I let it in.

Because there were nights I couldn’t remember the sound of his voice. Couldn’t remember how he used to smile. Whether he really said he’d never leave, or if I just needed him to.

There were nights I needed someone to blame more than I needed the truth.

And on those nights—

It came.

It was cold the day I met Naoki.

A few days into January. School had just started again after winter break, and I was dreading the walk. My scarf was too big, my backpack too heavy, and my shadow too long.

I didn’t take the usual road by the rice fields. I didn’t want to see the muddy ditches full of melting snow. Didn’t want to pass the old scarecrow that looked too much like a crucifix.

So I cut through the woods instead.

The trees were bare. The ground crunched. I pulled my scarf up higher until it nearly swallowed my mouth.

And then he jumped out in front of me.

“BOO!”

I jolted so hard my shoe slipped on ice.

He laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. All teeth, dimples, and wind-chapped cheeks. His uniform was crooked. His collar undone. He looked like he’d just crawled out of a ditch and been thrilled about it.

“You should’ve seen your face!”

I blinked. My breath came out in shaky puffs.

He grinned. “What, never seen a ghost before?”

“…You’re not a ghost,” I muttered.

“True,” he said, falling into step beside me. “I’m worse. I’m the new kid.”

I didn’t answer. Just stared at the way our shadows stretched together on the frostbitten dirt.

“I’m Naoki,” he said.

I didn’t say my name.

“Are you always this quiet, or do you just hate transfer students?”

Still nothing.

He leaned closer, studying me. His eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “You’re really pale,” he said. “Like, snow-girl pale. Did you die in the forest and come back as a spirit?”

“…No,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

I glared at him from under my scarf. “I’m albino.”

“Ohhhh,” he said, like he understood something deep. “Cool. That explains the hair. You look like a tiny ghost nun.”

“What?”

“Because of the scarf.”

That was the first time I laughed.

Not a real laugh. More like an unwilling exhale. But it was enough.

He beamed like he’d won something.

We walked the rest of the way to school together, our backpacks squeaking, the forest thawing just enough to let the sun bleed through the trees.

I didn’t know then that I’d see him again.

That he’d be the one who stayed. The one who listened. The one who asked questions when everyone else got tired of caring.

I didn’t know then what it would cost him.

Or me.

I thought about him more than I should’ve.

Naoki.

I told myself it was because he was the first person who saw me. Really saw me. Not just the white hair or the weird eyes or the way I flinched when people got too close. But sometimes I think I remembered him because he burned brighter than anything else in that dull little town.

Like the only candle left in a church no one visited anymore.

He dyed his hair in the boys’ bathroom once. Took a cheap bottle of bleach from the konbini and turned his light brown curls into this uneven, almost banana-colored mess. It stained the collar of his uniform and made the whole hallway stink.

When his father found out, he dragged him outside by the ear.

Right in front of the school gates.

Didn’t yell. Just twisted and tugged while everyone watched. Naoki winced the whole time but laughed afterward, holding the side of his head like it was a badge of honor.

“You think he’s mad now?” he said, grinning at me. “Wait ‘til he sees the piercing.”

He never got the piercing. I don’t think he was that brave.

But I remember thinking he was.

My classmates used to whisper things when they saw us walking home together.

Some of them thought he was weird for hanging around me.

Others thought I was weird for not pushing him away.

One girl said I looked like a ghost bride following him around.

Another said he must have a kink for freaks.

I didn’t cry, but I stopped going out to the courtyard for lunch.

That’s when he started showing up with two bent cigarettes in a candy tin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, holding it out. “We’re both already going to hell.”

I was twelve. He was almost fifteen. I didn’t smoke, and he barely knew how. But we sat behind the gym and talked about nothing until the bell rang.

He never treated me like something fragile. Never made a big deal about the things I wouldn’t say.

Just yapped about whatever was in his head—his grandma’s cooking, the stupid dreams he had, how he thought most adults were full of shit.

Sometimes he looked at me like he was trying to see through the fog.

Sometimes I let him.

Now I wondered what he’d think of me.

If he saw what I’d become. If he saw the thing that lived inside me now. If he’d still offer me that dumb tin and grin like he wasn’t scared of anything.

I missed him.

Not in the way I missed Osaka—God, Osaka—not that aching, infinite grief that curled into every prayer.

But in the way you miss a version of yourself that never got the chance to grow.

The girl I was with Naoki hadn’t yet learned to beg for forgiveness just for existing.

She hadn’t yet carried the dead in her mouth.

I remembered the first time he got into a fight.

Not one of those movie-type brawls. Just some second-year boy shoving him against the shoe lockers and calling him a slur under his breath. Something about his hair. Something about his mom.

Naoki didn’t even flinch.

He just stared at the guy, hands in his pockets, jaw tight like he was chewing on something sharp.

Then he said, calm as anything:

“Say it again and I’ll cut off your tongue.”

I believed he meant it.

The other guy laughed, but he didn’t touch him again.

That afternoon, we sat behind the gym like always. He had a band-aid over his eyebrow and a scuffed shoe, but he was grinning like it was all a joke.

“You ever hit someone?” he asked me.

I shook my head. Of course I hadn’t.

“Don’t,” he said. “Unless you’re ready to cry after.”

He always talked like he was ancient. Like life had already knocked his teeth out and handed them back to him in a glass.

I didn’t know what to say. So I asked him if it hurt.

He blinked. Then he smiled—genuine, soft, the kind of smile that made me feel like he saw a light in me I didn’t even know was there.

“Nah. You only feel it later.”

That stuck with me.

You only feel it later.

I didn’t know how right he was.

Because I still feel it now.

I feel it in my teeth when I dream of blood.

In my chest when I think about the day I left without saying goodbye.

In the place he used to sit next to me when the sky turned gold and our shadows stretched across the dirt path like ghosts trying to hold hands.

I think I might’ve loved him. Not in the burning, desperate way I loved Osaka. Not in the doomed, divine way that made me feel like I was being punished just for wanting to stay close.

But in that quiet way you love a storm from the safety of a window.

He didn’t belong to me.

He belonged to the wind. To some future I’d never be a part of.

He never knew what I was. What I carried. What I would become.

And maybe that was for the best.

Because if he had—if he had seen the thing that curled inside my shadow, waiting for my grief to fester—he might’ve run.

Or worse.

He might’ve stayed.

I wasn’t always haunted.

Once, I was ten. He was seventeen, almost eighteen.

And the sky was too blue.

Nishihama Beach, Okinawa.

We had flown there for a week in late summer. Madoka said the fresh air would be good for all of us—said it like we were sick and the ocean was medicine.

We stayed in a little guesthouse with thin walls and sand in the corners. The kind of place that smelled like coconut shampoo and rusted fans. I remember the taste of salt on everything—on the towels, on our chopsticks, in my mouth after I laughed too hard.

Renée spent most of the time under a parasol, sunglasses too big for her face, a book she never actually read open on her lap. Her legs didn’t tan. They just sort of... stayed porcelain.

I don’t think she liked the heat. But she loved watching everyone else suffer in it.

Madoka waded into the water like he had somewhere to be under the waves. He said nothing for long stretches, his white shirt clinging to his back, sea breeze tugging at his sleeves like a child. The only time he really spoke was to tell Osaka to stop running in the shallows—you’ll slip, he said. You’ll drag your sister down with you.

I didn’t care. I was already chasing him. My feet slapped against the hot wood of the deck, sunscreen slick and sand caked on my legs.

“Osa-nii!!”

“You didn’t put enough on again, idiot—your skin’s gonna peel!”

“So?”

“You’ll cry later!”

I stuck my tongue out at him and bolted, laughter breaking out of me like a spark from flint. He caught me in a second, his grip careful even as he flung me onto his shoulder like a sack of rice.

I screamed. Kicked my feet. I remember that.

But I also remember the way his hand braced my back. Always gentle. Always there.

And just beyond the edge of the shade, sitting primly beside Renée, were the two kids she brought with her. Her daughter and son. Seven and twelve.

They stared at us like we were a circus act. Like we were loud and weird and embarrassing.

They didn’t say much, but their eyes said everything.

I think her son hated me on sight.

I think her daughter just wanted to know why my hair was white.

I didn’t talk to them. I didn’t want to.

Back then, it was enough that Osaka laughed with me.

That he called me Aya-tan and held my hand when the tide pulled too hard.

That night, I curled up in a futon smelling of seaweed and lavender, sunburn prickling under my pajamas. I could hear him whispering something in the next room to Madoka. Something about the stars.

I remember thinking—

If I could bottle that day—trap it in glass and drink it whenever I felt empty—I would never need anything else.

But now it just sits in my gut like a splinter.

Beautiful.

Rotting.

Unreachable.

I didn’t want to leave.

When Osaka said it was time to pack up and head back to the guesthouse, I crossed my arms and sat down in the sand like a stubborn little goblin.

“No.”

“You’ll get a rash if you stay out longer.”

“Don’t care.”

“Aya-tan.”

He only used that voice when he meant business—soft but serious, stretched thin by patience. I huffed and buried my toes in the hot sand, pretending I didn’t hear him.

The sun was starting to dip, and the air had that golden lull to it—like everything was being tucked in under warm blankets of light. It made the shadows stretch longer and the ocean look like it was glowing from within.

I didn’t want the day to end. Not yet. Not while he was still smiling.

But eventually, I stood up.

Still pouting.

Still silent.

I kicked at a clump of sand just to make a point. Osaka didn’t say anything—just looked at me with that tired, amused look like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to ruffle my hair or throw me in the ocean.

We walked back together toward the chairs.

Renée was sipping something iced and green, her mouth curled in a lazy half-smile like she knew a joke we were all too slow to catch. She glanced at us over the rim of her sunglasses.

“Enjoy yourselves?” she asked, like it wasn’t obvious.

I nodded, clutching my towel to my chest.

The two kids looked up from the card game they were playing in the sand. The older boy wrinkled his nose when he saw how soaked and sticky we were. The girl tilted her head slightly, eyes lingering on me in that quiet, unsettling way some children have—curious, but cautious. Like I was some rare animal she wasn’t sure was safe to approach.

I suddenly remembered my hair was all tangled. That my skin was too red. That I probably looked weird and wild and windblown.

Osaka reached down to grab our bags, muttering something about needing to rinse off before the sun set completely. I hovered awkwardly beside him, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

“Hi,” the girl said softly.

I blinked at her.

“…Hi.”

“Why’s your hair white?” she asked.

I froze. My throat felt small. I hated when people asked me that. Not because I didn’t have an answer—just because I hated the feeling that I needed one.

Before I could speak, Osaka cut in without looking up.

“Because she’s special.”

The boy scoffed. “Looks creepy.”

Renée clicked her tongue. “Arai.”

He shrugged and turned away, muttering something under his breath I didn’t catch. The girl just kept watching me, not smiling, not blinking.

I didn’t answer her question. I didn’t know how.

I just clung tighter to my towel and stepped closer to Osaka, hoping he’d finish packing fast.

He looked at me. Winked.

“Let’s race back,” he whispered.

My pout cracked.

Just a little.

I woke up with my back aching and tears crusted into my temples.

The kind of sleep that doesn’t rest you—just drags you down and leaves you stranded there.

I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

Not like that. Not again.

But the memory had come on too warm, too vivid. I could still smell the salt in the air. Still feel the sun clinging to my shoulders. His voice, younger, teasing. His hand brushing the sand from my hair like it was second nature.

Now the ceiling above me was dark, cracked faintly by the crooked shadow of the hallway light leaking in through the gap under the door.

And something was scratching.

Slow.

Inconsistent.

Too deliberate to be the pipes. Too gentle to be the wind.

I didn’t move at first. I just stared at the ceiling, heart caught in the middle of a thump. My mouth tasted bitter. My eyes ached. I pressed the back of my wrist to them and found them dry.

A sob must’ve wrung itself out while I slept.

I turned my head slightly, still listening. The scratching had stopped.

I hated this part.

The quiet after memory. The silence that fills the space where he used to be.

Sometimes I thought I hated him, too—for leaving me. For making me love him so much I couldn’t even hold my own shape without him in it.

But hating him felt like blasphemy.

Like biting the hand of God.

Because even now—even knowing what he did, what he might be—I still wanted to be good in his eyes.

Still wanted to be Aya-tan.

I curled my fingers into the blanket, the weight of sleep still wrapped around my limbs like wet cloth.

Another sound.

Not scratching this time.

Breath.

Right outside the door.

I sat up slowly.

The floor creaked beneath me, just the slightest shift in weight.

I couldn’t tell if it was real.

I didn’t know anymore what parts of him were mine, and what had been left behind by something else entirely.

But I knew this much:

He was watching.

And whatever was out there—whatever had latched on to me during that damned ritual—it knew I still loved him.

It knew I still prayed for him.

Even now.

Even like this.

Even if he wasn’t real anymore.

When I was little, I thought love meant never leaving.

Now, I know love is the ache in my chest where he used to be.

A hollow carved slow, over years. A bone-deep vacancy that never quite closes.

I press my fingers against my ribs and feel them shift, like something else is growing inside me.

Not mine. Not entirely.

Something with his smile. His voice. His absence.

He is inside me now—beneath my skin, beneath my thoughts—curling up in the spaces I thought were mine alone.

A parasite, a prayer, a promise.

His shadow stretches under my door, thick and wet, smelling of salt and something rotten. Like the beach at low tide. Like something drowned and dragged back to shore.

I hear him breathing in my walls.

Slow and wet, like lungs still full of seawater.

I remember asking him once if he would ever leave.

It was late. We were both too tired to lie. I was small enough to still believe in forever, and he was still kind enough to pretend it existed.

He smiled and said, “I can’t. I’m your brother.”

And I believed him.

Without question.

Now, I wonder if that was the first curse he ever laid on me.

If loving him is what tethered him here.

If I am the thing keeping him from resting.

Or worse—if he’s the one keeping me from moving on.

And yet, I don't pray for deliverance.

I pray for him.

Like always.

Because maybe if I keep praying hard enough, I’ll get to hold the real him again.

Not the one scratching at my door.
I must’ve fallen asleep at some point.

I woke with the taste of salt in my mouth and the dried sting of tears crusted into the corners of my eyes. My head ached, like something tried to crawl out while I slept. Like something almost made it.

The room was gray with early morning. Cold and still and watching me.

I laid there, frozen, until I heard it again.

A sound. Small. Wet.

Like fingers dragging down the wood of the door.

No urgency. Just… persistence.

I didn’t breathe.

Not until it stopped.

Not until the weight lifted from the room, like a held breath finally exhaled.

I sat up, and everything felt far away.

My hands.

My body.

Even my thoughts.

I blinked down at my lap, at the crumpled blanket clenched in my fists, and realized I had been whispering something under my breath for minutes.

A prayer.

One I don’t remember learning.

One I know isn’t in any Bible.

I wiped my face with my sleeves and stumbled to my feet.

The floorboards creaked.

Not like they did when I was younger, when Osaka used to joke they were haunted and make ghost sounds until I laughed.

No, in that moment the creak was real.

Uneven.

Like it was reacting to something besides me.

I tried not to think about that. About him. About the thing that speaks in his voice.

But as I stood by the window, watching pale light bloom across the sky, I couldn’t stop myself.

I thought of his hands, how they used to ruffle my hair.

I thought of his temper, how it would crack the silence like thunder and disappear just as fast.

I think of his promise.

"I’m your brother."

Like that explained everything.

Like that excused everything.

I think of Nishihama beach.

The way his laughter mixed with the waves. The way I trusted him, then—utterly.

The way I thought God would never take him from me because He couldn’t.

Now I know better.

God doesn’t take.

He leaves things behind.

And some of them come back wrong.

The guesthouse smelled like tatami and ocean air and the faintest trace of vinegar from someone’s pickled lunch—sharp and clinging, like it had soaked into the wood itself.

We’d come back just before sunset, our hair still heavy with salt and our shoulders flushed pink. I dragged my towel like a sulking ghost, sand spilling from my flip-flops with every stubborn step. I didn’t want the day to end. Not then. Not while he was still laughing.

Now the shoji doors were cracked open to the hush of early evening, and everything inside was gold—soft and glowing, like the house was holding its breath in amber light.

I sat on the tatami, legs tucked underneath me, while Osaka knelt behind me. His knees on either side of my hips, close but not quite touching. He was brushing my hair, slow and careful, like he had all the time in the world.

The bristles whispered through my hair, slow and careful, like he was remembering something through the motion.

One hand anchored my shoulder lightly while the other moved in soft, patient strokes. He wasn’t teasing me this time. No sudden tugs. No smug comments. Just silence, heavy and deliberate, filled with the rhythm of his hand and the hush of the wind through paper walls.

I didn’t complain.

Didn’t speak.

I was afraid if I made a sound, it would shatter the stillness. This rare, gentle version of him only came out when the world around us quieted. No teasing. No sharp quips. Just the rhythmic hush of the brush and his breath as he hummed under it—something tuneless and old.

In the next room, Madoka and Renée talked in low, slow murmurs—just out of earshot, the way adults do when they think you’re not supposed to listen. I could hear the clink of cups, the slide of cloth on wood. Sake, maybe. Or something stronger.

There was a sigh, a laugh too quiet to be real. Their conversation didn’t belong to us, but the paper door was left open a crack, enough for warm gold light to spill through, casting their shadows on the floor like ghosts in another world.

