The old iron gate creaked as they entered.
Sakuma 's estate stood quiet in the rising morning light, ivy clinging to its walls like forgotten veins. The windows blinked back shadows, and birds sang carefully — as if afraid to break whatever spell lingered over the house.
Reiko's legs trembled as she stepped onto the familiar path. Every stone seemed foreign now, every breath echoing with what she had witnessed. Shin remained at her side, his hand not leaving hers even once during the walk back.
Inside, the warm scent of roasted barley tea met them — and Saika, in her immaculate uniform, came rushing to the front hall.
"Miss Reiko!" she cried, eyes wide with relief. "We were so worried—!"
Reiko stumbled into her arms, barely able to speak. Saika held her like a child, whispering reassurances. Shin watched, silent, until Otaki herself appeared at the top of the staircase, wearing a shawl over her nightgown and holding a lit pipe.
"You two look like you've walked out of the jaws of the underworld," she said, voice gravelly. Her eyes, however, shimmered with concern.
"Something like that," Shin replied quietly.
Otaki descended the steps slowly. Her face had aged in the days Reiko had been gone — the worry evident even behind her usual wit.
"You're home now," she said, wrapping an arm around Reiko. "Let's get you warm and fed. Then I want answers."
Later, as the sun fully rose, Reiko sat curled in the window nook of her old bedroom. A blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The tea Saika brought sat untouched on the table beside her.
Shin knocked once before entering.
He carried a fresh cup of coffee and a thick, wool scarf.
"You okay?" he asked, setting the cup beside her.
"No," she admitted.
He sat down next to her. Close. His shoulder pressed against hers.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For making you go through that."
He looked at her, brow furrowed. "Reiko… you don't have to apologize. I chose to be there."
"You could've died."
"So could you."
Silence settled between them. A fragile, living thing.
Then Reiko turned to him, her eyes soft. Vulnerable.
"Do you ever think… maybe we're not meant to survive this? That we're just… temporary flares in something much older?"
Shin didn't answer right away. He looked out the window instead — at the garden where the plum trees bloomed shyly.
"I think," he finally said, "that if we're just flares… then we burn brighter when we're together."
She blinked at him.
His face reddened. "That came out… really cheesy."
"No," she said, smiling faintly. "It was perfect."
She reached up — brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
His breath caught.
"Shin," she murmured, "when Okiku touched me… I felt everything. Her loneliness. Her rage. Her hope. And for a second, I thought—if I die here, I'm okay with it."
He took her hand in his, firm and grounding.
"Don't say that."
"I'm not afraid of dying anymore," she continued. "But I am afraid of being alone."
"You're not alone," he said, fiercely. "Not while I'm here. Not ever again."
Their eyes locked.
Slowly, cautiously — like testing a fragile truth — Reiko leaned forward.
Shin met her halfway.
Their lips touched. Just once. Soft and brief. But it spoke of everything unsaid — fear, pain, love.
When they pulled apart, Reiko leaned her head on his shoulder again.
"Stay," she whispered.
"I will."
The morning peace shattered with a knock at the front door.
Otaki opened it herself, still in her robe. A police officer stood there — cap in hand, sweat on his brow despite the chill.
"Forgive the early visit, ma'am," he said. "I'm here for Keisuke Sakuma. Is he in?"
"Keisuke?" Otaki blinked. "He hasn't lived here in decades."
Reiko and Shin joined her in the hall. The officer looked up at the sound of their steps — and his eyes widened slightly.
"You must be Reiko Sakuma," he said.
She nodded, wary.
"I'm Officer Tanabe. I've been investigating the recent disappearances near Hairama Hospital. This morning… we found the bodies."
Reiko's stomach dropped.
"All of them?" she asked, barely breathing.
He nodded. "Buried in a collapsed tunnel system beneath the old wing. Eleven in total. Identified as the missing patients and staff from the past five years."
"Then…" Shin began, "the kidnapper?"
"That's the strange part," Tanabe said, his expression grim. "He didn't kill them. Not a single one. Cause of death was massive internal hemorrhaging caused by… something else. We're calling in specialists, but—"
"—it was the curse," Reiko finished.
Tanabe looked between them.
"You saw something, didn't you?"
Reiko exchanged a glance with Shin. Then she asked, carefully, "Officer Tanabe… do you believe in spirits?"
He hesitated — then nodded once.
"After what I saw this morning? I'm starting to."
That afternoon, the air grew colder again.
Otaki sat on the veranda, swirling tea in a ceramic cup. Her pipe was unlit, resting in her lap.
Reiko joined her.
"Otaki… can I ask something?"
"Of course."
"Does anyone else in the Sakuma family… see them? Spirits?"
Otaki didn't answer at first.
Then she gave a chuckle.
"Your grandfather would've laughed himself silly hearing that question. He was terrified of anything he couldn't explain."
"But you're not."
Otaki's smile faded. Her fingers tightened on the cup.
"I used to think it was just children with wild imaginations. But then… Miyako started talking about things. Faces in mirrors. Voices in the attic. And Seijiro… he'd wake up screaming from dreams of fire and weeping girls."
Reiko felt the chill crawl up her arms.
"You knew?"
"I did. But I didn't want to believe it. Not until Seijiro died." Her voice broke slightly. "He fell down the old garden well. Just like Okiku."
Reiko's breath hitched.
"It wasn't an accident," Otaki continued. "He said he saw a girl with black hair. Said she was sad. That she asked him to count with her."
Reiko's heart pounded.
"And Miyako?"
Otaki looked out at the wind-stirred trees.
"Your mother was different. She didn't just see spirits. She carried them. Drew them in like moths to a flame. That's why she left this place. Said it was too full of sorrow. She tried to shield you from it, but…"
"But it found me anyway," Reiko finished.
Otaki nodded.
"There's something in the Sakuma bloodline, Reiko. Something old. Something tied to grief. Maybe that's why it always feels like the dead follow us."
Reiko swallowed hard.
"Then I'll face them. Like my mother did. Like Seijiro tried to."
Otaki reached out, placing a warm, wrinkled hand over hers.
"You're stronger than both of them, you know. Maybe you'll be the one to break the chain."
Behind them, the wind whispered through the trees.
And in the garden — by the edge of the old plum tree — a child's voice laughed once.
Faint.
But real.
To Be Continued