The morning air was heavy with mist, curling through the window slats like pale fingers. Somewhere in the distance, a single crow called out once—low and throaty—before silence fell again over the Amakusa household.
Ren stirred beneath the thin blanket of his futon. His eyes blinked open, slow and unfocused. The smell of damp wood and faint camphor filled his nose—the scent of an old house caught between seasons.
Something felt… off.
He sat up, the fabric of his shirt sticking slightly to his skin with sweat.
The corridor beyond his room was unusually dim, though the sun had already risen.
And then he noticed it.
Down the hall—barely visible past the paper-thin sliding doors—was a door that should not have been open.
The old guestroom.
Slightly ajar.
No more than a finger's width, but it was enough.
His grandfather had told them not to enter that room. It was always locked. Always sealed.
Ren rose slowly, each step against the worn tatami floor sending a hollow creak into the silence. He walked barefoot down the hall, the dust cool under his soles. He paused in front of the door.
The air here was colder.
Not freezing. But still—unnatural. Like the temperature dropped for no reason at all.
He pushed the door gently.
It slid open with a reluctant groan.
The guestroom hadn't been entered in years. He could tell immediately. The floorboards creaked beneath even the faintest weight. A layer of dust coated everything: the futon in the corner, the neglected shelves, the low lacquered table warped slightly by age.
The room smelled of forgotten paper and dried pine needles. There was something melancholic about it, like an abandoned shrine.
But what drew his eyes most was the tall object on the far wall—hidden beneath a thick white cloth.
A standing mirror.
Its shape unmistakable.
The cloth was tied tightly at the back, as if to ensure no light touched the glass within.
Ren took a step closer. The hair on his arms rose, inexplicably.
A strange pressure bloomed in his chest.
He reached forward—his fingers just brushing the edge of the cloth—
"Ren?"
He flinched.
Sayuri stood behind him in the doorway, her presence almost ghost-like in the gray light. She wore her nightdress, pale blue and soft against her figure. Her dark hair was messy from sleep, her expression unreadable.
Ren turned. "Sayuri. The door was open."
She tilted her head. Her voice was gentle.
"That room's been shut for years."
"I know. But the door—"
"You were dreaming."
He blinked. "What?"
She stepped inside. The room creaked softly beneath her bare feet. She stood beside him, not looking at the mirror, only at him.
"You've been having trouble sleeping again, haven't you?" she asked, her voice almost melodic. "Sometimes dreams slip out of our heads and walk the halls."
Ren looked back toward the mirror, then to the dustless spot on the floor just in front of it—two faint footprints. His own?
Maybe.
Or someone else's.
Sayuri touched his wrist lightly.
"Let's go," she said. "It's cold here."
And like that, she gently led him away, closing the door behind them with a whisper of wood against wood.
---
That night, the storm returned.
It came without warning—wind shrieking through the trees, rain lashing against the glass with frantic urgency. The maple branches danced like silhouettes of clawed hands outside the window.
Sayuri lay in her futon, curled beneath the covers, but her eyes remained open.
She couldn't sleep.
Her body was warm, but her mind had drifted somewhere cold.
And then—
The sound.
A child's laugh. Light, high, almost familiar.
She blinked.
And suddenly—
She was no longer in her room.
---
She stood barefoot on wooden floorboards, smooth and aged beneath her feet. The air was warmer here, laced with the scent of incense and maple sap. Cicadas buzzed distantly, as if summer had returned.
The house was familiar—but subtly wrong.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
The paper doors were pristine, the floor polished like glass. Light poured in through the windows in thin golden shafts.
Sayuri looked down.
She was a child again—maybe six or seven.
She wore a simple cotton yukata, white with blue irises. Her fingers were small and trembling.
She turned.
Ren stood beside her—also a child—holding her hand.
His warmth was real. His grip, strong and grounding.
He smiled at her. "Let's play hide and seek."
Sayuri's heart swelled.
He had said that once. Long ago.
She remembered this memory—or thought she did.
They ran through the house together, laughing, their footsteps echoing off the walls like chimes. She felt weightless. Happy.
But as they passed through the hallway and toward the far room—the old guestroom—everything slowed.
She stopped.
The door was open.
Just like this morning.
Ren tugged at her hand. "Come on. I want to show you something."
Sayuri hesitated. "We're not supposed to go in there..."
Ren didn't answer.
He walked forward, never letting go of her hand.
They stepped into the room.
It was different from earlier. Newer. Alive.
There were toys on the shelf. A futon neatly folded. A scroll painting of autumn leaves on the wall.
But the mirror—still tall, still haunting—stood uncovered now.
Its surface gleamed like black water.
Sayuri looked at her reflection.
And stopped breathing.
Because in the mirror—
She was alone.
Ren wasn't beside her.
She turned to her right. He was still there. Holding her hand.
She looked back at the reflection.
He wasn't holding her hand.
He was holding someone else's.
A girl.
She couldn't see her face—just long hair, white as frost, and fingers curled delicately around Ren's.
Sayuri's throat tightened.
"Who is that?" she whispered.
Ren didn't respond.
The reflection began to ripple—slowly, like disturbed water.
And then the girl in the mirror turned her face.
Sayuri's heart stopped.
It was her.
But older.
Colder.
Smiling.
The reflection Sayuri raised a hand and pressed it gently against the mirror from the other side.
The real Sayuri backed away.
"No," she whispered. "No, that's not—"
The mirror cracked.
A soft shhhk—like breaking ice.
Sayuri turned and screamed—
---
She woke up gasping.
The storm outside had passed. Only the wind remained, rustling the leaves with tired breath.
She sat upright, drenched in sweat. Her hand instinctively reached out to the side.
Ren's room.
Still quiet.
Still distant.
She stood and walked barefoot through the dark hallway.
She paused at his door.
She raised her hand to knock.
But she didn't.
Instead, she leaned her forehead gently against the wood.
And whispered, so soft that only the maple house itself could hear:
"You promised you'd only ever hold my hand..."
---