The smell of pancakes floated through the apartment like a quiet song, light and sweet, wrapping the small, sunlit kitchen in warmth. Outside, the sky was cloudless, the kind of soft blue that made you believe in gentle beginnings. A cool breeze passed through the open window, fluttering the white curtains like little ghosts, brushing across the wooden floor and lifting the edge of the newspaper lying unread on the table.
Ren Kurosawa sat at the counter, swinging one leg lazily as he watched his mother flip a pancake with her usual flair, a tiny flourish of the wrist. Her long, dark hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she wore an old apron with faded strawberries on it—one she swore she'd replace every year but never did.
His father sat at the opposite end of the counter, holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and sketching something with a pencil in the other. His eyes flicked between the paper and the window outside, lips slightly parted in that calm, thoughtful way of his.
This was how every Saturday began in the Kurosawa household. Calm. Familiar. Happy.
But this one was a little more special.
"Don't think I forgot what day it is," his mother said with a sideways glance, catching Ren's gaze.
Ren smiled, pretending not to care, but his cheeks betrayed him with a faint pink hue. "You really don't have to do anything big."
His father grunted without looking up. "That's what you said last year. Then you cried when the cake was late."
"I did not cry," Ren muttered.
"You were ten," his mother added with a smirk. "And you absolutely cried."
Ren huffed and looked away, though the smile tugging at his lips refused to fade. He turned back to his juice and took a sip, eyes roaming over the quiet apartment—plants on the windowsill, his father's art supplies piled near the sofa, the small dining table where they played board games on rainy nights.
Home.
It wasn't large. Or fancy. But it was filled with little things—mugs that didn't match, books with worn covers, framed photos on every wall. Laughter and warmth soaked into the very walls, like a secret only the three of them knew.
"Alright, birthday boy," his mother said as she slid a stack of pancakes in front of him, golden and fluffy. "Eat up. We've got plans today."
---
A Tradition of Small Joys
Ren's birthday always followed the same rhythm. His parents would give him a small surprise gift in the morning—something personal, thoughtful. Then in the evening, they'd take a drive out of the city to a quiet little diner nestled at the edge of the countryside. It had red checkered curtains, wooden booths, and an old jukebox that never quite worked right.
The couple who owned it treated them like family. They remembered Ren's name, his favorite dish, and even had a habit of slipping him a slice of cake "on the house."
This year, even though Ren had turned seventeen—a number that felt just close enough to adulthood to sting—he didn't want anything different.
In fact, he needed things to stay the same.
He wanted to sit between his parents, drink warm miso soup, and pretend the world outside didn't exist. To laugh at his dad's terrible puns and listen to his mom talk about her students. Just the three of them.
Forever.
---
The Gift
After breakfast, his mother disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a small, neatly wrapped box. Ren knew that wrapping paper—it had little gold stars, slightly faded from years of being reused.
He took it with both hands and opened it carefully.
Inside was a leather-bound sketchbook. Handmade. The paper inside was thick and creamy, perfect for pencil or ink.
Ren blinked, then looked up. "It's… beautiful."
His father nodded once. "Time you started drawing again."
Ren felt something shift in his chest. His hands tightened around the book. "Thank you."
His mother leaned in and kissed the top of his head. "We believe in you, sweetheart."
They always said that. About everything. Whether it was his drawings, his grades, his worries about growing up—they always believed in him.
And he always believed in them.
---
The Last Drive
The sun had already begun to dip when they climbed into the car later that evening. His father took the wheel, as always. His mother hummed softly in the passenger seat, and Ren sat in the back, flipping through his new sketchbook with curious fingers, occasionally sketching trees that passed outside the window.
They laughed about silly things.
His mother told a story about a student who thought dinosaurs still lived in caves. His father argued that technically, chickens were dinosaurs. They laughed so hard at that, the car wobbled slightly on the road.
It was perfect.