I stared at that golden line between the panels. The way light spilled through like it was bleeding from another world.

Then Osaka slid the door shut with one hand, smooth and soundless.

I blinked. He didn’t say anything. Just kept brushing.

At the low table across the room, Arai sat with his little sister perched in his lap. She kept tugging at her cup with both hands while he braided her hair with absentminded precision, his fingers deft and fast. The braid started loose, then tightened—like he was letting the ritual calm him down.

They looked like a picture in a catalog. Or maybe a memory that wasn’t mine.

I watched them out of the corner of my eye.

Wondering if they did the same things we did.

If he brushed her hair like this. If she ever clung to her brother's arms as a baby, like I used to with mine. If they told scary stories in the dark, or argued about music, or ran from their house barefoot at night just to look at the stars.

If they shared tea, whispered secrets. If their silences were safe. If their hands had ever meant something different than what they were supposed to.

Arai looked up and met my gaze.

His stare was flat. Cold.

Like he could smell the rot in my ribs.

Like he knew.

Like he knew everything.

I looked away.

And Osaka’s fingers, warm and steady, smoothed down the side of my head.

"Hold still, Aya-tan," he murmured, not unkindly.

So I did.

Even though something in the room had shifted.

Even though Arai hadn’t looked away.

I remember the first time I saw him differently.

His eyes were warmer—but there was something in them, something that looked at me like a secret. I didn’t know what it meant. Only that it crawled under my skin and stayed there.

He stopped holding my hand as often. I told myself it didn’t matter.

But every time he let go, the space between our fingers felt colder, wider. Like something invisible was stretching between us, taut and trembling.

He began to pull away when I sat too close.

And I told myself that’s just how it is now.

But each inch he backed away became another inch between who we were and who we were becoming.

When I smiled at him, he still smiled back.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

And I started to wonder if I had broken something.

If I had changed in a way I wasn’t supposed to.

When I looked into his eyes, I didn’t see my brother anymore.

I saw someone watching me from a distance he didn’t want me to cross.

Someone I loved so deeply it hurt to breathe— and someone who made me feel like I was drowning in a sea I couldn’t name.

I started hearing my own voice when I talked to him— strange, unfamiliar, too grown.

Not the voice I used when I was little.

Not the one he liked best.

I tried talking about school. About boys. About silly things.

I wanted him to laugh like he used to.

But he just stared, quiet and tired.

Like he was trying to remember me from a dream he’d already forgotten.

His touch changed, too.

It wasn’t careless anymore. It lingered.

Too long.

Too warm.

Too aware.

And his smile—it wasn’t the same smile that used to light up every room we entered.

It held something now. Something sharp and unspoken.

There were nights I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

Wondering if I had grown up— or just became something he couldn’t love anymore.

He started whispering to me at night.

His voice thick and wet, like it had been dredged up from somewhere too deep.

He said things I can’t remember now.

Or maybe I won’t let myself remember.

And I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t know how to fight the thing he had become.

Didn’t know how to mourn someone who was still looking at me with his face.

The line between brother and stranger grew thinner every day.

Until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.

Until I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

I remembered that night at Nishihama.

I could feel him behind me, even when I wasn’t looking.

Like a shadow I couldn’t outrun.

As if he was already inside me— and I couldn’t tell if that was what I wanted or what I feared.

He leaned in.

His breath warm against my skin.

I froze.

I should have gotten up.

Should have screamed.

Should have done something.

But all I could do was stand there, paralyzed by a fear I didn’t understand.

Fear of him.

Or fear of myself.

I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.

Hoping that when I opened them, everything would go back to normal.

But when I opened them—

he was staring at me.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel safe.

I felt like I was drowning in his gaze.

When our eyes met, I saw something that shattered me.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t care.

It was darker.

Heavier.

Something that pulled me in like a riptide I hadn’t seen coming.

There was a flicker in his eyes—a hunger, a longing.

And I realized, too late,

it wasn’t something he wanted from me.

It was something he had always wanted.

Something I had been giving without knowing.

I tried to speak.

To ask him what he was doing.

But my voice came out too soft, too small.

It didn’t sound like me.

It sounded like a version of me that didn’t know how to make him stop.

He reached for me.

And I didn’t move.

I didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t scream.

I just laid there, caught between wanting him to stop
and needing him to never let go.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

Didn’t know what I was becoming.

My mind told me to run.

My body stayed still.

Like it had forgotten how to escape.

When he touched me—

it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like claiming.

And worse than anything,

I didn’t want to stop him.

His gaze felt like pressure.

Like he was digging through me, searching for something—
something lost.

Or something he’d always believed was his.

I tried to back away.

But he grabbed my wrist.

Tight enough to hurt, not enough to leave a bruise.

“You don’t have to run from me,” he whispered.

“You never did.”

And when he pulled me into him, it wasn’t an embrace.

It was a trap.

A net I’d swum into on purpose.

He held me like I was something slipping from his fingers—
like letting go would kill him.

Or kill me.

His breath was heavy. Labored.

Like he was choking on everything he wouldn’t say.

And I hated myself for not knowing how to break it.

How to break us.

I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.

Everything was blurred, blended into a shape that wasn’t mine, but wasn’t his either.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, voice cracking like glass.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence said it all.

He didn’t know.

He just knew we were lost.

And he didn’t know how to let me go without sinking.

He used to be the one who kept the dark away.

Now he was the dark.

And I didn’t know how to tell him that.

They say the dead don’t come back.

But they haven’t heard the way he laughs in my dreams— low, hungry, like he never really left.

I woke up with salt on my lips.

Not tears. Not sea spray.

Just a taste I couldn’t place, like the ocean had climbed into my mouth while I slept and left something behind.

The sun was barely there— gray and soft like someone too afraid to enter the room.

I laid still, afraid to move, as if my body remembered something I didn’t.

But I did remember.

I remembered everything.

Nishihama.

His voice.

His breath on my skin.

The way the world tilted and never righted itself again.

I stared at the ceiling, watching dust float in the quiet, and I could still feel him.

Not in the room.

In me.

Like a splinter that never healed.

Like a tide that never receded.

I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry— like I'd been screaming in my sleep and forgot how to stop.

My sheets were tangled around my legs, twisted like I’d been fighting something in the dark.

Maybe I had.

Maybe I always do.

I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand with a hand that didn’t feel like mine.

Even the weight of it was unfamiliar, like I’d borrowed this body from someone else and they hadn’t told me how to use it.

The floor creaked somewhere down the hall, and for a moment, my breath caught.

Not because I thought it was him.

Because some part of me wanted it to be.

Just to see him. Just to know I hadn’t made it all up.

But I had.

Or hadn’t.

Does it matter, when your body doesn’t know the difference between memory and touch?

I curled into myself, knees to chest, and stared at the crack in the ceiling, imagining it splitting open pouring light on me until I vanished.

“What do you want from me?” I had asked him once.

But maybe the better question was:

What did I let him take?

I tried to remember how I felt before that night.

Before I knew.

Before I saw what was behind his eyes.

But there’s nothing before.

Only after.

And after feels like drowning in a room with no water.

Just silence and the weight of things I’ll never say aloud.

The water glass trembled in my hand, still full. I hadn’t even taken a sip.

And then— like a crack in the cold, like breath fogging a mirror—

I heard him.

“Aya-tan…”

Soft.

Familiar.

Like the way he used to say it when we were little. When his voice was just a voice and not a shadow.

I froze.

He wasn’t here.

He couldn’t be.

But the sound folded into the room like it had always belonged here.

“You don’t have to run from me.”

My spine went rigid.

That’s what he said that night.

Whispered it into my skin like a secret.

Like a promise.

My chest tightened.

I gripped the edge of the blanket like it could keep me anchored, but the memory was already flooding in again— not a wave, but a tide that dragged.

“You never did.”

The whisper curled around my ear, even though no one was there.

Not really.

But his voice had never needed a body to haunt me.

I turned my face into the pillow and screamed.

Muffled.

Silent.

A soundless ache that only made the ringing in my ears louder.

When I finally moved, my legs were numb, like they'd forgotten how to stand.

Like part of me still wanted to stay in bed, where I could pretend he never left, never changed, never looked at me like that.

But I sat up anyway.

Because if I didn’t, I’d still be lying there when night fell again.

Waiting for his voice.

Wishing I didn’t.

The phone buzzed once.

Twice.

Then it rang.

Madoka.

His name lit up the screen like a warning.

Like a flare in the dark.

I didn’t move.

It was a new phone.

He’d bought it for me— one of those sleek ones with a camera too nice for someone like me.

He said it was “for emergencies.”

But what he really meant was “so I know where you are.”

Now that Osaka was gone.

The screen kept glowing.

Buzzing in my palm like a heartbeat I didn’t want to hear.

I thought about letting it ring out.

Letting it die.

But then I heard it.

That ghost of a name.

The one I hadn’t said aloud since I woke up.

Osaka.

It wasn’t real, I told myself.

It was just in my head.

But the sound of it felt like ice cracking down my spine.

I picked up the call before it could echo again.

“...Hello?”

Madoka’s voice came through too clear, too calm.

“We’re going to visit your mother. Tomorrow.”

I didn’t answer.

Not right away.

I just stared at the glass of water on the table.

Still full.

Still untouched.

And for a second— all I could see in it was fire.

Not a reflection.

Not a memory.

A flicker.

Small at first.

Then growing.

Eating everything.

I didn’t want to remember how it started.

But I remembered the smoke.

And the screaming.

And the way no one ever talked about it after.

Madoka said something else—I didn’t catch it.

All I could think about was the fire.

And how maybe I had already burned.

And nobody noticed.

Chapter Text

Edenfall

And you were never forgiven.

The carpet was soft.

Orange, with little blue swirls like someone spilled the sky on it.

I remember pressing my cheek to it. Feeling the warmth. Pretending I was flying.

The house always smelled like ginger and laundry. My mom used to hum when she cooked—low and soft, the kind of sound that felt like sunlight on skin. I didn’t understand the words, but I knew when she was happy. You could feel it in the walls.

I was wearing purple socks. One of them had a hole by the toe.

I kept tripping.

There was a plastic bunny in my hand. Chewed up.

I think I used to bite it when I felt nervous.

Then the door slammed.

Hard.

The whole room jumped. So did I.

“Souto!”

That was my mom. She always said that name with this little smile tucked into it. Like it tasted sweet.

“Welcome home!”

He didn’t answer.

I peeked around the hallway corner. I remember the light from the window behind him—it made him look like a shadow. Still in his uniform. Backpack slipping off one shoulder. Shoes still on. His face was tight, like he was holding in a scream.

He looked bigger than usual. Angrier.

I didn’t move. Just stood there, frozen in my too-long sweater with the rabbit clutched in my fist.

Then he shouted.

“He said she’d get better! Dad said—he promised—she’d get better!!”

His voice cracked. Broke open like something rotten.

Mom came out from the kitchen slowly, like she was afraid she might break the air just by walking through it.

“Souto…”

But he was already crying. He wouldn’t stop. It was messy—ugly—the kind of crying I’d only heard through walls before.

“She sleeps all day! She won’t eat! She doesn’t even look at us! And now I have to be quiet all the time! You said she was just tired—why do you keep lying?!”

He screamed that last part.

And all I could think about was the bunny in my hand.

It had no mouth.

I walked up to him. Tiny legs. My socks slipping. My heart loud.

I held the bunny up to him.

I think I thought it would help.

He looked at it, then at me—and suddenly, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around me.

Tight.

Too tight.

I remember his hair smelled like the outside. Cold. Like rain on cement.

“She’s gonna die, Aya-tan…”

His voice was small.

“She’s gonna die. I know it. I know it.”

I didn’t know what that meant.

But I knew what his shaking meant. I knew what his breath in my ear meant.

It meant scary.

So I cried too.

Not because I understood.

But because he did.

My hand was still around the phone.

But it felt like I was holding something heavier.

Like stone. Like bone.

Madoka said something else.

I didn’t hear it.

All I heard was Osaka, whispering from a thousand years ago:

She’s gonna die, Aya-tan.

I know it.

And I wondered if I ever stopped being three years old.

Or if I’ve just been burning this whole time and nobody noticed.

The highway blurred past in streaks of gray and washed-out green. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the sound of tires eating asphalt, but not enough to clear the silence between us.

I shifted in my seat. My leg was asleep. Or maybe the rest of me was.

Madoka’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. His posture was too clean. Too straight. Like he was trying to drive like a soldier. Or a priest. Or someone trying too hard to be seen as calm.

The road ahead was empty.

Still, he kept both eyes locked on it like it might betray him.

The glove box rattled faintly with every bump. There was probably incense in there. Or a talisman. Or a gun.

You never really know with him.

I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve. It used to be black. It was faded. Everything faded.

“How’s Renée?”

My voice broke the silence like a pebble tossed into a stagnant pond.

Madoka didn’t answer at first. Just tapped his thumb twice against the steering wheel. Barely audible.

“We broke up,” he waid eventually. Flat. Like he was reciting a fact instead of living it.

I blinked. Looked out the window.

“Again?”

He exhaled through his nose. Sharp. Controlled.

“It’s final this time.”

“Right.” I paused. “Final like... ‘no-talking-ever-again’ final, or final like ‘she-threw-out-your-tea-collection-again’ final?”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even twitch.

“She took my Finley. Moved out yesterday.”

The words landed like stones. Not dramatic. Not bleeding. Just heavy.

I grimaced. Damn.

I turned toward him slightly. He kept his eyes on the road.

“I was only gone for like three days.”

“A lot can happen in three days,” he said.

And suddenly I was thirteen again, hearing that same sentence in a different hallway. After a different kind of fire.

“You okay?” I asked.

I’m not sure why.

It was not a real question. Not between us.

Madoka’s jaw tightened.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He tapped the turn signal. The blinking clicks filled the car like a clock counting down to something we’ll never name.

Outside, the world kept rushing by—trees with no faces, signs with no meaning. The sky was pale and hollow. Like it had been drained of color to match the mood.

I leaned my head against the window.

The glass was cold.

“Finley liked the estate,” I said, quietly. “The one near the shrine. She said the bathroom light flickered every time she brushed her teeth. Thought it was haunted.”

He didn’t say anything.

“She told me she was going to start a ghost blog. Interview all the spirits in the house.”

Still nothing.

"Did they go there with, uh, them?"

But his grip on the wheel tightened.

Knuckles white.

I saw it even in my peripheral.

“You should call them,” I added, softer this time.

“No.”

One word. Clean cut. Like a knife against silk.

We fell quiet again.

Not peaceful quiet.

The kind that crawls under your skin and itches in places you can’t reach.

Madoka didn’t cry. He never did anyway. Not where anyone could see.

But I watched the tension in his shoulders.

The way his breath catched slightly when the wind hit just right through the cracked window. Like it was stirring up something buried under too many layers.

The hospital was still an hour away.

And already it felt like we had driven through every version of the past that still owned us.

The hallway smelled too clean.

Like lemon disinfectant smeared over something rotting underneath.

Everything was white—walls, ceiling, light—so white it hurt to look at.

It reminded me of that room in the temple where they kept the exorcism tools. The one no one wanted to clean. Where everything holy felt a little cursed.

I walked behind Madoka. His shoes clicked in rhythm, calm, practiced. Mine squeaked.

I hated that.

Sounded like I didn’t belong.

We passed two vending machines and a set of doors with smudged emergency signs. A nurse glanced up but didn’t stop us. I guess they knew Madoka. Everyone seemed to.

The air got colder the closer we got to her room.

Like it knew what was waiting there.

Room twenty-two.

The numbers pulsed in my brain like a fever I hadn’t recovered from.

Madoka stopped.

His shadow loomed just slightly over the door. Still. Heavy.

"She’s expecting us,” he said, voice low. He didn’t turn around.

I nodded, but it felt like lying.

He knocked once—sharp. Then again, softer.

The door clicked open. A nurse nodded at him, then disappeared like part of the wall.

And there she was.

She sat in bed like someone waiting for a train that was never coming.

Her legs folded under the hospital blanket, frail and too still.

Thin arms resting on top like petals that had dried without falling.

She looked small. Smaller than I remembered.

Her hair was pulled back loosely, greying near the temples. Her cheeks hollow, skin paper-thin over bone.

But she was smiling.

It trembled at the corners, like it might fall apart if she breathed too hard.

“Aki,” she said.

And I almost collapsed.

It hit like a brick through glass.

I hadn’t heard that name in years. Not like that. Not from her.

It still sounded like love.

Like lullabies in the hallway light.

Like my name before it meant blood and smoke and lies.

My throat closed up.

I didn’t know where to put my hands. My guilt. My spine.

Madoka gave me a nudge—barely a touch. A stagehand pushing the actor forward.

This wasn’t his scene. It was mine.

And I hated that.

“Hi,” I croaked. Then coughed, tried again. “Hi, Mommy.”

She blinked slowly. Her eyes were watery. Unsteady.

But she opened her arms like she’d been holding the pose for years.

I stepped forward. Sat on the edge of the bed like the air might break if I moved too fast.

Her hand found mine.

Cold.

Light.

Like feathers soaked in winter water.

“You came back,” she said, voice hoarse, whisper-soft. “You’re safe.”

And something inside me—something old and sore and hidden—cracked.

Sharp. Sudden.

I felt it all at once, like breath after drowning.

