The rain had stopped by morning, but the sky above the Sakuma estate remained the color of ash.
Reiko stood barefoot in the garden, where Aunt Otaki's tulips had bloomed just last week. Now, the petals hung limp and blackened, as if frostbitten in the middle of spring. She didn't remember falling asleep. Or waking up. But she was here now—clutching the cold air, waiting for something she couldn't name.
A faint breeze blew behind her.
The house exhaled.
She turned.
The sliding shoji door stood ajar, though she remembered closing it the night before. In the quiet breath of the wind, the paper rustled—no… shivered—like skin reacting to a phantom touch.
"Miss Reiko," came Saika's voice, soft and measured. "You should wear your slippers. The earth's still wet."
She looked down at her feet. Mud clung to her heels like fingerprints.
He stood on the veranda, bowing slightly, hands folded behind his back. As always, he looked pristine—hair brushed, black suit pressed, not a wrinkle on his gloves. The rain had not touched him.
"Breakfast is prepared. Shall I serve it in the garden?"
Reiko shook her head and walked past him, not noticing that no footprints trailed behind her in the mud.
---
Inside, the air was still. Too still.
The scent of incense lingered faintly, though she hadn't lit any. The old clocks had stopped ticking two days ago. The silence was so heavy it seemed alive—watching her, waiting for her to speak.
She walked down the corridor toward the kitchen. Every step felt like walking uphill.
When she passed the mirror by the stairwell, she glanced at her reflection.
It didn't look back.
Her heart skipped. She blinked.
The mirror now showed her perfectly, eyes wide, cheeks pale.
"I'm just tired," she whispered.
But in the reflection, her lips didn't move.
---
Saika brought out the breakfast tray—rice porridge, miso soup, and grilled mackerel, just the way Otaki used to make it.
Reiko didn't touch it. Her eyes remained on the tatami mat where Aunt Otaki used to sit. The cushions were gone. The dust remained.
"She wouldn't want you to grieve this way," Saika said gently, pouring tea. "She was proud of you. Right to the end."
Reiko looked at him. "How do you know that?"
A pause. Just a second. But enough.
"I meant… she must've been," he corrected smoothly, smiling in that way he always did. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough to pass as human.
"I want to clean her room today," Reiko said. "She hated clutter."
Saika's eyes twitched. The first real emotion.
"That may not be wise. You're still recovering."
Reiko stood. "It's what she'd want."
---
Later That Afternoon
Aunt Otaki's room was sealed with old paper talismans. Reiko hadn't placed them there.
When she tore one down, a sound echoed behind her. Something between a knock and a sob.
Inside, the air was dense. The temperature plummeted. Her breath fogged as she stepped in.
The furniture remained untouched—dresser, vanity, prayer shelf. But on the wall where the mirror once hung was now a strange ink drawing, pulsing faintly beneath the paper like it had been drawn on the wall's skin. The lines looked like a woman's hair—long, tangled—and in the center, a black eye stared at her.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her.
She whirled around—alone.
Her hands trembled. She touched the eye.
The wall was warm.
It blinked.
She screamed and stumbled back.
The eye closed. Gone. No drawing. Nothing on the wall now. Only her reflection on a dark wooden surface, wide-eyed and breaking.
She ran.
---
Nightfall
That night, she lay in bed, unable to sleep.
Saika stood at her door.
"Would you like sleeping tea, Miss Reiko?" he asked.
"No. Thank you."
"Very well. I'll remain outside. Just in case you need anything."
"…Why?" she asked.
A smile again. Perfect. Hollow.
"It's my duty. I serve the Sakuma line."
She closed the door.
Behind it, Saika's expression darkened. His voice, now faint, murmured to the empty corridor:
"She's awakening."
A faint ripple passed through the walls of the house. The wood creaked not from age… but from movement.
The house took another breath.
And smiled.
---
To be continued