The diner was just as warm as always. The owners lit a sparkler on his cake and sang in broken harmony. They gave him a little badge that said "Birthday Hero," which he wore proudly for exactly twelve minutes before his dad made too many jokes about it.
They took a photo together before they left—just the three of them, framed by warm lighting and birthday balloons. The last photo.
Ren would later wonder what would've happened if they stayed a little longer. If the sparkler had taken more time to light. If he'd spilled his drink and had to clean it up. If he'd needed the bathroom before they left.
Would that have changed anything?
But life doesn't wait for thoughts like that.
---
The Accident
The sky was dark by the time they were on the road again. The car moved smoothly along the empty stretch of highway that curved gently through the forested hills.
Ren leaned against the window, eyes growing heavy, lulled by the quiet engine and the soft murmurs of the radio. His mother had fallen asleep beside his father, her head tilted toward the window, mouth slightly open.
Then—
A flash.
Bright lights. Head-on. Too close.
His father's sharp inhale. A desperate turn of the wheel.
"Daichi!" his mother screamed.
The truck—it came out of nowhere. No headlights. No warning.
Then—impact.
The world turned sideways. Glass burst like stars. Metal twisted like paper. Screams. The scent of burning rubber. The sharp taste of blood in his mouth.
And then—nothing.
Only darkness.
---
Silence
There was no sound. No pain. No movement.
Only floating.
Ren was weightless. Empty.
For a moment, he thought he had fallen asleep. That it was all a dream.
But dreams didn't leave you cold.
He reached out blindly in the dark.
"Mom…?"
Silence.
"Dad…?"
The cold deepened.
He couldn't open his eyes. Couldn't feel his hands.
He didn't know it then—but this was the moment his world would never be the same.
The moment the warmth was taken.
The moment the light went out.
The world came back in fragments.
A beep.
Then another.
Rhythmic. Steady.
Sharp air drifting through plastic tubes. A dull ache blooming across his back. The feeling of weight—real, physical—pinned him down to something soft yet unmovable.
Ren's eyes fluttered open.
The ceiling above him was pale, almost white, with small bumps in its paint and a flickering light overhead. The air smelled like antiseptic and metal. A soft hum surrounded him, like he was caught inside some invisible machine.
He blinked again, slower this time, and realized something was strapped to his wrist. A hospital bracelet.
His throat was dry. His lips cracked. He tried to turn his head, but pain sparked down his spine and into his ribs.
A quiet gasp escaped his mouth.
Footsteps shuffled nearby.
"Ren?" a voice called gently—female, soft, tired. "Ren, can you hear me?"
He turned his head slightly and saw a nurse in light blue scrubs. Her eyes widened in relief when she saw his gaze move.
"You're awake," she said, approaching his bedside. "Thank goodness."
Ren tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak.
"Don't push yourself," she added quickly. "I'll get the doctor. You're in the hospital, but you're safe now. You've been unconscious for a few days."
A few days?
The nurse turned to go, but Ren forced the words out.
"My… my mom…"
She stopped. Her hand clenched around the clipboard.
He looked at her, eyes wide, heart suddenly loud in his ears. "My mom and dad… where—where are they?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Just for a second.
Then she gave him a sad, practiced smile—the kind you never want to see.
"I'll let the doctor speak with you, okay?"
---
The Pain Behind the Silence
The doctor came in shortly after, a man in his fifties with gray temples and kind eyes. He wore a stethoscope like a noose and carried with him the scent of duty and too many difficult conversations.
He checked Ren's vitals. Asked him some basic questions. How do you feel? Do you know your name? What's the last thing you remember?
Ren blinked. "We were… driving home. My mom… was asleep. My dad… he…"
He didn't finish. The memory flickered, broken. Just lights. The sound of steel tearing apart.
The doctor pulled up a chair. Sat beside him.
"I won't keep you in suspense, Ren," he said quietly, looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry."
Silence.
"I'm so sorry… but both your parents passed away at the scene. They didn't make it."