I couldn’t speak.

She rubbed her thumb over my knuckles—just once.

The same way she used to when I had nightmares about fire.

When I cried about dogs barking too loud. Or shadows under the door. Or my brother’s silence.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she said.

Her voice broke on the last word.

“You were,” I whispered. “You’re here now."

I don’t remember when the tears started.

Only that I couldn’t stop.

It wasn’t loud.

Just warm.

Just endless.

She leaned forward and pulled me into her arms like it didn’t matter that I was grown.

Like I wasn’t the thing that had walked through that fire and come out wrong.

I curled into her chest, knees folded. Face buried in the crook of her neck.

She smelled like mint lotion and faint antiseptic. Like grief. Like home.

I wanted to stay like that forever.

But I knew better now.

I sat with her until the nurse came in—soft voice, kind hands, asking to take her for some scans. My mother nodded gently, not letting go of my hand until the last second. Her fingers trailed from mine like a thread pulled too tight, finally snapping with a quiet sorry.

I watched her get wheeled away, the blanket bunched around her legs like snow. The hallway swallowed them whole.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And just like that, I was alone again.

The room felt too clean now, like the scent of my mother had been bleached from it the second she left. The air tasted like lemon-slick chemicals and something ghostly underneath. Something that couldn’t be scrubbed away. Not with time. Not with prayer.

I stood. My knees ached. I hadn’t noticed I was holding tension in them the whole time.

I stepped out into the corridor, blinking against the sterile lights. The floor stretched endlessly in both directions—hospital-white, linoleum-glossy, marked only by the soft squeaks of nurses' shoes and the occasional distant cough. The door clicked shut behind me with the sound of a memory sealing itself up again.

My feet moved on their own, like they didn’t trust me to think.

The hallway was quieter now. Too quiet. Like the building had been holding its breath through the whole visit and had only just exhaled.

I still felt her touch on my wrist—faint, birdlike. The ghost of a lullaby pressed into skin. Her voice echoing under my ribs like something I wasn't supposed to carry.

"Aki.”

That name hadn’t belonged to me in a long time.

It sounded soft when she said it. Gentle. But it scraped something raw in me. Peeled open all the things I’d learned to ignore.

I hated how easily it fit in her mouth. Like no time had passed. Like nothing had burned.
I walked blindly. Past rooms I didn’t look into. Past nurses who didn’t see me.

At some point, the sterile chill gave way to the hospital lobby—more vending machines humming like insects, magazines no one read, children’s toys in a wire cage.

I scanned the room. He wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t.

“Madoka,” I muttered under my breath, as if saying his name would summon him.

Nothing.

My legs moved faster now, hot irritation catching up with me like a fever.

I checked the side halls. The elevators. Even peered into the bathroom near the nurse’s station.

Nothing.

“Seriously?” I hissed. “Where the hell did you go?”

A nurse gave me a side glance but said nothing.

I hated this building. Hated the way it smelled like nothing real. Like death in a clean shirt. Hated the way my breath sounded in my own ears. Too loud. Too alive.

I finally found him through a set of security doors, outside the emergency wing.

He was standing by the ambulance lane. Back turned. Shoulder hunched slightly like he was trying not to exist too loudly.

There was a cigarette between his fingers. Half-smoked.

He wasn’t supposed to be smoking. Not here. Not anywhere.

The sight of it—the slow, lazy curl of smoke twisting out of his hand—made my jaw clench.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

He looked so peaceful like that.

Detached. Holy. Untouchable.

A lie in human skin.

But then the rage kicked back in.

I slammed the door behind me.

“You made me look for you," I snapped. "All over the fucking hospital".

Madoka glanced over his shoulder, half a shrug in his posture.

“You needed space.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“You would’ve followed anyway.”

He took another drag. The tip flared briefly, a pulse of orange like the spark at the start of a fuse.

The smoke drifted sideways, catching the breeze. It stank. Burnt paper and bitterness.

I walked up beside him and snatched the cigarette out of his hand. Tossed it.

It landed in a puddle by the curb, hissed once, and died.

He didn’t react.

He stared at me.

"You done?" he asked, quiet.

"No," I hissed. "Not even close."

I stood too close to him.

I wanted to be close. I wanted to hurt. I wanted to understand.

Madoka looked at me like someone watching a fire they couldn’t put out.

Not alarmed. Not sorry. Just distant. A witness.

The kind of distance you only learn after years of keeping your hands clean while everyone else drowns.

“Why do you still defend him?” I asked.

The words came out sharp.

Too sharp.

Like a snapped violin string curling into the silence between us.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked off toward the ambulance bay, where a pair of EMTs were unloading a gurney. Their movements were slow, methodical. Like people used to death in plastic gloves.

Like people who never had the privilege of denial.

“You know why,” he said finally, voice quiet. Weighted.

“No,” I said. “I don’t. I really don’t.”

The wind caught the edge of my coat and flared it around my legs like a ghost was trying to pull me backward.

I hated how cinematic it felt.

How everything in my life always looked like the climax of a movie, but nothing ever ended.

“I told you everything,” I whispered. “I told you what he did.”

Madoka shut his eyes briefly.

Like the weight of memory was a migraine blooming behind his temples.

“He saved your life, Ki-chan.”

The name hit wrong. Like a misstep on a cracked stair.

“Did he?” I asked. “Did he really?”

Madoka said nothing.

“Because from where I’m standing,” I went on, “he set the fire. He locked the doors. He checked the rooms, Madoka. He looked me in the eye and told me to run. Told me it was okay. Told me everything was ready. But he knew. He knew my mother was still inside.”

My voice cracked around her name.

Like it didn’t know how to carry that shape anymore.

Like it wanted to apologize just for remembering.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there,” Madoka said.

“But she was.”

I stepped forward again, like distance would make my grief make sense.

“And he saw her. He saw her and he lied.”

Madoka didn’t flinch.

“She lived,” he said, softly. “Didn’t she?”

“Barely,” I spat. “In pieces. In ruins.”

I gestured helplessly back toward the hospital.

“She’s not alive, she’s waiting. Seven years of silence. Seven years of me carrying the weight of a crime he committed. You think it didn’t eat her, too?”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

His expression didn’t shift, but his eyes darkened like ink spreading in water.

“You don’t know everything,” he said. “Osaka—he—he made a choice. And maybe it wasn’t the right one. But it wasn’t evil.”

“It wasn’t evil?”

I laughed. Bitter. Hollow.

“He framed our father. My father. Made me keep my mouth shut while an innocent man went to prison. And for what? A cause? A clean legacy? His own fucking guilt?”

Madoka didn’t blink.

He didn’t move.

Not even when I stepped into his space again—too close, too loud, too furious to care. My heart was a drum. My breath, a blade.

“For what, Madoka?” I hissed. “So the organization wouldn’t fall apart? So people wouldn’t question the Great Osaka’s choices? Or was it because you didn’t want to lose your precious little brother—not to the law, not to shame, not to truth?”

Still, nothing.

The silence cracked against my voice like old paint peeling off a wall. Flakes of the past falling around us, bitter and dry.

He looked down then, finally, finally showing something behind those monk-glass eyes.

Maybe it was shame. Maybe it was just exhaustion.

“He wasn’t trying to hurt her,” he said, low.

“He did,” I shot back. “And me. And you. And we all let him.”

The breeze twisted again. Cold. Damp. Like a warning.

Madoka exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled—like a man on trial with no defense but time.

“You were just a child,” he said.

“I still am.”

I didn’t mean to say it like that.

Didn’t mean for it to sound like a confession.

But the truth sat heavy on my tongue, thick as blood.

Madoka closed his eyes. Let his head fall slightly forward.

“I didn’t know,” he murmured.

I almost believed him.

Almost.

“Bullshit,” I said. “You knew. You always knew. You just didn’t want to see it.”

He didn’t argue.

And somehow that felt worse.

The sky above us was starting to gray, cloud-thick and too still. Like something was waiting to fall.

I folded my arms, trying to hold the heat inside. Trying to keep from shivering.

“I needed you,” I said.

Madoka finally looked at me.

“And I failed you,” he said. “I know.”

We stood there in the smoke-stung silence, two ghosts clinging to the same ruin.

Then—

“I loved him too, you know.”

The words were barely audible. Cracked. Wounded.

I blinked.

He wasn’t looking at me anymore. Just at the ground. Like the words had crawled out of him before he could stop them.

I stepped back.

Something in me folded. Something else stood straighter.

“I didn’t,” I said.

Madoka’s brow twitched—surprise, maybe. Or pain.

“I loved who he was to me. But not him. Never him. Because he never existed.”

I turned. The parking lot stretched in front of us—cracked asphalt, a few loose leaves, a puddle stained with oil and ghostlight.

“I’m going to finish this,” I said. “Not for justice. Not even for revenge.”

I paused.

“I want peace. And I think I finally know where it starts.”

Madoka didn’t try to stop me.

Didn’t ask what I meant.

But his voice followed me anyway:

“If you go down this road... there’s no coming back.”

I looked over my shoulder.

“There never was.”

And then I left him there.

Alone.

Where he belonged.

The door creaked open with the smallest sound. She didn’t look up.

I hovered at the threshold, one foot inside the world I’d just escaped from—flashing lights, asphalt heat, Madoka’s ugly voice in my ear—and one foot in here. Quiet. Too quiet. The kind that rings in your teeth.

Her hands were folded in her lap. The blanket tucked around her knees made her look smaller. Frailer. Like a child pretending to be a mountain.

“I didn’t knock,” I said.

She hummed. A breath more than a word. Still not looking.

“I just wanted to see you again,” I added. “Before you’re... discharged."

She studied me for a second. Her gaze moved from my shoes to my face, then past me, like she was seeing a younger version of me standing behind my shoulder.

Or maybe she was seeing him.

“Are they treating you well?” I asked.

A slow nod.

“Did the nurse bring your water?”

Another nod.

I swallowed hard.

The silence between us had never been sharp—it was more like gauze. Soft, but suffocating.

“I was with Madoka,” I said.

Her lips pressed together. Wrinkled. Weathered. She didn’t ask what happened.

But that made her glance up. Her eyes were dull from medication, but I could still see the old sharpness under the fog. The same sharpness I used to flinch from as a child. But now it only made me ache.

“Your hair’s longer,” she said after a pause.

I touched it without thinking. “Yeah.”

“It suits you.”

That stunned me more than anything Madoka had said.

I moved closer, careful with my steps like the floor might crack. Sat down in the same chair I’d used earlier, when she was still half-asleep.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The IV machine clicked softly.

She looked at me, and I saw something old and frayed in her face. A memory clinging to the edge.

“You were always scared of hospitals,” she said suddenly.

I blinked. “I was?”

She nodded. “When you were four, you broke your arm falling off the veranda. You screamed all the way to the ER. But the second we got there, you just—froze. Wouldn’t go in. Clung to your brother like he was made of air.”

My chest tightened.

“I remember that,” I murmured. “He... carried me in.”

“You bit his shoulder the whole way.” She gave a small, dry laugh. “He didn’t even flinch.”

I smiled in spite of myself. My throat felt too tight for it.

“He always acted like things didn’t hurt,” I said.

“That doesn’t mean they didn’t.”

Her voice was flat, but there was a bruise underneath.

Another silence.

I looked at her fingers, folded neatly. A small tremor ran through them, almost imperceptible. But it was there. Like she was holding back something too large.

“You were so small when you left,” she said quietly.

“I was fourteen.”

“I thought the city might give you more than we could.”

“It didn’t.”

She nodded slowly. “I know.”

When she finally turned to look at me again, I saw it. That heaviness in her gaze. Like she was about to open something. A wound. A door. A memory sealed in salt.

“You keep calling him Osaka,” she said.

I froze.

“That’s not his name,” she added.

“That’s what he told me,” I replied, slowly.

She shook her head—soft, absent, like brushing the edge of a dream away.

“His name was Souto.”

The word came out like it had been buried too long. Brittle. Tired. Sacred.

“Your grandmother chose it,” she said. “She had this little blue notebook she kept beside her kamidana. Wrote down every name that ever felt holy to her. Souto was one of the first.”

She paused. Her hand drifted to her forearm, as if remembering the weight of someone else’s child.

“She said it sounded like wind slipping through cedar trees. Like a name that could stay quiet and still fill a room.”

I didn’t speak. I just listened.

“His father—your father—he wanted something louder. Tetsuya, maybe. Something bold. Something that demanded attention. But the moment his mother whispered ‘Souto,’ he went quiet. He just... stared up at her. That was it. That was him.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“He was so quiet, even as a baby. Like he’d already seen too much. Like he knew something we didn’t. I wasn’t his real mother, not by blood, but he used to sit on the floor beside me when I cooked or folded laundry. Wouldn’t ask for anything. Wouldn’t say a word. Just hum to himself like he belonged there. Just... be near."

I swallowed, hard. My hands trembled in my lap.

“You never told me,” I said.

Her eyes drifted shut.

“When he left,” she murmured, “when he started calling himself by that new name, when he stopped coming home—I think part of me needed to believe Souto had died. Because the boy who came back... the one who called himself Osaka... he wasn’t the same.”

Her voice faltered.

“I didn’t know how to hold him anymore.”

She looked at me now. Not angry. Not cruel.

Just... tired.

“And when I found out the truth—what happened to him, what he became—I wasn’t sad.”

That hit like a wave I didn’t see coming.

“I was relieved,” she said softly.

Relieved.

The word scraped against bone. Something in me folded in.

“I didn’t have to keep pretending anymore,” she whispered. “Pretending he was coming back. Pretending I’d still know how to reach him when he did.”

I felt something hollow open up in me. A weightlessness, like standing on a floor you suddenly realize isn’t there.

I wanted to scream at her. How could you say that? How could you stop holding on?

But all I said was:

“He’s still with me.”

She looked at me long then, longer than before. And when she finally blinked, I saw it. That quiet, bleeding tenderness behind her exhaustion.

“I know,” she said. Then added, softer:

“I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve held on longer. Even if he didn’t want me to.”

A breath trembled through her.

“He wasn’t mine, but… I loved him like he was. I always did.”

Her hand hovered near mine on the bed. Then fell away again.

“I’m sorry, Aki.”

She said it like it had taken years to shape the words right. Like she'd already tried a thousand versions in her head, and this was the only one that survived.

I didn’t speak.

I couldn’t.

It was like something inside me had snapped, not with violence, but with the slow, unthreading sound of fabric giving way to time. A seam unraveling. A quiet split. I couldn’t even feel where it had begun—only that it was happening. That I was emptying.

And in that silence, something came to fill the space. Not a voice. Not a vision.

A memory.

Maybe hers. Maybe mine. Maybe something between us both.

And for a moment—just a flicker—I saw him.

Not in shadows. Not in blood. Not in the shape he took when I cried hard enough for something to come save me.

I saw a boy.

Not a ghost, not a shadow trailing after me like an echo I could never shake.

Just a boy.

I saw...

Souto.

He couldn’t have been older than nine.

Standing beside our mom in the kitchen.

He looked… painfully ordinary. No guard up, no edge to sharpen. No scars had kissed his skin, it remained untouched by time. No trace of bitterness and sorrow behind his eyes. Just a boy—timid, quiet little boy—who knew how to listen to songs more than speak, who found safety in nikujaga and the silent, rare grace of being near someone who didn’t ask him to explain himself.

His black hair was too long, too dark, curling at the nape like it wasn’t ready to grow up. He was holding a spoon—not to eat, but to sing. Or maybe to pray, in the way only children can without realizing it.

He was singing a song he'd learned in violin class that week. Too slowly. A little flat. But so serious, as if the words meant something sacred to him. As if singing them right would make the day stay soft forever.

"Then the trav'ller in the dark,
thanks you for your tiny spark,
he could not see which way to go,
if you did not twinkle so..."

Mom was laughing. Not the tired laugh I knew now, but something softer, younger. She was chopping something— potatoes, I think— and letting him sing every verse, even the ones he’d forgotten the words to. Even the parts he just hummed through with closed eyes and a little pout of concentration.

She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t angry. She just smiled at him with a kind of permission I didn’t know she still had in her. Like she’d handed him the room, the moment, the entire kitchen—just to see what he’d do with it.

He hummed through the verse he couldn’t remember. Looked up at her with a frown. She nodded for him to keep going.

And he did.

I felt it then—not through my ears, but somewhere deeper. A kind of knowing that pressed against my ribs.

This was who he’d been. A boy with shy eyes and music in his throat.

Not the one who vanished. Not the man who broke and ran and turned his name into a blade.

Souto.

Before the city swallowed him.

Before Laurier Madoka made him kneel and learn silence.

Before exorcisms and blood and sleepless nights in old train stations.

Before Nishihama.

Before Nakamura Osaka.

And for that breath of a moment, he wasn’t my ghost or my grief or the thing I summoned by accident.

He was just... Souto.

I blinked, and he was gone.

My breath returned like cold water down my spine.

Across from me, Mom was staring at her hands. Like they still held the ghost of that little boy. Like if she was very quiet, she might still hear the music, too.

And then—

A voice, bright and full of mischief, not older than ten:

“If I hold your hand, the monsters won’t eat you.”

A smaller hand squeezing mine in the dark. A flashlight beam dancing on the ceiling like fireflies. His gap-toothed grin beside me, soft and certain.

“Promise?”

"Promise.”

