The morning air smelled like old wood and damp stone.
Ren stirred in his futon, the ceiling above him streaked faintly with morning light through the shoji slats. For a moment, he thought he'd heard something—soft, like a whisper. A rustle in the tatami hallway.
He sat up.
Silence.
The house was still, save for the distant caw of a crow and the rustling of leaves in the maple trees outside. He stood, pulled a hoodie over his shirt, and stepped quietly into the corridor.
The hallway stretched pale and empty toward the west wing of the house—toward the unused rooms.
That's when he saw it.
The guestroom door.
It was ajar.
Just slightly. No more than a breath's width.
But unmistakably open.
His heart thudded.
He walked slowly to it, remembering the words of their grandfather when they first moved in:
> "That room is sealed. Leave it be."
Ren had assumed it was superstition—or maybe grief. Their grandmother had passed away in that wing years ago.
But now, the scent of dust and disuse drifted faintly through the crack.
He pushed the door open.
The air inside was cold, stale. The tatami was dry but uneven, warped by time. The futon was gone, the shelves empty. Cobwebs clung to the corners.
And against the far wall stood a tall mirror—its surface hidden beneath a heavy, faded cloth.
Ren stepped closer.
The mirror was old. The frame carved with tiny camellia flowers. His hand hovered over the cloth.
He didn't pull it.
Instead, he turned—
Sayuri was standing in the doorway.
Barefoot. Eyes unreadable.
"You shouldn't be in here," she said quietly.
Ren blinked. "Did you open the door?"
She shook her head. "You were dreaming."
"But—"
Sayuri stepped forward and took his hand.
"You were dreaming," she repeated, gently but firmly, guiding him out.
He didn't protest. But as she closed the door behind them, he glanced once more at the mirror.
And for a split second…
He thought the cloth was moving.
---
That night, rain tapped gently against the roof tiles. The wind had returned—soft but persistent, threading through the cracks of the old house like a voice too faint to catch.
Sayuri lay in bed, the blankets pulled up to her chin.
She couldn't sleep.
Her mind kept drifting—first to the photo she had returned to Ren's room, then to the mirror. Then to Ren's expression when he told her he'd seen the door open.
He hadn't been lying.
But he wasn't right either.
She closed her eyes.
And in the darkness, she dreamed.
---
She was small again.
No older than six or seven.
The floorboards beneath her were warm with summer heat, the walls golden in the late afternoon sun. She was standing in the west wing—by the guestroom—staring at the closed mirror, though it was uncovered in her memory.
"Come on," Ren's voice called.
She turned.
There he was—child Ren, with messy bangs and scraped knees, holding out his hand.
She took it.
They walked together into the room.
The mirror towered in front of them. In the reflection, the room shimmered oddly, as if underwater.
Ren stood beside her.
She looked at their reflection.
But something was wrong.
In the mirror—
Ren wasn't holding her hand.
He was holding someone else's.
The girl's face was blurred, but her hand was pale and small, fingers twined with Ren's tightly.
Sayuri froze.
She looked down at her real hand—clasped in his.
She looked back up.
Still, in the reflection, Ren was with the other girl.
Still smiling. Still looking only at her.
Sayuri stepped closer.
"Who is she?" she asked, voice trembling.
Ren didn't answer.
The reflection slowly turned to face her.
Sayuri screamed.
But no sound came.
Only the chime of bells, faint and broken, echoing through the air like a warning.
---
She woke with a start, gasping.
Sweat clung to her neck. Her blankets were twisted around her legs. Outside, the wind blew stronger, rustling the maple leaves in waves.
She sat up.
Ren's room was dark, the door closed.
She walked toward the kitchen for water—but paused at the end of the hallway.
The west wing.
The door was closed.
But the air was cold.
She stared for a long time before finally turning away.
---
Ren, meanwhile, hadn't slept well either.
Though Sayuri had insisted it was a dream, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with the mirror.
More than superstition.
More than memory.
The air in that room had felt… heavy. Like it remembered him.
Like it wanted to be seen.
At school, he couldn't focus. Not during math, not during gym. Even Aoi seemed distracted, barely meeting his eyes during break.
But it was Haruka who approached him after class.
"Hey," she said brightly. "Wanna hear something creepy?"
Ren blinked. "Uh, sure?"
She held up a paperback book with a cracked spine.
"Echoes and Residues: The Ghosts That Aren't," she read aloud. "Written by a monk who lived in Hoshigahara seventy years ago. Talks about how grief and guilt can leave emotional imprints—echoes of things that never quite happened."
Ren frowned. "That sounds like…"
Haruka tilted her head. "Like what?"
He hesitated.
"A dream I had," he said finally. "But maybe not mine."
Haruka beamed. "Even better! Echo dreams are one of the classic signs of Yūgen Syndrome. Especially if they involve reflections."
She flipped to a bookmarked page.
> "When a soul cannot forget, it fractures. The mirror does not lie—it remembers what we would rather bury."
Ren stared at the quote.
The mirror.
Haruka leaned in. "Careful. Some stories say if you stare too long into an echo… it stares back."
She laughed.
But Ren didn't.
---
That evening, the wind had quieted again.
Sayuri didn't mention her dream. Ren didn't ask.
But as they passed each other in the hallway, their eyes met—and something in both their gazes lingered.
Not fear.
But recognition.
Something forgotten.
Or deliberately buried.
In the distance, the chimes from the Tsukimori yard began to ring again.
And in the locked