The room went quiet.
No crying. No screaming.
Just the sound of the heart monitor beeping steadily beside him.
Ren stared at him.
The words didn't make sense.
Passed away?
"They're… dead?"
The doctor's eyes softened. "Yes."
Still no tears. Ren only blinked.
Something cold began to spread in his chest, like water leaking through a crack.
"I see," he whispered.
He didn't cry. Not then.
He simply turned his head away and closed his eyes.
---
Alone
Ren remained in the hospital for weeks.
His injuries, while serious, weren't fatal. Cracked ribs. A fractured leg. A concussion. Minor internal bruising. The doctors said he was lucky to survive.
He didn't feel lucky.
He spent most of the days staring out the window, watching other people come and go from the hospital garden. People who weren't broken. Who still had someone waiting.
His room was filled with flowers and cards from classmates and neighbors he barely knew.
But the bed beside him remained empty.
And no familiar voices came through the door.
At night, when the lights dimmed and the nurses whispered in the halls, Ren would lie awake, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, willing them to move. Waiting for his parents to walk through the door, smiling like nothing ever happened.
But they never did.
---
The Visit
One afternoon, while the sky turned gray and rain splashed against the windows, someone knocked gently on his door.
He looked up, expecting another nurse.
But it was a woman. Older. With streaks of silver in her long black hair and tired lines around her eyes. She wore a cardigan and held a warm paper bag that smelled faintly of homemade bread.
Ren blinked. She looked familiar, in a distant, almost forgotten kind of way.
"Ren," she said softly. "It's me. Aunt Mayu."
He remembered. His mother's cousin. They hadn't seen her in years—not since a distant family gathering when he was ten. She used to bring candies and tell stories of ghosts and old village shrines.
"I came as soon as I heard," she said, placing the bag on his nightstand. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
Ren didn't say anything.
She sat beside his bed, resting her hand gently on his.
"They were good people," she whispered. "They loved you more than anything in this world."
Ren's eyes dropped to the blanket.
"I know it hurts. More than anything. But you're not alone. You still have family. If you need anything… anything at all, I'm here."
He nodded numbly.
She stayed with him a while, telling soft stories about his parents when they were younger—his mother's habit of picking flowers and pressing them into books, his father's quiet dream of painting the ocean.
Ren listened in silence, absorbing every word like they were drops of water on parched earth.
Even after she left, her stories lingered in the room, wrapping around him like a fragile shield against the cold.
---
The First Tears
It happened that night.
Ren woke suddenly, gasping.
A dream—his mother calling his name, his father laughing, their voices so clear, so alive.
He reached out in the dark, trying to grab hold of something—anything.
But there was nothing.
Just the empty white sheets. The scent of antiseptic. The faint beep of machines.
And in that moment, the wall cracked.
Ren curled into himself and cried.
No screams. No sobs. Just quiet, shaking tears that soaked his pillow and hollowed out his chest.
He cried until morning.
And when the sun finally rose, he stared at the ceiling and whispered,
"I don't know how to live without you."
Ren didn't remember when the hospital sheets started to feel like walls.
Soft, white walls that pressed closer with every day.
Even though his body was healing—his bruises fading, the cast on his leg hardening, the painkillers dulling what was left—inside, something was still shattered. Not cracked, not wounded—shattered.
He didn't talk much. The nurses tried, gently at first. Then routinely. Then silently.
His aunt visited every few days, sometimes bringing fresh clothes, or a warm drink in a thermos. But Ren barely responded. He would nod, or mumble thanks, but his eyes never really focused.
They were always elsewhere.
---
Living in Fragments
It started with little things.
He would reach toward the table and expect to see his father's old leather sketchbook lying there.
He would hear a door creak and wait for his mother to peek in with a tired smile, asking if he wanted tea.
He'd lie still at night, bracing for the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder like he used to do when Ren had nightmares as a child.