The silence returned like the tide. I didn’t realize I was crying until I tasted salt.

“I think…” I said, my voice thinner than I meant it to be, “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen him. Really seen him. Not through someone else. Not through everything he became.”

She didn’t look up. Her fingers trembled as she folded them together in her lap.

“I used to watch him when he thought I wasn’t looking,” she said. “He’d hum to himself while he set the table. Make up songs under his breath. He was always a little bit somewhere else. Not in a bad way. Just… a step ahead of us. Like he could already hear where he needed to go.”

I swallowed. My throat ached.

“And I let him go,” she whispered. “I let him walk straight into that place. All I wanted was for him to be strong. I didn’t think… I didn’t know what it would cost him to survive.”

I wanted to say something.

But I was still holding the boy in my head. Souto, not Osaka. Singing with a spoon. Not saving the world. Not dying for it.

Just trying to remember the next line.

The door creaked open behind me.

I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to.

I felt the air shift with him—the coldness he always brought in with his coat, the invisible tension that seemed to bend the room’s walls just slightly inward.

Madoka stood at the threshold, his shadow stretching long across the floor. Silent, unreadable.

Mom finally looked up. Not at him. At me.

“Go,” she said softly, her voice as fragile as the rest of her.

But her hand reached out, warm and real and trembling, and I stepped into it without thinking.

She pulled me close—not tightly, not desperately, but in a way that said this might be the last time like this. Her arms didn’t clutch. They folded. Like she was tucking something in. A memory, maybe. Or a daughter.

Her breath was faint against my ear.

“Take care of yourself. And…” Her voice caught, just slightly. “If you see him again… If he’s still in there, somewhere—Souto—I hope he knows I forgave him a long time ago. And—tell him to come visit sometime. Please."

I blinked hard. My fingers curled against the fabric of her gown. She smelled like antiseptic and something older, like tatami and faint perfume.

“I’ll tell him,” I said. A lie, probably.

We pulled apart.

She touched my cheek, just with the back of her hand, like she used to when I was sick as a child.

Then her hand dropped, and she turned her eyes toward the window.

I turned around.

Madoka hadn’t moved. His hands were in his coat pockets, face mostly in shadow. But I could feel his eyes on me. Studying. Waiting.

I walked past him, brushing just close enough to catch the faint scent of rain and ash clinging to his sleeves. He didn’t speak. Just turned and followed, the door hissing closed behind us.

The hallway lights hummed faintly overhead. Everything smelled of bleach and dust.

“Do I have to thank you for that?” I asked, not looking at him.

He didn’t answer for a long time.

Then: “No.”

We walked in silence down the hall, the echo of our steps folding neatly into the sterile quiet.

Behind us, my mother sat alone in room twenty-two. Holding a ghost. Remembering a boy with a spoon.

And ahead of us—

I didn’t know.

But the hallway kept going, and I kept walking.

The car smelled like old rain and something faintly metallic, like blood that had dried beneath the fingernails. I didn’t know if it was real or just clinging to me—like grief tends to do. The seats were cold against my back, the kind of cold that had no temperature, only memory.

We hadn’t spoken since we left the hospital.

The city outside the window blurred into liquid neon—headlights and lanterns and vending machine glow dragging long trails behind them, like ghosts trying to keep up. The road pulsed under us in wet shadows.

Every sound was too loud and not loud enough. The hum of the engine. The whisper of tires across damp asphalt. The windshield wipers dragging themselves across the glass like they were tired of cleaning up after us.

Madoka’s face was unreadable.

Not in that cold, stoic way he usually wore like armor—but in the way old houses seem unreadable. Cracked paint, warped floors, dust settling in the places no one walks anymore. There was something sinking in him. Or maybe breaking.

He kept his eyes on the road. Hands steady on the wheel. White-knuckled. Like this silence was a tunnel he just needed to drive through without crashing.

I should’ve let it sit.

I didn’t.

“…Is she okay?” I said, voice barely louder than the engine.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“Who?”

“Renée.”

The name folded itself into the air like a secret.

He didn’t answer.

I let the silence drag until it started to feel alive. A thing with teeth.

“Is it true?” I asked, softer now. “What you said. That she left. That she took Finley.”

His grip tightened.

I turned toward him fully, watching for the shape of a flinch. “Where are the others?”

He exhaled through his nose. Like someone trying not to bleed.

“They’re gone,” he said finally.

“That’s not an answer.”

“They’re safe.”

He said it too quickly. Too carefully. Like he’d rehearsed it. Like the word safe could paper over every crack that had ever formed in her voice.

I stared out the window, teeth clenched.

“Good for them,” I muttered. My words hung in the cabin like fog on glass.

His jaw ticked. Just once.

“I mean it,” I added, too sharply. “I hope they’re better off now.”

Another turn. A little too fast. The tires shuddered against the road, the car swayed. He was showing his anger the way he always did—like it wasn’t anger.

“You act like you’re the only one who gets to feel betrayed,” I said. “Like you’re the only one who was left behind.”

Still nothing.

Just the sound of water rushing beneath the overpass, the low tremble of his breath like something barely held together with wire and old glue.

“I’m glad she left,” I said. “If I were her, I would’ve done it sooner.”

That landed.

I saw the flicker. A vein in his temple, twitching like a trapped insect. He didn’t respond, but the air changed—denser, heavier. Like before a storm.

I crossed my arms. Looked away.

The city passed us in murmurs and half-lit signs. A girl with a yellow umbrella. Two old men smoking in front of a shuttered pharmacy. A cat darting across the street like it was late for something important.

“You’re angry,” he said eventually. Not accusing. Just… observing. Like he was looking at a lab report.

“No,” I said. “I’m disappointed.”

He glanced at me. Just briefly. The kind of glance you give a dog that might bite.

“In who?” he asked.

I hesitated.

Because the truth was sharp and stupid and still wet in my mouth.

“…In me,” I said.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t comfort. Didn’t deny.

Just turned back to the road like it was the only thing left he could follow.

I don’t know how long we drove like that. It could’ve been five minutes. It could’ve been an hour. Time didn’t feel real in that car—it just sat between us like a bruise that wouldn’t stop blooming.

And then, quietly, I said it.

“Why did you let it get like this?”

Madoka didn’t move.

I watched his profile—stone, angles, shadow. Eyes fixed straight ahead.

“I’m serious,” I said. “Why did you let all of this happen?”

Still no answer.

I turned toward him, heart pounding now—not from fear. From fury. That quiet, pathetic kind of fury that lives just beneath your ribs like a buried scream.

“You saw him,” I said. “You knew what was happening. You knew. And you still let him keep going. You still—” My voice caught. “You still let him stay in that place. Let him take those jobs. Let him come home with blood on his sleeves and not ask a single thing.”

“I didn’t let him—” Madoka started, voice sharper than before.

“Yes, you did,” I snapped. “You let all of it happen. You let him happen. You let him disappear and become someone else. You let me believe he was okay.”

“He wanted you to believe that.”

“Don’t,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek. “Don’t put this on him.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” I said. “Every time you pretend he made his own choices. Every time you say you didn’t know. But you did. You always knew.”

His hands tightened on the wheel.

“You knew and you let me love him anyway.”

That one—that one—landed somewhere soft in him. Something raw and pink and scared.

“And when I told you,” I said, quieter now, “when I tried to tell you what he’d done, what I remembered—why didn’t you believe me?”

He inhaled sharply, like I’d cut something open.

“I was trying to protect you.”

“No, you weren’t,” I said. “You were trying to protect him.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” he muttered.

“You never do.”

The car swerved slightly. He steadied it. His eyes flicked to me in the mirror for a fraction of a second.

“You were thirteen,” he said, like that explained anything. “You didn’t understand what you were saying. You were confused. You were hurt.”

“I was not confused.”

The quiet that followed was ugly. Alive. It scraped against the glass.

“You looked at me,” I said, staring at the window now because I couldn’t look at him, “like I was dirty. Like I’d made it up.”

He exhaled. A slow, exhausted sound.

“I didn’t think it was like that.”

“But you thought something,” I said. “Right? You thought I was… lying. Dramatic. Trying to make him look bad.”

He didn’t answer.

“Why?” I asked. “Why did you believe him over me?”

Still nothing.

I pressed my palm against the window, feeling how cold the glass was. “Because he was useful to you?”

“Don’t—”

“Because he meant something to you? Because he saved your ass in some back-alley job and that made him untouchable?”

“I cared about him,” Madoka said, not yelling but something close to it. “He mattered to me. Of course I didn’t want to believe he—”

“He mattered more than I did.”

Silence.

I bit the inside of my cheek again until I tasted iron.

“You chose him,” I whispered. “Over and over.”

Madoka looked like he might say something.

But instead, he just pressed harder on the gas.

The city peeled past us.

And even though we were moving, I had never felt more stuck.

The silence after that felt heavy enough to drown in. The only sound was the whir of the tires on asphalt, the faint hum of the engine beneath us like a breath held too long.

I didn’t expect him to answer.

So when he did, his voice caught me off guard.

“You think I don’t regret it?” he said, low. “You think I haven’t replayed every second of it in my head?”

I blinked. Turned slightly toward him.

“I loved your brother,” he said. “More than I should have. More than was professional. More than was sane.”

There it was.

I didn't speak.

Madoka’s jaw clenched like he hated the taste of his own words.

“And I saw the way he looked at you,” he said. “I saw what it was turning into. And I—”

He faltered.

“I told myself it wasn’t my business,” he continued. “Told myself he would never hurt you. Told myself you were strong enough to pull away. That it would burn out on its own.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.

“But it didn’t,” he said. “And by the time I realized what it was, what it had become—it was already too late.”

He was gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“And when you came to me—when you told me what he did—I couldn’t let myself believe it. Because if I believed it, it meant I let it happen. That I failed both of you. That I saw the signs and still didn’t stop him.”

“You did fail us,” I said, voice trembling.

“I know.”

The words dropped like stones.

“I know,” he said again, quieter. “That’s the part I can’t undo.”

He looked tired. Not physically—something deeper. Like his soul had been scraping against its own bones for years and only now started to show the cracks.

“Do you think about him?” I asked. “The real him. Before all of it.”

Madoka nodded. Once.

“Every day.”

We drove in silence again. Not peaceful silence—just the kind where both people are too full of ghosts to speak.

Outside the window, the sky was darkening. One of those aching blue-greys that makes everything feel softer and sadder.

And inside the car, for the first time in years, I saw him.

Not just the man who didn’t believe me. Not just the one who made me feel small.

But Madoka.

Tired. Guilty. Human.

Still too late. Still too quiet.

But finally—finally—not pretending.

He didn’t look at me. His knuckles were pale on the steering wheel. Outside the window, the night pressed against the glass like a secret waiting to get in.

“There’s something else,” he said finally. Not loud. Not soft. Just… there. Settling into the car like ash.

My fingers curled in my lap.

“I never told him. Or you. I thought it didn’t matter. But maybe it always did.”

The air was too still. I could hear the faintest rattle of the engine. My own breath. His.

“He was family,” Madoka said. “Not in the way that counts on paper. But… blood. He was my cousin.”

The word felt strange. Like it didn’t belong in his mouth. Too delicate, too human.

I turned toward him, but his eyes were still forward, unwavering. As if the road was the only thing that could bear to look back at him.

“My father had a sister,” he continued. “I only met her once, when I was young. She wasn’t like the rest of the family. Kind. Off. They said she saw things that weren’t there. Heard voices. My grandfather said she was cursed. My father just called her weak.”

A pause.

“They said she was cursed.”

My mouth felt dry.

“She died before I met him. Alone. In some crumbling town that doesn’t even have a train line anymore. But she had a child.”

I didn’t say his name. Neither did he. It didn’t need to be said.

“He came to the ASAJ as an intern. I was just back from a mission,” Madoka added vaguely, like brushing off soot from a coat. “He was fifteen. He looked at everything like it was already disappointing him. Already showing signs of the same ‘gift’ that got his mother disowned.”

A memory unfurled without permission: Osaka slouched in the hallway, chewing the inside of his cheek, headphones tangled in one hand. How he never stood still unless someone forced him to. How his eyes didn’t match the rest of his face—like they’d been borrowed from someone older, colder.

Madoka glanced at me, just once. Then back to the road.

“He used to follow me around,” he said, quieter now. “Did I ever tell you that? Like a stray. Always pretending he didn’t care, but always there. Asking questions. Challenging me. Watching.”

His voice was getting softer. Less measured. As if peeling away the layers cost something.

“I didn’t know at first. I didn’t even suspect. But when I found out, I... I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t. I thought—what would be the point? He hated family. Hated the name he was born with. And I... I didn’t know if I could protect him if I became that to him.”

I looked at him, really looked, and saw a man made entirely of corners and contradictions. Someone who could disappear in a crowd without ever taking a step. Someone whose shadow didn’t quite follow the rules of light.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.

He blinked. “Because by the time I knew, he didn’t want a family. He wanted a reason.”

The trees blurred past us in long streaks of ink. The sky hung low and waiting.

“He reminded me of her,” Madoka said. “His mother. The way he’d zone out. Like he was always half a room behind or half a world ahead. When she died, it changed him. Like something in her didn’t pass on through blood—but jumped.”

I couldn’t answer. Because I’d felt it, too. Whatever it was, it wasn’t gone. It was crawling around in the space between thoughts. Whispering between ribs.

“Maybe that’s what’s happening to you now,” he added. “Maybe it moved again.”

My mouth parted, but nothing came out.
Madoka’s face was unreadable in the half-light. I wondered, not for the first time, what version of himself he kept hidden behind glass and metal. If he’d ever told the truth without weighing its consequences first. If there was a version of him untouched by strategy, untouched by grief.

He was a house I kept trying to map with my hands in the dark—just when I found a doorway, he’d shift the walls.

Outside, the road wound into the trees. Inside, silence settled again. But this time, it felt heavier. Final.

I pressed my palm to the window.

It was cold.

And so was the feeling curling around my spine—like a birthright I never asked for, waking up inside me.

Like a name I hadn’t yet learned to say.

The road stretched out like a scar under the wheels, and I thought maybe that was it. Maybe he was done. Maybe he had emptied his pockets of everything I’d ever be allowed to know. But then—

“I met you before you remember,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“You were five. At a shrine. You were with your brother. Your grandmother.”

My breath caught.

The image didn’t arrive all at once. It came in fragments. Heat. Cloth. The feel of something tight and scratchy around my arms. Then—

“I hated that yukata,” I whispered.

A flicker of something passed over his face. Recognition.

The memory unfolded slowly, like fog parting over water.

The day was too warm. The cicadas screamed in the trees. The sun made everything too loud.

I was small. So small. Trudging up the steps of a shrine with dust on my feet and a pout on my face. My yukata—light blue, with little white chrysanthemums—itched around my neck. My geta sandals were slipping. I was done. I wailed about it, loudly.

“Yuuukaaataaaa’s itchy!! And the steps are too many! Osa-niiii!”

Ahead of me, my brother—Osaka, no, Souto—turned around. He was twelve then. Too tall. Already looking a little too tired for his age. When I started fussing, he turned around so fast you’d think I’d screamed fire. His eyes narrowed—then softened, and he let go of Obaa-chan's hand.

“I got you, Aya-tan,” he said softly.

His voice was gentler then. Not yet carved by things sharp and unseen. His arms were like certainty around me. He smelled like the incense from the shrine, and summer wind. I buried my face in his shoulder, embarrassed. I think I kept crying. Just quieter. Just for him.

I clung to him like I belonged nowhere else.

Then there was someone else.

Higher up the steps, halfway through a prayer, a boy turned his head.

He was seventeen. Pale. Serious. Dressed in clean, pressed clothes that didn’t quite suit the summer heat. There was a girl beside him—a little younger than me, in a pale pink kimono. She was kneeling with her hands folded. Her hair was perfect. Her expression blank.

Madoka.

And Fumiko.

He looked at us like we were a riddle he didn’t want to solve. His gaze landed on me, clinging to Souto like a vine, red-faced and hiccupping. His mouth twisted into something between a grimace and pity.

He turned away.

Muttered something under his breath.

“At least Fumiko knows how to behave,” I remembered him saying.

“I’d never allow that kind of noise.”

Fumiko didn’t react. Just blinked slowly. Like a doll on display.

The boy—Madoka, I know now—looked away like it hurt to keep watching. He tugged gently on the sleeve of his little sister’s kimono, and they turned.

They didn’t say anything else. Just drifted away into the temple grounds like shadows.

Back then, it hadn’t meant anything. Just a boy being mean.

But now…

I turned to look at him. Older. Tired. Quiet.

“You were there,” I said.

He didn’t answer. Just kept driving. But the silence said enough.

“And Fumiko?”

He gave the smallest nod. “You reminded her of someone,” he said. “But I think she liked you. Even then.”

I leaned back against the seat, dazed.

So many lives, brushed against each other before we even knew their names.

So many knots in the same invisible thread.

And in the rearview mirror, I could see his eyes—not quite young anymore. Not quite old. Something else.

I whispered, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Madoka’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“Because if I did,” he said, “you’d start asking what else I remember.”

And I did.

God help me, I did.

I wanted to ask. I wanted to shake the words out of him. But something in his voice—something folded and final—made me afraid of the answer.

So I sat back.

And stared out the window.

Wondering how many versions of Madoka I had already met.

