"Some memories are buried, not forgotten. And sometimes, they claw their way back through the walls."
Rain danced across the tiled roof of the Sakuma estate in staccato bursts. It was the kind of morning where the sky couldn't decide whether to mourn or merely linger. Pale light filtered through the rice paper windows, casting long, ghostly patterns across Reiko's floor.
She sat upright in bed, the remnants of her nightmare still clinging to her like cobwebs. Her skin was cold, damp with sweat, and her throat was dry. In her dream, Seijiro had spoken of her mother's youth. Of Keshiki. Of the well that watched. And Okiku… she had been there, hissing, claiming.
A soft knock broke the silence.
The door opened gently, and Aunt Otaki entered. She was dressed in her usual gray cardigan, her sharp eyes glinting with something unreadable. She carried neatly folded clothes in her arms — a school uniform.
"You're up," she said, voice calm but concerned. "Good. You should get ready."
Reiko blinked at her. "Ready?"
"For school."
She hesitated. "School?"
Otaki laid the clothes beside her. "Don't you want to join again? Take your mind off all this... darkness?"
Reiko lowered her gaze. Something about the word darkness made her shoulders tighten. Yet, a part of her yearned for something normal — a hall filled with students, not spirits. A classroom, not a cursed house.
"I'll go," she whispered.
Otaki nodded, satisfied. "It's the same school your mother went to, you know."
Reiko paused. "She... never talked about it."
"She wouldn't," Otaki said, looking out the window, her voice suddenly distant. "Some places don't leave you the same. But still. It's time."
---
The School Beneath Time
The school stood like a forgotten shrine in the mist. Nestled between hills thick with cedar and mist, the Shimozawa Girls' Academy was the oldest remaining structure in the region, its history stitched through generations of silence. Ivy curled up its stone walls, and the tall bell tower loomed like a watchful eye. A stone plaque by the gate was cracked, but the characters still read:
"Virtue Before Voice. Obedience Before Thought."
As they walked through the front gates, Reiko felt the air shift — as if she had stepped into a dream woven centuries ago.
Otaki spoke little. Her heels clicked with practiced rhythm, and Reiko followed in silence until they reached the front office — a space with low ceilings and yellowed wood panels.
"Principal Kawashima will see you," said a receptionist who didn't once lift her head. Her fingers moved slowly, typing nothing on a dead keyboard.
---
The Principal's Smile
The office smelled of old paper, saké, and faded incense.
Principal Kawashima stood as Reiko entered. He was an aging man with a spine far too straight and a face carved by time. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth down to his neck like a stitched-up smile.
"Ah... the daughter of Miyako Sakuma," he said, smiling without warmth. "She was... bright. Too bright."
Reiko forced a nod.
"They say certain bloodlines run deep in this school. And the Sakumas... well." He leaned forward, folding his hands. "They left behind more than grades."
His office walls were lined with black-and-white photographs of students, some so faded their eyes seemed blurred out. But one photo — cracked and stained — showed a girl in a pristine uniform.
Reiko blinked.
Her mother.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
Kawashima followed her gaze. "She was... special. Just like you."
Reiko looked away. Something about the room felt wrong — too still, too rehearsed. Like she had stepped into a play written long before her birth.
He handed her a form. "You'll be joining Class 2-B. They've been... waiting."
She froze. "Waiting?"
But Kawashima said nothing more.
---
Whispers in the Hall
As she stepped out of the office, the hall stretched longer than before. Doors lined the sides like watching eyes, and on the walls, someone had carved messages:
"She weeps in the mirrors."
"Room 13 feeds at dusk."
"Don't follow the footsteps."
Reiko turned sharply — did she hear footsteps?
No. Just silence.
And then—
A flicker.
Across the hallway, in the west wing — which the principal had said was under renovation — she saw her.
Her mother.
Not just a resemblance, not a trick of the light.
Miyako Sakuma, standing still, gazing toward the old staircase.
She wore her school uniform, pristine and frozen in time.
"Mother?" Reiko whispered.
The figure turned slowly and walked away.
Reiko followed without thinking.
---
The West Wing
The corridor narrowed, and dust coated every surface. The floorboards groaned beneath her shoes, and broken classroom doors yawned open like mouths. Light bulbs overhead buzzed faintly, flickering.
It felt like stepping into a photograph from a dead girl's memory.
She passed a room with no number.
Another door with red paper pasted across it — warding talismans, torn and rotting.
Then—
She found it.
A door in the basement.
It was metal, rusted. Not like the others. It looked... bolted from the outside. But now it stood slightly ajar, as if someone had just gone inside.
Something about the air changed.
Thud.
She flinched.
A crow — large, black, and lifeless — fell from nowhere. It landed at her feet, its neck twisted unnaturally.
Its eyes… were wrong.
Not the eyes of a bird. Not exactly. One of them was pale, and human.
It stared at her.
It knew her.
"Reiko..." came the voice.
It wasn't from the crow.
It was from the other side of the door.
Whispered. Familiar.
A child's voice.
Or a memory's.
"Reiko... you left me…"
Without realizing it, her hand touched the door.
It opened wider.
Darkness swelled inside, heavy and warm — like breath.
The moment she stepped in—
SLAM.
The door closed behind her.
---
To Be Continued...