But none of it ever came.
Every time his heart hoped, reality answered with silence.
Ren wasn't sure what hurt more—what had happened, or the fact that the world had already started moving on. His parents were gone, and everything else kept ticking. Traffic still hummed outside the hospital. The nurses still changed shifts. The weather still changed.
But Ren had stopped.
He was suspended in a loop of memories.
---
The Flashbacks
They came without warning.
Sharp. Gentle. Bright. Cruel.
Sometimes, just closing his eyes triggered them.
---
A Sunday morning.
His mother in the kitchen, turning toward him with a cup of hot cocoa.
"Don't forget to finish your homework, even if it's sunny out."
His father reading the paper with his glasses halfway down his nose.
"Tell your teacher I'll draw a better version of that biology diagram."
Their laughter. The radio playing softly in the background. The smell of miso soup and fresh tatami mats. The warmth of a home filled with small, sacred routines.
---
A rainy evening.
Ren curled up on the couch, pretending not to cry after a bad grade.
His father sitting beside him, completely silent, just placing his hand gently on Ren's back. His mother entering minutes later, holding his favorite red bean bun and saying, "Let's have a cheat day, yeah?"
They never scolded him. They were always patient. Always kind.
Too kind for the kind of ending they got.
---
A birthday.
Not this year's.
Last year's.
They'd forgotten the candles, so they used matchsticks.
His mother lit them one by one, laughing as they sputtered.
His father sang so off-key that Ren begged him to stop.
They all laughed until they couldn't breathe.
Then they took a picture—blurry, slightly out of focus.
That photo was still in his phone.
He hadn't opened it. Not yet.
---
The Weight of Memory
Ren would often stare at the ceiling and ask silently:
Why did I survive?
He didn't know if he believed in fate. Or karma. Or anything. But it felt cruel that he was still here, trapped in the echo of a life that had vanished.
He didn't want to eat. Or sleep. Or be comforted.
He didn't want new shoes. Or messages from his classmates. Or get-well cards with glittery ink and fake smiles.
He wanted to rewind time.
He wanted his mom's terrible singing while she cooked.
He wanted to hear his dad tapping on the canvas at 2AM when he couldn't sleep.
He wanted their arguments over whether pineapples belonged on pizza.
He wanted their voices back.
But every time he opened his eyes, they weren't there.
Only the blank, sterile white of the hospital walls.
---
The Question That Kept Coming Back
What if he had sat in the front seat instead?
What if he'd asked them to stop at the store on the way back?
What if he'd noticed the truck?
Was it his fault?
Why him?
Why not all of them?
Sometimes, the guilt came in waves. Sharp. Vicious. Drowning.
Other times, it was just silence—a numbness so heavy it made breathing feel optional.
---
A Visitor in the Quiet
One evening, long after the nurses had made their rounds, Ren sat upright in bed, legs draped over the side, feet brushing against the cold floor. The cast on his leg ached dully, but he didn't care.
The moonlight came through the narrow hospital window, casting a pale glow across the room.
He could hear something outside—wind through leaves, or maybe someone wheeling a cart in the hallway.
But in his head, he kept seeing their faces. Not as they were in the casket. Not pale, still, and cold.
But alive.
His mother brushing flour off her apron.
His father adjusting his glasses, squinting at his newest sketch.
Hearing their laughter in the back of his mind.
He buried his face in his hands.
"Please…" he whispered, voice hoarse. "Come back… just for a minute."
He didn't believe in ghosts.
But in that moment, he wanted to.
It was late morning when Ren next saw his aunt.
A soft knock came at his hospital door, and she stepped inside quietly, as if not to disturb something fragile. She wore a dark brown coat today, her hair pinned back in a low bun. In her arms was a paper bag—again, warm with something freshly made, probably bread or tea cakes.
Ren didn't look up at first.
He was sitting by the window in the padded chair, one leg still in a cast, arms draped over his lap like dead weight. The rain had passed the night before, and morning light spilled across the floor, golden and too gentle for how he felt inside.