And how many more were still pretending to be someone else.

Chapter Text

Itsuki

When the forest calls the moon by name.

I swung my legs over the edge of the pier, the wood old and splintered beneath me. The sea spread out in front of me, lavender sky bleeding into deep, bruised blues—just like I remembered. I hadn’t told Madoka I was leaving. I’d turned off my phone on the train, watched the world blur past the window, and let the quiet carry me here.

Now, the wind tugged at my hair as I stared at the shifting waves. I used to come to this beach with Osaka. I remembered the way he’d skip stones across the water, the laughter that slipped out of me before I learned how to swallow it. My reflection trembled in the darkening tide, pale and ghostlike. It almost looked like someone else.

I thought about calling Madoka, telling him where I was—but the thought withered before it reached my hands. Let him worry. Let him feel what it was like to lose control.

The breeze shifted, carrying a voice across the waves.

"Aya-tan…”

My heart seized. It wasn’t the cry of a gull or the hush of the sea—it was his voice, warm and low, the way he used to say my name when no one else was around.

I turned.

He stood at the end of the pier, dark hair tousled by the wind, wearing the same black coat I remembered. For a heartbeat, everything in me lunged toward him: the months of missing him, the nights I dreamed he’d just walk back through the door.

But my breath caught as I looked closer. His eyes, usually muted lavender like twilight, were wrong—too wide, irises washed out to a pale, almost milky hue that made them look hollow. The mole that should’ve sat beneath his left eye was instead under his right, and the one on his chin had shifted, hovering too high like someone had copied him from memory but flipped him in a mirror.

His gaze was emptier than I remembered—even more vacant than the last time I saw him, as if he were staring through me. His hair fell the same way it always had, black as the deepest night, but as the lavender sky darkened, I caught a subtle purple sheen glinting across each strand, unnatural and cold.

A shiver crawled down my spine.

It took a step closer, boots silent on the pier’s old boards. The wind carried the faintest echo of his voice, soft and familiar.

"Aya-tan…”

My knees threatened to buckle. My mind screamed to run, but my body felt nailed to the spot.

I staggered a step forward, pulled by the voice, by the way it stood there like the answer to every night I’d cried alone. My hand lifted before I realized it, reaching out to touch it. If I could just feel him—maybe everything would make sense again. Maybe I’d wake up from the nightmare I’d been living.

Its breath came too slow, like a recording played back at the wrong speed.

I stopped inches away. My knees buckled. I sank onto the splintered pier, wood biting into my skin, gasping like I’d forgotten how to breathe. Tears blurred the figure in front of me until it looked almost real again.

“Osaka…” I choked out. “Why… why are you…”

The wind swallowed my words. The figure only tilted its head, as if curious.

And in the hush of the waves, something in its empty eyes shimmered like a dying star.

The figure stepped forward, and for a heartbeat the world seemed to hold its breath. The wind fell silent, the waves stilled, and even the birds choked on their songs. Time itself felt frozen, as if the sea and sky had conspired to leave only the two of us stranded on this splintered pier.

I wanted to run. Every nerve screamed, a chorus of primal terror vibrating under my skin—but my body was stone, sculpted by old grief. With each of its steps, my heart hammered louder, like it was trying to break free of my ribs. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t.

It stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see every misplaced detail. Yet something in that wrongness felt horribly familiar, like a lullaby sung off-key.

His hand lifted. Slow, almost tender, his fingers brushed my cheek.

“…Aya-tan…”

His voice was a ghost of warmth, soft enough to slice me open.

I shuddered under his touch, a violent chill rippling through my veins. His palm was warm, just like I remembered Osaka’s—yet underneath that warmth pulsed something unnatural, a static charge crawling across my skin. I wanted to jerk away, to flee, but I was trapped by the gravity of a memory I couldn’t let die.

I stared up at him, breath ragged, heart ricocheting in my throat. In the fading lavender light, his face was a kaleidoscope of heartbreak: every angle achingly familiar, every detail grotesquely wrong. His empty gaze pierced straight through me, black holes where stars should have burned.

“You… you’re not real,” I whispered, my voice fraying like old cloth. It had to be an illusion, a trick spun from the ragged edges of my grief. “Osaka is dead…”

But even as the words left my mouth, doubt uncoiled inside me like a serpent. His warmth seeped into my skin— his breath, soft and warm, ghosted across my lips. He felt alive.

My mind staggered under the weight of it. If this was a devil, it wore the mask of my brother with perfect, unholy precision. Could a devil mimic the exact heat of living flesh, the softness of a lover’s touch, the scent of salt and smoke I once buried my face in?

I searched his face desperately, clawing for any flicker of the boy I’d loved beyond sense. But all I found was a stranger draped in Osaka’s skin like a marionette of my worst nightmares.

“Who are you?” I breathed, my words as fragile as sea foam dissolving on the shore, fear and grief roiling inside me as I stared into eyes that reflected nothing but the abyss.

His touch was ice against my skin, each fingertip a shard of winter pressed into me. Yet even through the chill, heat jolted through my veins—an old, traitorous spark that made me hate myself. The way he said my name, soft and familiar, landed like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my chest.

I stood paralyzed, staring up at him as every instinct screamed for me to run. But I couldn’t. His face was a cracked mirror of the boy I once knew—details flipped, features twisted. His eyes were empty mirrors, wide and glassy, reflecting nothing but my own fear back at me.

It leaned closer, studying me like I was a puzzle he needed to solve. Its gaze was too intense, hollow but hungry, as if it wanted to devour every secret I’d tried to bury.

The wind tasted of salt and rot. My mind spun: the ocean hadn’t taken him. It had remade him, sculpted him into something that wore his face like a mask—and now he wanted me to see what he’d become.

Its thumb traced a line along my cheekbone. I shuddered. His touch had once soothed me, but now it was cold as the deep sea, wrapping dread around my heart like a tide pulling me under.

“…You’ve grown,” he murmured.

My breath caught on the word, splintering in my chest. I flinched at its finger brushing my skin, a shudder wracking my spine. His voice, once a lullaby, now rang hollow—an echo off the walls of a dark, empty cave.

“Stop… stop touching me,” I stammered, but my body stayed frozen, legs rooted like stone.

Grown? The word rattled around in my skull, wrong and heavy. Had I really grown? Or was I still the little doll he’d shaped and loved and broken?

My mind reeled. It looked like Osaka. Sounded like Osaka. But everything about him felt like a mirror turned cruel.

“You’re not my Osaka,” I whispered, tears spilling down my cheeks, warm and alive—everything he wasn’t. “You can’t be. He’s dead. Osaka’s dead…”

Memories clawed up from the depths: the cold night, my screams swallowed by the storm, the agony of losing him to the darkness. Seeing this thing wearing his skin felt like a fresh wound splitting open.

“I said, stop touching me!” I cried, wrenching myself from his icy grasp. I staggered back, heart thundering, lungs burning. My legs were heavy, but terror forced them to move.

“What are you?” I demanded, voice fraying like a torn net in the waves. “A devil? A ghost? How are you here… why are you…”

The words disintegrated on my tongue. Nothing made sense. This thing shattered every law of life I thought I understood, and it terrified me to my marrow.

I shivered as its touch traced over my skin, each icy graze like a communion I couldn’t refuse. My heart thundered like a church bell tolling the hour of my doom. The way it looked at me was a silent liturgy— curiosity twisted with something darker, almost primal, lurking beneath its empty gaze.

It stepped closer, closing the last fragile distance between us. The cold radiating off it seeped into my bones. Its hand rose to my chin, gripping it gently but firmly, tilting my face upward as if offering me to some dark altar.

Its words fell from its lips like fractured blessings, soft but hollow, as it studied me with the devotion of a zealot. There was no warmth in its eyes—just a raw, unsettling emptiness, like the dead eyes of a saint painted in a cathedral’s forgotten corner. Yet its touch was almost reverent, fingers brushing down to cradle my chin as if it was sculpting an idol from living flesh.

I couldn’t tell if it was the icy cold or the terror that made my skin prickle. Its knuckle glided along my jawline, tracing a path like an anointing oil gone sour. I searched desperately for any spark of the boy I had once worshipped, any glimmer of the brother who had been both my savior and my sin—but found only a void wearing his face.

“…Osa-nii?” I whispered his name like a prayer, the word catching in my throat like a forbidden hymn.

A ghost of a smile flickered across its lips, empty of warmth or grace. Its fingers mapped devotionless patterns across my skin, their chill a constant reminder of the blasphemy before me. It leaned in, breath icy as it brushed the curve of my neck, each exhale a profane benediction.

“…Aya-tan…”

It inhaled deeply, like a priest breathing incense, its hand moving from my chin to my shoulder with possessive intent. Its grip tightened, fingers digging into my flesh like claws rending a sacrificial offering. Its cheek rested against my neck, breath fanning across my skin like a promise of damnation.

“…How I missed you…” it whispered, voice soft as a midnight prayer, words soaked in the hush of waves lapping at the pier. Its hand slid down, curling around my waist like a serpent, pulling me flush against the frozen void of its chest. There was no heartbeat—just the stillness of a tomb masquerading as a heart.

It held me like a relic it had been denied, arms iron-strong, its presence the cold gospel of a love that should have died. its voice rose from the hollow of his chest, low and almost soothing, yet devoid of any soul.

“…I’ve been looking for you… for so long…”

Each word fell like an unholy litany, curling into my ears and planting dread like seeds of poison. Its embrace felt like a ritual meant to bind me to it again—my confession and my punishment all in one.

I trembled under its touch, terror and revulsion warring inside me as its fingers caressed my skin with mockery-softness. It was a blasphemous imitation of how Osaka used to touch me, a dark echo reverberating in the hollow spaces of my heart. I tried to wrench my chin from its grasp, but its hand only tightened, its grip iron around fragile bone.

“Let me go,” I whimpered, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks, each droplet a confession of grief I couldn’t swallow. “Please… just let me go…”

I searched its eyes desperately, praying for a flicker of something real—a spark of love, a shard of memory—anything to prove this was truly him, that he hadn’t left me drowning alone. But its gaze was an endless void, a black well reflecting nothing but my desperation.

“Osaka can’t come back,” I choked out, the words tearing through my throat like broken glass. “He’s gone. He’s never coming back. I miss him so much it feels like my chest is caving in… it hurts… it hurts so much…”

A ragged sob wrenched free, my body shaking as grief thundered through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of this hollow specter wearing my brother’s face like a funeral mask. The ache in my heart was a vice, each beat a fresh twist of pain.

“Please,” I whispered, voice hoarse and raw, “if you’re really him… if you’re not just some devil’s trick… show me you remember. Remember the mornings I braided your hair? Remember how we chased each other along the shore? Remember how I loved you so much it felt holy—and how you told me you loved me more than anything.”

My words fractured into silence, breath coming in ragged gasps. I wanted to believe so desperately, to feel his arms around me again, to hear his voice rumble with laughter and call me his Aya-tan. But deep down, beneath the tidal wave of hope, I knew the truth.

This thing… this creature… wasn’t my Osaka. He was gone, swept away by a sea that never gave him back. And now I stood face to face with the nightmare left behind.

A low, almost sympathetic hum rumbled in its chest, vibrating faintly through the cold space between us. Its fingers loosened on my chin, only to drift lower, gliding over the hollow of my throat with a chilling intimacy that made bile claw up my esophagus. Its touch was reverent, like I was a relic unearthed after years of devotion.

“…Braid…?” it echoed softly, the word leaving his lips like a question it didn’t know how to finish. Its eyes flicked over my face, pupils dilating slightly—hungry, yes, but edged with something like confusion, a crack in his perfect imitation.

It leaned in until its forehead almost touched mine, breath chilling my lips. "Aya-tan,” it whispered again, voice trembling ever so slightly. "Aya-tan…” As if saying it might piece together the memories it should have, but couldn’t fully reach.

I felt its grip tense, then loosen, then tense again—like a marionette uncertain of its strings. Its gaze darted between my eyes, searching, lost for a moment in the depths of something it couldn’t name.

Desperation welled up in my chest. I lifted a trembling hand and pressed a fingertip into its chest. Flesh. Solid. Warm beneath the chill, muscles shifting under my touch like any living man. My head spun. Was this really a ghost? Or something far worse?

His breath hitched at my touch, a tiny flinch betraying his uncertainty. His hands hesitated at my sides, tightening almost painfully as if he feared I’d vanish.

“…You remember… don’t you?” I breathed, voice cracking, eyes wide with tears and terror.

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. His lips parted, but no words came—only the ocean’s roar in the silence between us.

My heart raced as I stared into eyes that mirrored my own despair. The confusion in their muted lavender depths sent a chill down my spine—more frightening than any cold. Uncertainty, it seemed, was a human emotion… one this creature struggled to feign.

I pressed my finger harder into his chest, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. That shirt. The one I’d seen in my memories, faded and worn from endless washes. The one he’d worn the last day I saw him alive. The day he disappeared.

Tears blurred my vision as I searched his face, hardly daring to breathe. The cracked mirror of my brother stared back, a flicker of recognition kindling in the empty void of his eyes.

“You remember us,” I whispered, voice trembling with fragile hope. “The mornings, the laughter, the love… you remember it all.”

A sob caught in my throat, half joy, half agony. If he remembered, then he was real. And if he was real, then all this time, a part of him had survived the storm.

My hands shook as I reached up, fingers trembling as they brushed over his cheeks, his jaw, his lips. His lips parted under my touch, a ghost of a gasp escaping him. I traced the curve of his mouth, the line of his nose, the arch of his brows—every detail I had memorized, every detail I had grieved.

“I missed you,” I choked out, breath hitching painfully. “God, I missed you so much. I thought… I thought I lost you forever.”

I leaned forward until our foreheads touched, until the chill of his skin seeped into mine. Until I could feel the breath leaving his lungs in a shuddering sigh. Until I could see the flickering awareness in his eyes, the memories struggling to surface.

“Please,” I breathed, tears spilling down my cheeks and dripping onto his. “Come back to me, Osaka. Please, please come back.”

I pressed myself against him, arms wrapping tight around his waist, clutching the fabric of his shirt in desperate fists. I held him like I used to, like he was my anchor in the storm.

Like he was my brother. My world.

A low sound rattled in his chest, somewhere between a groan and a whimper, vibrating through its ribs and into mine. His arms snapped around me with shocking speed, so fast it felt like a trap springing shut. The grip was crushing, desperate, but cold—unyielding, like a corpse refusing to release its final breath.

I barely had time to gasp before its head dipped, breath icy against my neck. Its teeth brushed my skin—hesitant, almost curious—and then sank down with a sudden, savage urgency.

Pain exploded through my shoulder, white-hot and searing. My scream tore out of me, ragged and primal, echoing across the empty pier and over the restless waves like the cry of a wounded animal.

I shuddered violently in its icy embrace, every nerve screaming as its arms caged me in a grip that felt less like love and more like a curse. This wasn’t a brother’s warmth— it was a hollow possessiveness, an instinct it didn’t even understand. My fists pounded weakly against its chest, each blow swallowed by the cold, tears streaming unchecked down my cheeks.

“No! Let me go!” I screamed, voice ragged with terror and despair. “You’re not Osaka! You’re not my brother!"

I writhed in its arms, desperate to break free. Its body was unyielding, the chill of its skin leeching into mine, crawling through my veins like icewater. Every heartbeat felt slower, heavier, as if its cold was pulling me under.

“You’re hurting me,” I sobbed, fists trembling with exhaustion, pain flaring in my arms. “Please… please stop… I can’t breathe…”

I turned my head, gasping for air. Moonlight spilled across its face, illuminating every familiar angle twisted into something alien. The sight hit me like a blade to the gut— Osaka’s features, but lifeless, eyes glassy and searching for something they couldn’t name.

“You’re not him,” I whimpered, voice shrinking into a broken whisper as fresh tears blurred my vision. “You’re not my Osaka… you’re not… you can’t be…”

I squeezed my eyes shut, bile rising in my throat. My mind reeled, clawing for any explanation. A devil’s trick? Another hallucination born from grief? Or something worse—something crueler than any nightmare I’d dared imagine?

“I want my brother back,” I wailed, my body convulsing with sobs so violent they left me gasping. “I want Osa-nii… I want him…”

I repeated it over and over like a desperate prayer, voice frayed and hoarse, begging this empty shell wearing my brother’s face to release me—to disappear, to take with it the agony of knowing Osaka was gone forever.

I didn’t understand how it could feel so familiar yet so wrong. Its arms caged me in a grip that felt more like a vice than an embrace, its touch both desperate and alien. My heart pounded violently, every frantic beat screaming at me to run, to fight, to do anything to escape.

It raised its hand to my hair, fingers threading through the strands with a sickening familiarity that made bile rise in my throat. Its grip on me was unrelenting, its body cold and hard against mine, as if I were pressed to a marble statue wearing Osaka’s face.

"…Why are you afraid…?” it whispered, voice low and almost childlike in its confusion. The softness made it worse, like a twisted mockery of concern. Its hand tightened in my hair, tilting my head back to bare my throat to the moonlight. Its lips brushed feather-light across my skin, leaving a trail of ice that made my entire body seize up with revulsion.

Its maw roamed slowly across my neck, each contact like a brand of frost searing into my flesh. It moved with unhurried precision, savoring every tremor of my fear. When it spoke again, I could feel its mouth curl into a smile against my skin.