Mayu set the bag down on the little bedside table, then pulled a chair beside him without asking. She never asked—she just knew when silence mattered more.
They sat together for a few minutes like that, just watching the wind stir the trees outside the glass.
Finally, she spoke.
"You remind me of your father more than you know."
Ren's fingers twitched. "You knew him well?"
"Very well. I knew your mother even longer, but… Daichi was like a brother to me. We were close when we were young." She gave a small, wistful smile. "He was always quiet. Always calm. But when he loved someone, he loved them fiercely."
Ren didn't speak, but something in his shoulders shifted slightly—just a twitch. He hadn't heard anyone speak about his parents with that kind of warmth since the funeral.
"They would be proud of you," she said.
"I didn't do anything," Ren muttered, voice rough.
"You survived," she replied simply. "That's something."
---
A Gentle Reveal
She waited until lunchtime, after the nurse checked his blood pressure and left, before she opened the conversation she'd come for.
"There's something I need to talk to you about," she said gently. "Something important."
Ren turned to her. Her expression was serious, but not heavy.
"Your parents… they owned a house. In the countryside."
He blinked. "What?"
"It's been in your mother's family for generations. A small house on the edge of a village near the coast. They used to live there, before you were born. Before Daichi got the job in the city."
Ren frowned. "I didn't know about it."
"They kept it quiet. Your mother always said she'd show you one day when the time was right."
She paused.
Ren stared out the window again.
"I think… it was where they were happiest," Mayu said. "Before life got complicated. Your father loved painting the landscapes. Your mother used to go to the nearby fields to sketch flowers. It's a peaceful place."
Ren's throat tightened. The idea of a place his parents loved—untouched, quiet, full of memories—felt both painful and comforting at the same time.
"You're the legal heir now," Mayu added, "and the house is still standing. It's been taken care of… just a bit lonely."
Ren closed his eyes.
The city was too loud. Too full of ghosts he couldn't see.
Maybe somewhere quieter would let him breathe again.
---
The Envelope
Before she left, Aunt Mayu handed him a simple manila envelope.
Inside:
A key. Old, bronze. Cold to the touch.
A hand-drawn map of the countryside with a little red "X" marked near the hills.
A small, weathered photo: his mother and father, much younger, standing in front of a wooden house with ivy on the walls. His mother was laughing. His father's arm was around her.
Ren stared at the photo long after she left.
His fingers brushed over their faces.
He didn't remember this version of them—their younger selves. But somehow, they looked exactly the same.
Happy. Free.
Alive.
He traced the little house behind them.
Somehow, deep down… he already knew he would go there.
Time passed, but Ren couldn't tell you how much.
The days bled into each other—measured not by sunrises, but by medication routines, the occasional checkup, and the slow, painful rehabilitation of a body that still didn't feel worth saving. The cast on his leg came off. The bruises faded. The nurses changed shifts. The flowers in his room wilted, then were replaced, then disappeared altogether.
His emotions never recovered the same way his body did.
He ate, because they asked him to.
He slept, because his body demanded it.
He spoke, rarely. Only when needed.
Grief, he learned, wasn't always loud. Sometimes, it was quiet. So quiet that it filled everything.
---
The Day He Decided
Ren sat on the hospital bench near the small garden, alone, watching the wind run through the leaves of a cherry blossom tree that hadn't bloomed yet. Spring was coming—but it didn't feel like it.
In his hands, he held the old photograph of the countryside house.
He had stared at it almost every day for the past few weeks. Not out of longing. Not out of curiosity.
But because it was the only place left in the world that felt remotely connected to his parents.
He wasn't ready to say he missed them.
He wasn't ready to say he loved them out loud again.
But he was ready to stop suffocating in this hospital.
A quiet voice in his head whispered:
Go.
Just that.
---
Telling Aunt Mayu
That evening, as she helped him pack a small overnight bag for his release, Ren finally spoke without being prompted.
"I want to go," he said.
She paused mid-fold of a sweater. "Go where?"
"To the house," he said. "The countryside one. The one they left behind."
She straightened, slowly. "Are you sure?"
"No," he admitted, "but I need to. I think they'd want me to see it. To live there. Even if it's just… for a while."
Her gaze softened. She placed the sweater into the bag gently, then reached out and touched his shoulder.
"They would be proud," she said. "I'll help you get ready."
---
The Final Room
Ren's hospital room was almost empty now. No wires. No machines. No medical charts. Just the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air.
He zipped his bag, ran a hand over the smooth surface of the photograph one last time, and pocketed the old key Mayu had given him.
Then he looked around.
The place that had trapped him in grief, that had suffocated him with memories, was now a shell he was ready to leave behind.
No more white walls.
He took a long breath.
And stepped out.
The morning Ren left the city, the sky was a pale gray—
neither warm nor cold.
Just... still.
It matched how he felt inside.
He stood at the edge of the station platform with nothing but a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the soft hum of the waiting train vibrating through the soles of his shoes.
No one stood beside him.
No hand to wave goodbye.
No voice to call his name one last time.
Only the wind, gentle against his jacket, brushing past like someone leaving before him.
He stepped onto the train in silence,
and left behind the world he no longer belonged to.
---
Windowpane Thoughts
The train pulled away, wheels sighing against steel rails.
Ren sat by the window, face resting on his knuckles, eyes lost in the shifting scenes.
The city blurred first—gray towers, familiar signs, the crosswalks he had memorized as a child.
Then came the outskirts—quiet neighborhoods with sleepy cafes and worn-down fences, bikes parked under rusted staircases, women watering plants in faded slippers.
And slowly, like memory fading after a dream…
Nature returned.
---
Time Slipped
Fields of green spilled like ink across the land,
interrupted only by lines of forest, narrow rivers, and clusters of homes huddled together like secrets.
Ren didn't speak.
He didn't move.
He let the world pass through him like water.
He didn't realize he was crying until the reflection in the window blurred.
Just a single tear.
No sob. No sound.
Just that.
A quiet release.
A breath.
A moment that did not demand to be explained.
---
He Thought of Them
He pictured his mother leaning against the window opposite him, fingers curled around a thermos of tea, humming some old song that made no sense.
He imagined his father dozing off with his arms crossed, head bobbing gently with the rhythm of the train, sketchbook tucked under one arm.
He tried to speak to them in his head.
But only silence answered.
Still, it was a softer silence than before.
Not empty… but waiting.
---
The Arrival
A gentle jolt brought him back.
The train slowed, brakes whispering against the track.
The voice over the intercom called the name of the station.
He hadn't realized how far he'd come.
Or how long he'd been gone.
Ren stood slowly, gripping the duffel's strap. His legs ached faintly. His heart… was strangely quiet.
Outside the window, a new world waited—
green hills and crooked trees, low clouds brushing mountaintops, a station platform so small it barely had a roof.
He stepped off the train and into the smell of pine, salt, and distant rain.
The wind welcomed him with arms he didn't expect.
---
The Quiet Road
There were no crowds.
No taxis honking.
No screens flashing news or noise.
Just a narrow stone path leading up a sloped hill,
lined with old fences and wildflowers that hadn't been trimmed in years.
Ren walked slowly.
Each step echoing like a heartbeat.
His eyes wandered—not searching, just taking in.
Birdsong somewhere in the trees.
A dog barking faintly in the distance.
Laundry dancing on a line like ghosts in the wind.
It was… beautiful.
Painfully so.
The kind of beauty that didn't ask for attention.
The kind that simply was.
---
And Then
As he followed the map Aunt Mayu had drawn,
the road curved.
Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks veiled in mist.
To the left, down a gentle slope, waves whispered softly against a distant beach, like someone calling him in their sleep.