“…You’ve always been easy to scare…”

A fresh wave of terror crashed over me, and I screamed—a raw, ragged sound that tore itself from the depths of my lungs and shattered the night. I clawed at its arms, its chest, nails raking uselessly against the cold, unyielding flesh. It was like fighting a statue, a corpse animated only to torment me.

“STOP!” I shrieked, voice cracking with hysteria. “STOP TOUCHING ME!”

I thrashed wildly, but it only pulled me tighter, until there was no space left between us, until its freezing lips burned against my neck. The cold seeped deep into my bones, making my flesh crawl with horror.

“You’re not Osaka!” I sobbed, tears streaming hot down my cheeks as my voice fractured. “You’re not my brother, you’re not! He’s dead, do you hear me?! DEAD!”

I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the choking sobs tearing from my chest. Its arms were iron around me, its breath icy and wrong against my skin. When its teeth grazed my collarbone, a scream ripped from my throat, shrill and unhinged.

“No, no, no…” I whimpered over and over, voice breaking like a prayer splintered on a dead altar. “Not like this… not like this…”

Desperation surged through me, white-hot. I sank my teeth into its arm, biting down until I tasted copper—but it wasn’t blood that filled my mouth.

I froze.

Thick, black fluid oozed from the wound, slick and viscous, staining its pale skin like ink bleeding through water.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” I screamed, voice raw and hoarse as I spit the bitter taste from my mouth. “LEAVE ME ALONE, DAMN YOU!”

My words dissolved into a choked sob as its grip only tightened, cold fingers bruising my skin. I could feel warmth pooling under my collarbone—a wet heat trickling down my chest. It took a fractured second to register it wasn’t my blood. The metallic tang in the air was wrong, too thick, too bitter.

I dared to crack my eyes open. Moonlight glinted off its mouth as it pulled back, lips parted around a gleam of black, viscous fluid that oozed down its chin and dripped onto my shirt. It was as dark as ink, as if the shadows themselves had bled from his bite.

My stomach lurched violently. The bile I’d been swallowing surged up my throat, burning as I gagged. My chest heaved with ragged, panicked breaths that scraped like knives in my lungs.

“What… what are you?” I croaked, voice raw and shredded, terror sharpening every syllable like glass. My gaze darted to the stain spreading across its shirt where my teeth had torn into it—thick, black ichor seeping in lazy rivulets, staining the fabric like rot.

I sucked in a sobbing gasp. The sight cracked something inside me. This wasn’t a wound that belonged to a living body. There was nothing human in that ink-dark blood, nothing left of the brother I loved. Only a monster, puppeteering his face.

“No…” I whimpered, throat tightening until every word was a painful squeak. “No, no, no—this can’t be real…”

I pushed at its chest with both hands, my nails scraping over the sodden fabric. The cold of it felt endless, seeping deeper with every passing heartbeat until I thought it would freeze me solid from the inside out.

“Let me go!” I shrieked, voice cracking with a hysteria I could barely contain. My feet kicked uselessly against the wooden pier. My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might split my ribs wide open, each beat crashing like thunder in my ears.

My scream still hung ragged in the air as it straightened, arms loosening, black ichor dripping thickly from the corner of its mouth. Its eyes, wide and fever-bright in the moonlight, fixed on me with an intensity that felt more animal than human. It took one slow step forward, then another, its breath a thin, rattling hiss that clouded in the frigid night.

I stumbled back a step, heart hammering so hard I thought it might tear itself apart. My mind was a cyclone of terror and disbelief— the cold, the ink-black blood, the way it moved with that eerie deliberation. It wasn’t Osaka. Could never be Osaka.

Yet every line of its face was Osaka.

It raised a hand to its mouth, fingers coming away slick with dark fluid. It stared down at the stain on its palm, head cocking like a puzzled child seeing blood for the first time. Its mouth worked silently, as if trying to form words—something, anything—but only a low, fractured whine slipped out, the sound scraping like broken glass in the quiet.

Then its gaze snapped up to mine.

It was as if the world shrank to the space between us. The night pressed close and heavy, every creak of the pier beneath its feet sounding like a gunshot in the silence. I saw the moment something shifted in its eyes—curiosity sharpening into something more desperate, more hungry.

And then—

I staggered back, adrenaline and sheer panic lending me strength. Its icy grip slipped as I twisted violently, tearing myself free. For a heartbeat, the world spun wildly around me—I was free, truly free.

But in the rush to escape, my foot caught the edge of a loose board on the pier. I pitched forward, arms flailing uselessly, and hit the ground hard. Pain shot through my knees and palms as splinters bit into my skin. The breath was knocked from my chest in a ragged gasp.

I scrambled to push myself up, legs trembling, vision swimming with tears and moonlit shadows. The cold night air burned in my lungs as I choked back sobs.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps.

Measured. Slow. Unhurried. The creak of the old wood beneath its weight echoed like a death knell across the silent pier.

My blood ran cold.

I twisted to look over my shoulder, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs. It was there—silhouetted against the pale lavender sky, head tilted slightly as it watched me with that same empty, unblinking gaze. Its movements were calm, almost curious, like a predator stalking wounded prey.

Each step it took reverberated through the boards, steady and inevitable, closing the distance between us.

I tried to crawl backward, feet scrambling uselessly for purchase on the slick wood. The night seemed to stretch out endlessly, the air so still it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

“Stay away…” I croaked, voice hoarse with terror, hands shaking violently as I tried to push myself to my feet, hand pressing uselessly against my wound. “Stay… away…”"

My hands slipped again on the wet boards, heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. My breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale sharp and painful. Then the footsteps stopped—right in front of me.

It crouched down, folding himself neatly between my legs. Its face hovered inches from mine, head cocked with a childlike curiosity that made bile crawl up my throat. Its eyes glittered in the moonlight, wide and unblinking, searching every inch of my face like it was trying to memorize it.

Then its hand moved—slowly, deliberately—settling flat against my chest, right over my heart.

I froze, breath catching in my throat. Its palm pressed down with unnerving gentleness, as if it was feeling the frantic, stuttering rhythm beneath. My heart thundered so violently it almost hurt, each beat slamming against its cold hand.

“Osa… niisan…” I gasped, voice cracking as I looked up at it through tears. The words slipped out like a reflex, desperate and broken.

Its eyes flicked up to mine, pupils widening, breath hitching audibly. A low, guttural growl rumbled in its chest, vibrating through the space between us. Its fingers flexed against my sternum, as if testing the fragile cage of bone beneath.

Its face twisted—something almost like pain or panic flickering across its features. Its other hand braced on the pier beside my hip, knuckles white, as though it was fighting some unseen force.

The night seemed to hold its breath with me, the world reduced to the cold press of his palm over my frantic heart and the terrible hunger in its eyes.

Its hand stayed pressed to my chest, cold fingers splayed over the frantic drum of my heart. But then, with excruciating slowness, its palm began to drift lower—sliding down the center of my torso, the chill of its touch trailing like the kiss of death across my ribs.

Every nerve lit up with panic. It felt like its hand wasn’t just moving over me, but sinking into me, like ice seeping beneath skin and muscle, worming its way toward the fragile heat of my core.

A strangled sound tore from my throat. Its touch felt impossible—like the ocean reaching inside to claim me, like a phantom limb tearing open old wounds. My vision swam, the night fracturing into shards of memory and nightmare.

Time folded in on itself. The pier, the moonlight, the suffocating cold—all of it dissolved into a rush of images: a sunlit afternoon by the beach, his hand ruffling my hair; the smell of salt and sunscreen; the sound of his laugh, bright and careless, as he called me "Aya-tan.”

I was small again, knees scraped from chasing him across the sand. His shadow loomed long and safe in the golden light. I remembered how it felt to be tugged into his arms, warm and alive, how he’d leaned down to whisper secrets only I could hear. I remembered believing he was invincible.

A wave crashed in the distance, dragging me back to the present—where its hand still rested low on my stomach, cold as the grave, pressing down with a possessive weight that made my spine arch.

The night felt endless, the moon a pale, unblinking eye watching our private hell.

It felt like its hand was brushing my ribs from the inside, as if it was trying to wear me from beneath my skin, each finger cold and deliberate as it pressed lower. The sensation was impossible—like a phantom limb reaching through my flesh, sinking into me as if it meant to anchor itself inside my body.

The cold spread outward from its palm in curling tendrils, like frost seeping through cracked glass. It slithered up my ribs, down my spine, coiling around my organs until it felt like even my bones were shivering. My breath came in ragged, pitiful gasps, chest heaving under his weight.

It felt like the ocean itself had reached out greedy fingers to pull me under, to claim me as one of its drowned things. Like the pier had become an altar, my body the sacrifice, and it the hungry priest come to finish the ritual. My skin crawled, every hair standing on end as my heart pounded frantically against the cold barrier of its palm.

Its eyes glazed over, wide and vacant, drool collecting at the corner of its mouth as it stared down at me with a mindless, ravenous focus. The moonlight caught the gleam of wetness on its chin, made it shine like pearls of seawater clinging to something freshly hauled from the deep.

I wanted to run, to scream, to claw my way out from under it. But my limbs felt like they’d turned to stone, heavy and useless, as if the pier itself had reached up to chain me in place. My mind screamed MOVE, but my body obeyed the ice sinking deeper inside me.

It leaned down, breath brushing my cheek—icy and sharp, smelling faintly of salt and rot—and a low, eager moan spilled from its lips. Its grip on my waist tightened until it felt like it would crush me to splinters.

Its hand stayed splayed over my stomach, the chill sinking deeper, like its fingers were threading through my insides. My vision pulsed at the edges, black spots dancing with every panicked heartbeat. I could feel each icy digit sliding between my organs, wrapping around them with possessive intimacy, as if it was trying to memorize the shape of my life from the inside out.

A ragged breath shuddered from its chest, soft and childlike—a confused whine that rose from somewhere deep in its throat. Its head tilted as it stared down at me with eyes wide and unfocused, like it was seeing something only he could understand.

“…Aya-tan… warm…” it mumbled, the words slurred, voice hollow with a note of wonder. Its lips parted slightly, drool trailing down his chin to patter cold against my cheek. The sound of my name in that empty voice made my blood curdle. It sounded like a lost child playing at love, mimicking tenderness it couldn’t feel or remember.

Its hand pressed harder, deeper—like it was trying to crawl inside my chest, to tear open the cage of my ribs and slip beneath my skin. It felt like the ocean had reached up to drag me down into its black, suffocating depths, like it was the tide itself trying to swallow me whole.

A strangled sob tore from my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for strength, for the nightmare to end, for the ghost of my brother to either remember or let me go. But the cold only spread, numbing everything it touched.

My mind screamed louder than my voice ever could, shrieking inside my skull with a single desperate command: Run. Fight. Escape. But my body stayed frozen, pinned beneath the crushing cold of its touch. My heartbeat thrashed like a dying bird trapped behind my ribs, wings beating frantically against the cage of bone.

Then the world itself seemed to shudder.

A soundless quake rippled through the pier, the. boards vibrating under me like the sea itself was roaring in rage. The moonlight fractured on the waves, breaking into shards that danced wildly across its empty eyes. The sky above us churned with lavender clouds, pulsing as if a giant heart was beating overhead.

My vision split—reality splintering along with my mind. In one moment, I was staring into its pale, drooling face; in the next, I saw a flicker of Osaka’s smile, warm and alive, before it was devoured by darkness. I felt a hot rush of fury explode in my chest, mingling with the icy terror already burning through my veins.

The pier groaned under us, a low, guttural sound like the wail of something ancient awakening from the ocean floor.

“No…” I heard myself whisper, voice raw and shredded. “No more…”

Somewhere deep inside, something snapped.

My muscles surged with life, every nerve screaming for freedom. I twisted violently, shoving at its chest with all my strength. My hands felt like they passed through it for a split second—like shoving a shadow wearing flesh—before it staggered back with an inhuman snarl.

Lightning forked across the sky, bright and silent, turning the world white for a heartbeat. The air split with a sudden, deafening crack—like the heavens themselves were tearing open in outrage.

I scrambled backward on shaking limbs, splinters digging into my hands and knees, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the roar of blood in my ears. My breath tore ragged from my chest as I finally found my feet, the world around me still reeling, spinning.

Ir stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide and unseeing—like a marionette whose strings had been yanked too hard. Its fingers flexed open and closed, black ichor dripping from the wound where I’d bitten it, staining the wood at its feet like ink spreading across parchment.

The storm above howled. The ocean churned.

And somewhere deep inside me, a voice whispered that if I didn’t run now, I’d never leave this pier alive.

I staggered back, breath ragged, chest heaving as I put as much distance as I could between us. My vision was swimming with tears, every instinct shrieking to run, to escape—but even as I scrambled across the splintered boards, I caught a glimpse of its face in the moonlight.

He stood there, looming over me like a stormcloud, but his expression was… wrong. His eyes were wide and glassy, eyebrows pinched with confusion. His lips trembled like it was on the verge of saying something—like it wanted to reach out again, to soothe me. But he looked so lost, like a child who’d broken their favorite toy and couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t work anymore.

“...Aya…tan…?” His voice cracked, small and fragile, drifting into the air like a ghost of the brother I’d once adored.

For a heartbeat, everything went still—the waves hushed, the wind held its breath—and his face almost looked sad. Like a kicked dog, like he couldn’t fathom why I was running from him.

But the black ichor still dripped from its mouth, glistening like oil. The memory of its teeth at my throat burned like a brand. My stomach lurched, and my resolve hardened.

I turned and fled.

Behind me, I heard it make a small, wounded sound—thin and keening, almost human. The soft scrape of its steps followed me across the pier, slow and hesitant, as if it still couldn’t understand that its presence was the reason I was fleeing into the night.

“Aya-tan…” Its voice drifted softly between the trees, unbearably gentle, like it was coaxing a frightened animal instead of stalking me. “Where are you…?”

I ran harder, lungs burning, feet slipping on damp leaves. Every step felt like it might be my last. The forest closed in around me, shadows swallowing the moonlight. My ears rang with my own pulse.

Then I heard it: the slow, dragging crunch of its footsteps behind me—unhurried, patient, like it knew I couldn’t outrun it. Its calls floated closer, each word soaked with an innocence that made my stomach twist.

“Don’t be scared… I’ll find you… I promise…”

I choked on a sob. My foot caught on a gnarled root hidden in the underbrush. I pitched forward, crashing into the damp earth. Pain exploded up my leg as I twisted my ankle, breath knocked from my lungs. Moonlight broke through the canopy, illuminating the fog of my breath.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I scrambled backward, mud cold and slick beneath my palms. The pain in my ankle made stars burst behind my eyes, but terror forced me to keep moving. Branches clawed at my arms, leaves stuck in my hair, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue.

It stepped out of the mist, slow and deliberate, eyes wide with that same eerie, innocent hunger. Its head cocked, like a curious animal studying a wounded prey. For a breathless moment, it just stood there, the moonlight washing over it in pale silver.

Then it knelt.

The motion was fluid, graceful—almost reverent. Its knees sank into the forest floor between mine, closing the space until its cold breath ghosted across my face. Its hand hovered, trembling, as if afraid to touch me or desperate to claim me. Black ichor dripped from its fingertips like ink, pooling in the moss with a sickly sheen.

Tentacles of shadow slithered around its shoulders, unfurling from the darkness itself. They moved with a mind of their own, coiling around nearby branches, pulsing like veins under skin. One snaked toward my ankle, brushing the torn fabric of my jeans, and I felt a chill radiate deep into my bones.

It leaned closer, voice a hoarse whisper, eyes huge and glassy.

“…Aya-tan… don’t run…”

My breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps as I pressed myself back against the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. My vision blurred with tears and terror, the world spinning wildly around me. Every rustle of leaves sounded like thunder in my ears.

It loomed over me, eyes shining like wet glass, its silhouette crowned with writhing, inky shadows. My body locked up, sure this was the end—that the moment it reached me, it would all be over.

But then… its cold hand landed softly atop my head.

Its fingers threaded gently through my hair, combing back the messy strands matted with sweat and dirt. The tenderness of it made my chest seize— it felt so achingly familiar, like mornings spent half-asleep as he brushed the knots from my hair. For a breathless moment, I was seven again, knees swinging above the kitchen floor, his hand warm and careful.

I choked on a sob. “Nii… san…?”

His eyes flicked to mine, wide and empty, his lips parting as a small, pleased smile spread across his face. He leaned down, breath icy as it ghosted across my cheek.

“…Aya-tan…” he whispered, voice soft and sweet as a lullaby.

Then its smile stretched wider, almost childlike in its delight, even as the shadows pulsed hungrily behind it. Its eyes glistened with mindless joy, and it tilted his head as if it had just remembered something wonderful.

“…Dinner.”

Its hand slid from my hair to cup my cheek, thumb brushing a tear from my skin like it cherished it. The forest around us fell deathly silent, and the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of us—me pinned like a rabbit beneath the gaze of a predator who didn’t know it was hunting.

The sterile white light of the infirmary ceiling blurred above me as I wheezed into the nebulizer mask strapped to my face. Cool mist hissed in my ears with every labored breath. My chest burned like it was filled with shattered glass, but at least I was breathing.

Nurse Shenyue stood rigid beside the bed, clipboard hugged to her chest like it might protect her. Doctor Yangfeng hovered near the foot of the cot, his expression torn between clinical concern and sheer disbelief. Their eyes kept flicking to each other—then back to me, bruised and torn up, like they couldn’t fathom how I’d walked in alive.

The silence was thick and awkward, punctuated only by the hiss of the nebulizer and the ragged sound of my lungs scraping for air.

Before either of them could speak, the door slammed open with a bang loud enough to rattle the light fixtures. Madoka stormed in, eyes wide and wild, face contorted with fury. His gaze snapped straight to me, blazing like a storm.

He crossed the room in three strides, hand flashing out. The nebulizer mask went flying off my face with a plastic crack, bouncing across the tile floor. The medicated mist curled away into the stale air.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DAMN MIND?!” he roared, voice reverberating off the infirmary walls. “What part of stay put don’t you understand? Why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?!”

My chest convulsed in a fresh bout of coughing, lungs spasming without the nebulizer’s help. My eyes watered, head spinning, but Madoka didn’t even let me sputter out a word. His hands slammed down on either side of the cot, caging me in with rage hot enough to burn.

“You think you can just vanish? Turn off your phone and wander off to god-knows-where like it’s nothing?” His eyes were inches from mine, voice sharp enough to cut. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but only a hoarse croak escaped.

Nurse Shenyue made a helpless noise in the background, eyes darting between us like she was witnessing a natural disaster. Yangfeng rubbed his temples, muttering something under his breath in exasperation.

Madoka’s hands shook where they gripped the cot. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving as if he’d been the one running through the woods.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he hissed, voice low and ragged, like it was dragging itself up from the bottom of his soul.

I flinched under the weight of his fury, my throat raw and trembling. I tried to sit up straighter, but the pain laced through my ribs like barbed wire, pinning me back.

“Madoka—” I rasped, but he cut me off with a harsh shake of his head.

“I thought you were dead,” he spat. “For hours, we had no contact. No trace. Nothing but that goddamn bracelet soaked in blood left behind like a warning. Do you think that’s something I can just shrug off?”

I blinked. The bracelet… My fingers twitched instinctively, reaching for my wrist—but it was bare.

“I was looking for him,” I whispered. “I saw something. I thought... I thought it might be—”

“No,” Madoka snapped. “No more ghost chasing. No more hallucinations. You almost died.”

Something in his voice cracked then—just a fracture—but I heard it. Beneath the rage, beneath the scolding, was something quiet and afraid.

I turned my head, staring at the scuffed tile floor. My pulse echoed in my ears, slow and heavy. “It wasn’t a ghost."

Madoka stiffened. The silence that followed stretched too long. Even Yangfeng had gone still.

“It looked like him,” I continued, my voice barely audible. “But it wasn’t. It wasn’t right.”

“Then why the hell would you let it get close to you?” he snapped.

“I didn’t let it—” My voice broke. “It looked like him. It sounded like him. It called me Aya-tan…”

Shenyue made a soft, startled sound. Madoka’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re not well,” he said flatly. “You’ve been through too much. You're confusing reality with whatever you've built in your head.”

I looked up at him sharply. “I know what I saw.”

Madoka drew back, just enough to pace—one hand tangled in his hair. “Aokawa, you were covered in blood. You’ve got internal bruising, possible lung strain, and you’re still chasing shadows. This thing—whatever it was—could’ve killed you.”

“It didn’t.”

“Not for lack of trying!”

My hands clenched the blanket. “It remembered things.”

“It pretended to.” His voice was steel again. “That’s what they do. They wear familiar faces. They borrow voices. You’re not the first to be fooled—”

“I touched it.” My voice came out brittle. “It wasn’t just in my head. It was real. Solid. Warm. And cold all at once.”

Madoka went still again. His shoulders dropped slightly, tension spiraling into quiet fury. “What did it do to you?”

I hesitated.

His jaw ticked. “Yutaka.”

I looked away. “I don’t know.”

The air went still again—like the entire infirmary was holding its breath.

“Was it a devil?” Yangfeng asked, finally. “Something summoned? Possessed?”

I shook my head weakly. “It didn’t feel like anything I’ve ever fought. It didn’t fight at all.”

“Then what the hell was it?” Madoka demanded.

I swallowed. “It... was hungry.”

He stared at me, expression unreadable.

Then: “We need to put it down.”

My entire body recoiled at that. “No.”

“Yuta—”

“It didn’t kill me. It could have, and it didn’t.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t next time,” he snapped.

I looked at him then, eyes stinging. “I know what it is. And I think it knows me. If there’s anything left of him in there—anything real—I have to know.”

Madoka stepped back, visibly restraining himself. “You're not going near that thing again.”

I didn’t answer. My silence was louder than any promise I could give.

Two months before, the office had smelled like dust and old paper and the faint sting of antiseptic, like a wound that never really closed. I stood there stiffly, my shadow falling across the cracked tiles, half-swallowed by the late afternoon sun bleeding through the slatted blinds.

Time didn’t move in that room—it curled up in the corners, thick and suffocating. Dust motes floated in the stale light, suspended midair like breath held too long.

Madoka didn’t look at me at first. He stood behind his desk, fingers tapping against the varnished wood with mechanical precision. In front of him sat a familiar file—fat, faded, fraying at the edges. I didn’t need to see the name to know what it was. I could feel it. My brother’s name, like a knife carved into the spine. Nakamura Osaka.

My lungs ached. My palms were slick. I hadn’t stopped shaking since I cut my hair.

When he finally met my gaze, it was like plunging into cold seawater. His eyes gave nothing away—no kindness, no cruelty, just a stillness that made me feel like prey.

“Your new designation has been approved,” he said, voice smooth and impersonal, like reading a verdict. “From this day forward, you’ll be registered as Aokawa Yutaka.”

The name dropped like a stone into the hollow of my chest. Yutaka. It didn’t belong in my mouth, didn’t sound right in my bones. A boy’s name. A placeholder. A borrowed grave.

I opened my lips to protest, but the words withered on my tongue. Thorns. Smoke. I couldn't even remember how to say no.

He noticed the flicker in my expression, of course he did. His gaze skimmed over me, pausing briefly on my hair—jagged, uneven, the final ritual in shedding the name I’d been born with. Ayaki had washed down the drain. Ayaki had been buried quietly, without a headstone.

For half a breath, I thought I saw something soften in Madoka’s eyes. Pity, maybe. Or fondness, like a priest gazing at a sacrificial lamb. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind only calculation.

“It’s protocol,” he went on, matter-of-fact. “You’ll be reassigned to your brother’s position. His uniform will be altered to fit you.”

A buzzing started in my ears. My skin prickled like it didn’t fit anymore. My fingers curled into fists at my sides, but I couldn’t feel them.

“Do…” My voice cracked. “Do I have a choice?”

Madoka stepped around the desk, slow and deliberate. The air changed—denser somehow, like gravity had turned its eye on me.

He stopped in front of me and reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was almost gentle—almost—but there was nothing soft in the eyes that bore into me. They gleamed with something I couldn’t name. Not kindness. Not cruelty. Just… possession.

“Of course,” he said lightly. “You can always leave.”

His hand dropped.

“But you know what happens to those who abandon the Association.”

The words were a blade pressed flat against my ribs. A reminder. A warning.

I stood there, silent, blood roaring in my ears. My heart beat once. Twice. And then the rest of me didn’t.

“Aokawa Yutaka,” Madoka said, like a spell. Like a commandment. “Welcome back to the fold.”

I had shut the door behind me with a soft click. The sound barely registered, swallowed by the hush of the room pressing in from all sides, thick and smothering, like a blanket pulled too tight over the mouth.

There it was. Waiting for me. Folded with sterile precision on the bed, sharp creases like the edges of a knife. The uniform. His uniform. My fingers hovered over it, trembling like they were reaching toward a fire. I didn’t want to touch it—but I already had.

The fabric was stiff with time, a relic preserved too well. As I lifted it, the scent hit me. Cedar. Salt. Smoke. It punched straight through my ribs. I didn’t need to close my eyes to see him—the way he grinned when we snuck out past curfew, the way his voice curled soft around my name, the way the sea wind tangled his hair. All of it came flooding back like saltwater in my lungs.

I pressed the collar to my face, breathing him in like it would fill the hollow inside me, like it might plant something living in the place where grief had rooted itself too long. My eyes burned. My throat clenched. I clutched it tighter, as if holding it could rebuild something that had already been broken beyond recognition.

But then I looked up.

The window across from the bed caught the light just right, just cruelly enough, and what stared back at me was a reflection I didn’t recognize. That insignia—gleaming like an eye that had seen too much—sat proudly on someone else’s chest. A stranger’s shoulders. Not mine. Not Ayaki’s.

Aokawa Yutaka.

I held the uniform like it might split me open. I wasn’t sure if I was wearing it or if it was wearing me. I wasn’t sure who had stepped into this room anymore, or who would walk out.

I wasn’t sure I’d survived the burial.

The uniform felt foreign on my body as I slipped it on piece by piece—every fold a reminder of the brother I’d lost, every seam stitched with the echo of a life I no longer lived. The pants were too long, the shirt hung loose around my shoulders, but Madoka was right: with enough tailoring, it would fit. Just like Osaka’s legacy was meant to fit me. Whether I liked it or not.

I turned to the mirror, and the figure staring back barely looked like me. The girl with soft eyes and ribbon-bound braids was gone. In her place stood someone sharper, hollowed out—jaw clenched in practiced resolve, gaze cold enough to crack glass.

My fingers reached for the nape of my neck. The short strands there still felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else. I missed the weight of my old hair, the gentle tug of braids swinging down my back. Purple ribbons. Osaka used to tug at them and say they were too girly for an exorcist's sister, but he’d smile when he said it. Always smiled.

A bitter laugh crawled up my throat, but died before it could escape. I didn’t want to remember his smile. Not if it meant remembering how he vanished. How I had been left behind with nothing but a name, a uniform, and a shadow I was expected to wear like second skin.

I straightened my back. The jacket settled into place like a shroud. I was Aokawa Yutaka now—an exorcist, just like he had been. Just like Madoka had planned.

I turned to leave the room—

And stopped when a knock broke the silence.

The door creaked open. Madoka stood there, tall and unreadable, as if he’d been waiting behind it this whole time.

"Aokawa," he said, voice clean as cut stone. "The others are waiting in the training room. I expect you to introduce yourself and begin orientation immediately."

I swallowed hard. My palms were sweating. My stomach churned with something like dread—or maybe shame. I nodded anyway.

"Yes, sir," I said. My voice held firm, even if the rest of me didn’t. "I won’t let you down."

His gaze dropped to the insignia at my collar. He said nothing, but something flickered in his eyes—a memory, maybe. Or regret. Or a ghost I hadn’t yet earned the right to see.

The forest floor crackled beneath my boots, each step crunching through a bed of dying leaves—their reds and oranges brittle as old blood, their veins curled like the pages of forgotten prayers. The air was crisp with the bite of approaching winter, the scent of frost threading through the trees like a warning. Everything was changing. The seasons. The names. The people left behind.

My mind buzzed—too loud, too full. Madoka’s rare softness, the pressure of my new skin, the echo of Osaka’s absence like a missing tooth in my chest. I needed silence. I needed somewhere that still remembered who I was.

Then the trees parted like a sigh, and there it was: the old torii gate, rising from the earth like a spine of memory. Faded red, cracked with time—but still standing. We used to race here. I always lost, but he let me win if I cried hard enough.

I stepped beneath the gate, breath catching in my throat as I crossed into the stillness. Leaves rustled like whispers above. The stone path unfurled ahead of me, moss growing thick between the cracks, stubborn and green in the face of decay. The shrine waited at the end—small, weathered, bowed slightly from age—but somehow stronger than everything I had left behind.

I knelt on the cool stone, the cold seeping through my uniform and up into my bones. My fingers curled into my lap. My voice was barely a thread.

"Osa-nii," I whispered. The name shattered something in me. "I miss you so much. I don't know if I can do this without you."

The words hung in the air like incense, rising toward the gods—or maybe no one at all.

Tears welled and fell without permission, hot against the wind-chilled air. I bowed forward, forehead touching the worn step before the altar. The weight I carried wasn’t just grief. It was expectation. Identity. An entire dead man’s legacy zipped into the seams of my borrowed skin.

I stayed there, folded in on myself, weeping into the silence. For my brother. For myself. For the girl no one would call Ayaki again. For the boy no one could live up to.

For whoever it was the shrine might still remember me as.

I stayed knelt until the ache in my knees throbbed louder than the ache in my chest. Then I rose, wiping the tears from my face with the sleeve of my uniform. The fabric scratched, too rough—like it didn’t want to hold the softness of grief anymore.

The wind shifted. Leaves stirred behind me—too many, too sudden. My spine prickled.

I didn’t have to look to know he was there.

Just at the edge of the clearing, crouched half in shadow, half in moonlight. I caught the glint of eyes—wide, glassy, too still—and the faintest twitch of movement as something long and dark curled behind him like a tail. Or a limb. Or something that didn’t know what it was yet.

Itsuki. Or whatever called itself that now.

He didn’t move as I turned toward him. Just stared. Breath misted the air between us in slow, shallow puffs. His nails dug into the dirt. His head tilted too far to the left, twitching like he’d heard a sound I couldn’t. The inky tendrils at his back slithered against the trees, pulsing like they breathed with him.

He looked like Osaka. He always did. But this close to the shrine, the illusion was thinner—his skin a shade too pale, his mouth slack and glistening, the edges of him blurring into something not right. And yet… I’d grown used to his presence. He always came here when I did. Like a stray dog sniffing after scraps of memory.

"You always watch from there," I muttered, voice hoarse. "You never come any closer than the path."

He didn’t answer. Just stared with something feral behind his eyes.

"Why are you here?" I asked. "Why me?"

He tilted his head the other way. Then—

“…Dinner," he whispered.

The word slithered out of him with slow delight, like it tasted good in his mouth. My stomach twisted. He always said that. I didn’t know if it was meant to be a threat, or if he just didn’t understand what he was anymore.

"Stop it," I said softly. I tried to take a step forward.

He growled.

A low, guttural warning, teeth bared, shadow-tentacles coiling tighter behind him like a nest of snakes. The sound wasn’t rage—it was fear, or panic, or a primal command to stay away. I froze.

"You’re going to get yourself put down," I snapped, but my voice shook.

He flinched. Like a scolded child. Then turned and vanished into the woods, body folding into the trees like mist drawn back into the ocean.

I stayed frozen for a long moment, staring at the spot where he’d stood, heart still hammering against my ribs. Then I sank back down into the mud, the cold seeping through my uniform, through my skin, straight into my bones. My knees stung where the stones had bitten into them, but I didn’t move.

The silence of the forest wrapped around me again. Not peaceful—just emptied. Like even the shrine had held its breath while he was here.

My gaze drifted to the old offering box beside the moss-covered steps. The wood was warped and split in places, carved with fading names and prayers left by hands long since gone. Time had eaten the words down to ghosts—but one had stood out to me the first night I saw him.

I’d stumbled back here half-dead, skin torn, mind fraying at the edges, convinced I was either hallucinating or being followed by something dredged up from the bottom of my grief.

And there it was. A name.

Itsuki.

Not the usual writing—not “one tree” like the name was supposed to mean. This was different. “That one moon.” A solemn moon. A sacred one.

Lonely. Ritualistic. Something set apart from the world.

I didn’t know who had carved it there. Maybe no one had. Maybe I just saw it, because I needed to. Because he needed a name, and I couldn’t bring myself to keep calling him Osaka.

He wasn’t my brother. Not really.

But he looked like him. Sounded like him. And the name—Itsuki—was something I could give him. Something that wasn’t stolen.

Balance. Silence. Reverence.

A name for something that wasn’t human, but clung to my memories like they were sacred scripture.

Back then, I thought maybe naming him would make him less terrifying. That maybe if I gave him something human, I could pretend he wasn’t a monster. That he could grow into the name I planted in him like a seed.

But he hadn’t grown. He’d twisted. Stretched. Warped into something that mimicked love like a drowning man mimics swimming.

I curled my arms around my knees and stared up through the thinning branches. The sky looked bruised—soft purple bleeding into gray. Somewhere out there, the real Osaka’s body had never been found. The sea had kept him. Swallowed him whole. All I had left was this… shadow that wore his smile like a mask with the jaw broken underneath.

And I’d named it. I’d given it a place to belong. I’d whispered to it. I’d let it follow me. Again and again.

I didn’t hear him move. One blink and the forest was empty, the next—he was there.

Itsuki lunged.

No noise, no warning. Just a blur of shadow and skin and those terrible, yearning eyes. I didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch. My breath caught—but only because I was tired. So, so tired.

His arms didn’t grasp me like a predator claiming prey. They curled around me like a child grasping a lifeline. His nose pressed against my throat, breath cold and damp as he inhaled me. A long, rattling breath, like he’d been holding it for days. As if he needed to be sure I still smelled the same. Still was the same.

I closed my eyes.

I didn’t move. I didn’t stop him.

The tip of his nose nudged along my jawline, slow and searching, like he was looking for a memory buried under my skin. Then I felt his lips brush the base of my neck—not a kiss, not exactly. Just... a trembling breath that happened to touch me as it passed.

I shivered. God help me, I shivered.