And then, through the trees—
he saw it.
The house.
Old. Wooden. Weathered by time.
The windows were dark. The ivy curled like sleeping fingers across the walls.
Ren stood in front of the gate for a long moment, just… breathing.
The place felt like it remembered him, even if he'd never been there before.
But just as he reached for the gate—
his eyes flicked up.
---
The Shadow in the Window
There, in the upstairs window.
A figure.
A shape.
A silhouette, faint and pale, outlined by light from within.
Not moving.
Just standing.
A woman.
Ren's breath caught in his chest.
The wind stilled.
His heart forgot how to beat for a second.
And then—
just like that—
She was gone.
The old wooden gate creaked as Ren pushed it open.
It was the kind of sound that didn't just echo—it lingered,
as though the house was whispering something back to him.
Beyond the gate, grass had grown tall, swaying in slow waves.
Stone steps, cracked and uneven, led toward the front porch.
Vines curled around the railing like veins—old, alive, reaching.
Ren stood still for a moment, eyes lifting once more to the upper window.
But there was nothing there now.
No figure.
No movement.
No light.
Only stillness.
Had he imagined it?
He didn't know.
Didn't want to know.
Not yet.
Instead, he tightened his grip on the duffel bag and stepped forward,
toward the house that once belonged to people he loved—
and now belonged to silence.
---
Crossing the Threshold
The front door was heavier than he expected.
The key—the old bronze one—fit perfectly, but the lock protested,
as if the door hadn't been opened in years.
It groaned as it turned.
The door opened slowly, letting in sunlight for the first time in what must've been months.
Dust danced in the golden beams,
tiny particles floating like forgotten memories.
Ren stepped in.
And the house breathed.
It was the only word that came to mind.
A sensation—not heard or seen, but felt.
As though something unseen had just sighed.
Welcomed him in.
Or woken up.
---
Inside the House
The air smelled of cedar, faintly damp, with the ghost of incense clinging to the walls.
Wooden floors creaked under his weight.
To the left, a small living room—an old sofa, covered in a white sheet,
beside a low table with yellowing edges.
To the right, a sliding door to a traditional tatami room, its paper screens yellowed with time.
Photographs still sat on the shelf.
Some of his mother—laughing with friends he didn't recognize.
Some of his father—standing on a cliff, holding a paintbrush to the sea.
And then one of the two of them—together, young and free.
Ren touched the frame gently.
"They were happy here," he whispered to no one.
---
The Upstairs
The stairs creaked with every step as he climbed.
Each footfall sounded too loud—too alive.
The second floor opened into a narrow hallway, dim and dust-coated.
Three rooms—one with the door already ajar.
Ren stepped toward it, curiosity pulling him closer.
And then—
He froze.
A cold breeze.
From nowhere.
It passed through him like a whisper.
Like breath on the back of his neck.
He turned.
No one there.
But the air… changed.
Heavy.
Sharp.
Electric.
And then—
Footsteps.
Soft. Upstairs.
One step.
Two.
Not his.
Someone else.
---
The Door at the End
It was closed.
Old. Faded wood. A white charm paper above it—worn, but still hanging by a red string.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the doorknob.
"...Ren."
The voice was faint.
Almost imagined.
His heart thudded in his chest.
The hairs on his arms stood.
He looked over his shoulder.
Still nothing.
The house was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Like it was waiting.
---
But He Didn't Run
Ren stood at the top of the stairs for a long time.
Listening.
Breathing.
Something was here.
Something unseen.
Something watching.
But not cruel.
Not dark.
Not dangerous.
Just… waiting.
Just lonely.
Like him.
And in that silence, Ren whispered the first words he'd spoken in the house.
"I'm home…"
The hallway stayed still.
But somewhere—deep inside that house—
A soft wind stirred.
A warmth brushed his shoulder.
And a girl's quiet voice answered from the walls:
"...Welcome back."