A sick, shamed warmth curled somewhere deep in my stomach. Not desire—never that, I think. It was grief. Loneliness. Something feral in me recognizing something feral in him. I knew I should shove him away, scream, run—but I couldn’t. Not when he clung to me like I was the last thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“Itsuki…” I whispered, voice hoarse. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just breathed me in again, slower this time, as though trying to memorize the shape of my breath.

Then, low and lost, his voice against my collarbone:

"Warm…”

One word. Fragile. Starving.

I hated the way it made my throat tighten.

Hated the part of me that wanted to wrap my arms around him and say I’m here. Even knowing he wasn’t my brother. Even knowing what he’d become. Even knowing he might only want to devour me whole.

“I’m here,” I said softly, the words tasting like smoke and salt. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s just me… Yuta-san.”

He stilled.

His breath caught in his throat, shoulders twitching like a startled animal. For a moment, I thought he might cry, or lunge, or vanish into the trees like mist. Instead, he turned his head toward the shrine. His body leaned forward, just slightly, as though listening to something I couldn’t hear.

Then he started walking. Slow at first, then with more urgency—toward the torii gate. When I didn’t follow, he paused. Turned. His pupils were blown wide, glowing faintly in the gloom. The shadows behind him swirled like they were attached by invisible threads, tugging at the corners of the world.

He took a step back. Another. Then—he bit the back of my hoodie.

I stiffened. “Itsuki…?”

His teeth didn’t break skin, but the pressure was firm—insistent. He tugged. Like a dog trying to guide its owner home. Like a child dragging a parent by the sleeve. The growl that rumbled in his chest was low and frustrated, like he didn’t understand why I wasn’t moving.

“Stop,” I said gently. “I’m not—I'm not going in there.”

He growled again. Louder this time. The sound scraped the edges of my nerves, rattling the fragile calm I’d been clinging to. His eyes had gone glassy—bright with something between joy and hunger. It was the same look he’d worn that night on the pier. Wild. Unmoored. Like something wearing skin it hadn’t grown into.

He tugged harder. My body jerked forward a few inches in the dirt, knees dragging against moss and broken twigs.

“Itsuki, stop it,” I snapped, voice cracking. “Let go.”

He froze—but didn’t release me. His head tilted, slack-jawed, tongue darting over blood-chapped lips as if tasting the air. The shadowy tendrils coiling around his back quivered in delight. Something in them had learned this ritual. This game of dragging me toward the shrine. Toward the bones. Toward whatever he’d been building in secret.

I knew what waited there.

A nest. Twigs, glass, bird skulls. A pile of things that meant nothing to anyone but him. Offerings. Trophies. Warnings. It had grown since last time. I could feel it, just like I could feel the way his breath hitched when I tried to pull away.

He wanted me to see. He always wanted me to see.

And the worst part?

Somewhere deep down, I wanted to follow.

He dragged me through the dirt, right up to the edge of the shrine he’d defiled. His hand was like a vice around mine—too tight, too cold. I winced, the bones in my wrist grinding under his grip. He didn’t look back, didn’t care. The moment we reached the base of the rotting structure, he let me go—only to reach into the mess of tangled offerings he’d built from bones and feathers and rot.

His hands found something buried deep in the nest. A scrap of blue, frayed and stained. He pulled it out slowly, almost reverently. I recognized it instantly.

My scarf.

Light blue, barely holding its color now. I’d worn it every day the winter I turned ten. Osaka had wrapped it around my neck that morning, fingers clumsy, cheeks pink with cold as he’d grinned and said, "To keep you safe, Aya-tan.”

Now Itsuki cradled it like something sacred. He pressed it to his face, inhaling sharply—eyes wide, glassy, feverish. And then, without warning, he turned on me.

"Aya-tan," he croaked, voice warped, broken like cracked glass beneath a foot.

He grabbed my face roughly, fingers digging into my cheeks. I cried out, trying to pull away, but he forced the scarf up to my nose, holding it there like it was an offering. The scent hit me like a wave—dust, mildew, salt, and something older… something that made my stomach turn. Underneath it all, I could still smell the faintest trace of shampoo, of ocean air, of childhood.

The scent of everything I’d lost.

"Stop," I gasped, voice muffled against the fabric. "Itsuki, please—don’t do this."

But he wasn’t listening. He was trembling. Eyes blown wide as he pressed the scarf to my mouth, like he could force me to breathe it in. Like he wanted to feed me memories until I choked.

Then, just as suddenly, he dropped the scarf back into the nest. It landed atop a scattered mess of bones and broken glass, like a crown on a corpse. He reached again, this time pulling out something small and flat—a piece of paper, bent and water-stained.

A photograph.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was us. Me and Osaka, years ago on Nishihama beach. We were grinning, soaked to the bone, arms around each other like the world couldn’t touch us. He must’ve stolen it from the house before it burned.

Itsuki held it with trembling hands, his eyes locked on my younger self in the photo like she was the last pure thing he remembered.

Then he jabbed a finger at it.

"Mine," he growled, low and possessive. His gaze snapped to me, teeth bared. "Mine. Always."

Itsuki’s expression crumpled.

The madness wavered—for a heartbeat, maybe two—and something else flickered beneath. Not hunger. Not obsession. But a terrible, fragile sorrow. His eyes shimmered as he looked at me, wide and unsure, and I felt my breath hitch.

"Miss little sister..." he murmured, voice thick and splintering. "Miss Aya-tan..."

His fingers twitched at his sides, curling and uncurling like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Then, slowly, Itsuki knelt in front of me, dirt smudged on his cheeks, shadow-tentacles curling quietly behind his shoulders like curious animals. His breath came in soft, uneven huffs, clouding in the crisp forest air. I watched, too stunned to move, as he began to gather something from the scattered mess near the edge of his nest.

He turned back toward me with a strange, almost bashful eagerness in his expression. Then, without a word, he held out his hands.

The first thing he offered was a fistful of withered flowers—brittle, brown things with snapped stems and curling petals, their scent long lost to time. They spilled through his fingers like ashes, crumbling as he tried to arrange them prettily in his palms.

Next came a bird’s skull. Tiny, delicate, bleached clean by rain and time. He cradled it like it was fragile treasure, placing it gingerly atop the decayed flowers as if this would make it beautiful.

And then… mushrooms. Three of them, pale and swollen and flecked with dirt. One was already broken open, leaking something greenish. I didn’t know if they were poisonous. I didn’t want to know.

He held the entire bundle out to me like a child giving a gift to their mother. His fingers shook slightly. His face was open, eager. Expectant.

"For Aya-tan,” he said softly, with a kind of reverent pride.

I stared at the offering in silence. My stomach turned. Not from the rot or the dirt or the sharp beak of the skull digging into the bundle—but from the sheer sincerity in his voice. The way he looked at me. Like this was love. Like this was devotion.

“Itsuki…” I whispered, helpless.

He didn’t flinch. Just inched forward, nudging the offering into my hands. I didn’t know what else to do.

The flowers crackled in his grip. The skull clinked against his fingers. A drop of something wet rolled off one of the mushrooms and landed on my wrist, cold as ice.

“Mine,” he said again, almost dreamily. “Always mine…”

He leaned closer, eyes locked on mine, and added with a crooked smile: "...Do you like it?”

I gulped.

"Aya-tan..." he whispered again, eyes darting across my face like he was trying to piece me together from memory alone. “Be little sister. Please. Smell like her... sound like her...”

His voice cracked, raw with something deeper than want—something like mourning.

“Close enough... you’ll do...”

He looked almost human like that.

Not in the shape of his face, or the way his hands still trembled with strange, stuttering motions—but in the ache behind his eyes. The terrible hope. Like something shattered long ago was crawling toward me on bleeding hands, convinced I was the key to being whole again.

But the things he offered weren’t gifts.

They were substitutions.

Stand-ins.

Prayers.

I wasn’t the girl he saw—not anymore. That girl had died on a shore years ago, swallowed by grief and reborn in silence.

Still, my hand moved on its own.

I reached out, fingers trembling, and accepted the dead flower from his palm. It fell apart between my hands like brittle paper, its petals turning to ash against my skin.

A cold knot curled low in my stomach.

“Itsuki…” I murmured, voice barely louder than breath. I didn’t correct him. I couldn’t—not when he looked at me with such raw, crumbling hope. The kind of hope that carved you open just to have somewhere soft to hide.

He watched me with wide, expectant eyes, waiting. Needing. Like a stray trying to understand kindness.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a slow, steady breath.

Then, gently, I pressed the crumbled flower back into his hands, curling his fingers around it.

“Itsuki,” I said again, soft and sure this time. "I already have a big brother.”

His body went still.

I didn’t flinch, even as the shadows around him twitched like they wanted to strike. I kept my voice calm, tender. The way you speak to a wild animal that might not know it’s dangerous.

“Osaka is my brother. Always has been. Always will be.”

I smiled, even though my throat felt like it was closing.

“That’s not something I can change. Not even for you.”

His face crumpled—confusion, grief, something deeper than anger washing through him like a tide pulling the wreckage back to sea.

And for a moment, I swear I saw it: a flicker of the boy I’d once known.

A ghost in his own body.

His face darkened.

Something shifted behind his eyes—like a switch flipping, a candle snuffed out mid-prayer. The soft desperation drained from his expression, replaced by something harder, unreadable. A flicker of confusion. Of anger.
Before I could react, he clenched his fist.

The withered flower, the bird skull, the cluster of strange, damp mushrooms—all of it crushed in his grip. Petals, stems, bone and rot collapsed under his fingers like wet paper, like brittle offerings returned to the earth.

A puff of brown dust sifted through the cracks between his knuckles, drifting to the ground in slow, silent flurries.

I didn’t move.

My breath caught in my throat.

I braced myself for the backlash—his usual rage, sharp and sudden, the kind that left bruises on reality itself. The kind that warped the air and made shadows recoil.

But it never came.

Itsuki stayed kneeling before me, shoulders slack, arms hanging limply in front of him. His palms remained outstretched—empty, trembling slightly as the last flakes of dust fell from his skin like ash. The ruined offerings lay at his knees, unacknowledged.

And then I saw it.

At first I thought it was shadow—just the tricks of the forest light playing across his face. But no. It was liquid. Real.

Tears.

Inky black, thick as oil, began to stream down his cheeks in perfect silence.

They welled in his eyes, clung to his lashes, then slid down in slow, shimmering rivulets—leaving glistening trails of void in their wake. Like his sorrow had weight. Like it was bleeding out of him through the seams.

He didn’t sob. Didn’t wail.

He just sat there, crying like a statue might: still, hollow, eternal.

The sound of my own heartbeat filled my ears. My throat ached with the weight of unspoken things. I couldn’t look away.

Because for one unbearable moment… he looked like Osaka.

Not just in shape.

But in the grief.

In the way he stared at his own empty hands like he didn’t understand why they couldn’t hold love.

I blinked, stunned by the sight of the inky tears trailing down his cheeks.

I had never seen him cry before. Not like this. Not even in the rawest corners of his madness.

Some part of me—foolish, fragile, still too human—wondered if it meant something. If those tears were the last thread of his humanity trying to crawl back out of the dark. Like something trapped inside him was clawing toward the surface, desperate to be seen, to be saved.

Then he turned away.

The movement was sudden, sharp—like a snapped bone.

He stumbled toward the nest, legs buckling underneath him. His body dropped like dead weight into the mess of bones and feathers and shattered offerings. He curled into himself, knees pulled tight to his chest, face buried in his filthy hands.

And I stood there, staring at him.

He looked so pitiful it was almost comical. Almost.

A sigh rose unbidden in my throat. He was being dramatic. He always was.

But something in me—some sick little part still tangled in the old rhythms, the childhood memories, the hope—refused to walk away.

So I stepped forward.

I had to pick my way carefully across the twisted terrain. The nest was a disaster—glass shards glittering like teeth, rusted wire coiled like veins, bones snapped into jagged splinters. A place of worship and a graveyard all at once.

I found a patch of space just large enough to crouch in. It wasn’t comfortable. The bones dug into my knees through the fabric of my uniform. Something sharp scraped my calf.

Still, I sat.

Itsuki hadn’t moved.

His shoulders were shaking, but the sobs were silent, swallowed down like everything else he couldn't say. He looked small like this. Small and wrong. Like a puppet that had curled in on itself and forgotten how to dance.

I stared for a moment.

Then, slowly—hesitantly—I reached out. My hand hovered above his head for several seconds. Long enough for my conscience to scream at me. Long enough for my heart to stutter.

Then I touched him.

His hair was greasy, knotted with twigs and dirt. Bits of moss clung to his scalp. Something brittle crunched beneath my fingers. I had to suppress a shudder.

But I kept going.

I stroked his head softly. Reassuringly. Like I would with a frightened animal.

“…Itsuki,” I murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s alright. I’m here.”

He flinched under my hand.

For a moment, I thought he would lash out. Thought the teeth would come, or the claws, or the madness that lived just beneath his skin.

But instead… he went still.

Frozen. Silent.

Then he turned his head—slowly—and looked up at me.

His eyes were red-rimmed and wild, but not from rage. From something worse. Something softer and more dangerous. The black tears still leaked down his cheeks in sluggish rivers, staining the scars that split his skin. Those same scars cracked open again, and more darkness welled up from within, thick as blood.

“…Aya-tan,” he whispered.

His voice was wrecked. Raw. Like the words had been dragged across broken glass just to reach me.

“Don’t leave me. Please. Stay with me. Forever.”

I looked at him carefully, trying to piece him together with my eyes.

The wildness in his expression wasn’t new, but it felt different now—sharpened into something desperate. Childlike. Dangerous.

“…Nii-chan...” I said softly.

The word felt foreign on my tongue. Like speaking in a language I hadn’t used in years, one that belonged to someone soft. Someone far away. Someone long gone.

I hadn’t called him that since we were children—before the darkness took hold, before he became this… thing.

But Itsuki’s eyes widened like I’d spoken a miracle.

He looked delighted. A slow, too-wide smile spread across his face, revealing teeth just a little too long, a little too sharp. Like they had been filed down by time and hunger.

The sight made my stomach twist.

He pressed one hand to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart like he was pledging allegiance to something holy. Or pretending he still had one.

“Nii-chan,” he echoed, almost reverently. “Yes… I am Nii-chan. I’m here for little sister. Aya-tan.”

The way he said it—so certain, so final—made my throat close.

My breath hitched, trapped somewhere between disbelief and dread.

He didn’t sound proud. He didn’t sound relieved.

He sounded… possessive.

Like a door had just closed behind me and I hadn’t heard it lock.

I stayed very still.

My fingers curled into my palm, nails digging into skin, anchoring me. His eyes were still locked on mine, shining with something brittle and bright. Worship. Madness. Love warped into something unrecognizable.

“…Itsuki,” I said, quieter now. “You’re not—”

His head tilted. His pupils dilated.

And I shut my mouth.

Before I could react—before I could even process the implications of his words—Itsuki lunged forward.

My breath caught. “Itsuki—what are you—?!”

I gasped, bracing myself for pain, for claws, for teeth—anything.

But he didn’t strike.
Instead, he crumpled against me like a puppet with its strings cut. His weight folded into my lap, arms limp at his sides, head pressing against my chest like a cat starved for warmth.

His breath hitched—soft and wet—against the fabric of my shirt.

“…Aya-tan,” he whispered, barely audible. “Pet… more.”

I blinked down at him, stunned.

His hair was tangled and matted, full of grit and twigs and gods-knew-what else, but he nudged his head insistently against my hand like some pathetic, oversized stray.

I hesitated.

His arms curled around my waist, childlike. Not tight. Just there.

Clinging.

Not a monster. Not a brother. Not even a ghost.

Just a thing that wanted to be loved. Or remembered. Or both.

“…Okay,” I murmured, barely above a breath.

My fingers found his hair again, trembling. I ran them through the knots with careful, uncertain strokes. He shuddered, melting into the touch with a noise that sounded like relief.

I didn’t know if I was comforting him or keeping him tame.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

And as he pressed his face against me, his body cold as winter stone, I stared past him—at the crushed offerings, at the glassy remnants of the shrine.

And I wondered if I was losing something I wouldn’t be able to get back.

Not him.

Me.

His breath hitched against my neck, cold and ragged, like wind whistling through an empty house.

I kept my hand in his hair, fingers trembling. I didn’t know what else to give him.

“Aya-tan…” he whispered. "Stay… forever. Don’t leave me no more.”

The words were soft, almost childlike—until he pulled back to look at me. And I saw it.

That smile.

Too wide. Too sharp.

“I want to be inside you again..." he murmured. "Like before.”

My blood turned to ice.

“Want to be where it’s warm. Where you keep me safe. Where you smell like little sister.”

I recoiled, but his hand found my wrist, clutching it with a strength that sent bolts of pain shooting up my arm.

“Let me in,” he begged, voice cracking like frost on glass. "Please, Aya-tan. Please. I won’t get lost this time. I promise to be good.”

My throat tightened. “Itsuki… no. I—I’m not—”

But he wasn’t listening.

His eyes weren’t looking at me. They were seeing something else. Someone else. Someone who died with Osaka.

Someone I couldn’t be.

And then—

Wind.

Sharp and sudden, rustling the leaves like a warning. The forest tensed.

Itsuki’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing toward the trees.

A voice, cool and quiet, sliced the silence—

“You really thought I’d let you do that again?”

I turned.

He stood there.