The rain had returned by late afternoon—soft, almost thoughtful, draping the world in a gray veil. Most students rushed home beneath umbrellas or plastic-wrapped bags, but the library remained still and quiet, as if untouched by the weather.
Ren sat by the tall, dust-scented windows, the shelves around him lined with books that hadn't been checked out in years.
Across the table, Haruka Mori lowered her voice as she leaned closer.
"You ever hear of the East Building ghost?"
Ren blinked. "No?"
Haruka grinned, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "They say if you walk alone on the third floor after dark, you'll hear someone humming. Not singing—just this low, strange hum. Like an old lullaby."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is this from the newspaper club?"
"First years keep reporting it," she said. "But I'm more interested in why we keep hearing stories like that."
She slid a large, dusty volume across the table. The cover was worn and stitched like an old family register. Faded kanji read:
『幽幻魂症候群:失われた時間の残響』
(Yūgen Spirit Syndrome: Echoes of Lost Time)
Ren frowned, brushing a hand over the cover. "This looks ancient."
"It's a folklorist's thesis. Published ages ago—forgotten even by the librarians here. I found it during the club's last archive cleaning."
She opened to a bookmarked page, revealing illustrations of faceless human silhouettes standing in mirrored fields of darkness. There were diagrams, circles of salt, ink drawings of ritual bells.
Haruka tapped a passage.
"Yūgen Spirit Syndrome is not a medical condition, but a spiritual affliction," she read aloud. "It occurs when unresolved grief or emotional severance echoes into the fabric of time, creating 'afterimages'—moments, people, or places that should have disappeared, but remain bound to memory."
Ren leaned in, slowly. "So it's… ghosts?"
"Not exactly," she said. "These aren't spirits of the dead. More like… feelings that couldn't fade. Regret, guilt, longing. They imprint on a place—or a person."
She looked at him curiously.
"You ever felt like you were stuck inside someone else's memory, Ren-kun?"
He hesitated. The room suddenly felt colder, though the window was shut.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe."
Haruka closed the book gently.
"My grandmother used to say this town is thin in some places. Like the boundary between now and then is stretched too tight. When people hurt badly enough, it tears."
She smiled, a little wistfully, then poked his arm playfully.
"Who knows? You might already be haunted."
Ren chuckled, though the sound came out quiet and hollow. "You don't really believe that, do you?"
But Haruka didn't answer immediately. She studied him for a beat longer than necessary, fingers still resting where she touched his sleeve. There was a softness to her gaze—gentler than her usual teasing.
"Some people carry ghosts without even knowing," she said. "They look like everyone else. But you can tell, if you listen."
Ren opened his mouth to reply, but the air shifted.
He felt it before he heard her.
Soft footsteps. No breath. No sound of an umbrella dripping at the entrance. Just a sudden silence behind them, like someone had paused the scene mid-frame.
Haruka looked past him and froze.
Sayuri stood in the doorway.
No umbrella. No schoolbag. Just her uniform, neat and perfect, and her pale eyes fixed on Haruka with the calmness of winter snow.
Ren rose halfway from his chair. "Sayuri? I thought—"
"I came to walk you home," she said.
Her voice was smooth and soft. But it held no warmth.
The rain ticked gently against the windows.
Haruka stood, laughing awkwardly. "Ah… Sayuri-chan. I didn't realize you were waiting. We were just talking about old books. Nothing scary, promise."
Sayuri didn't blink. Didn't smile. Her eyes never left Haruka.
After a moment, Haruka glanced between them and grabbed her bag.
"Well. I should go. See you tomorrow, Ren-kun."
She exited quickly, footsteps light but uneven. The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence.
Ren slowly turned back to Sayuri.
"You didn't have to come," he said. "I would've—"
"You didn't tell me where you were going," Sayuri said.
Her voice wasn't accusatory. It was gentle. But there was a chill in it, as though she were stating a law rather than a feeling.
Ren rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't think I needed to report in."
Sayuri stepped forward.
"She touched you."
Ren blinked. "What?"
Sayuri pointed slightly with her chin. "Your arm. Just now. She touched it."
Ren glanced at his sleeve. The place Haruka had brushed.
"She was joking."
Sayuri's smile finally returned.
But it was the same one from this morning. Too perfect. Too slow.
"Yes. A joke."
She walked past him toward the book Haruka had left on the table.
Her fingertips brushed the old leather cover. She opened to the page with the faceless silhouettes. Studied them quietly.
"Yūgen Spirit Syndrome," she read aloud.
Ren watched her.
"You believe in it?"
Sayuri didn't look up.
"I believe in grief."
She turned the page.
"And I believe some things don't die just because we pretend they should."
Ren said nothing.
The rain picked up.
Outside, the town seemed to dissolve into mist.
Sayuri closed the book.
She turned to him and held out her hand.
"Let's go home."
He took it.
---
That night, the hallway light outside Ren's room flickered once.
Then again.
He sat on his bed, staring at his phone, the unread text from Haruka still on the screen.
> Hey. Let me know if she always looks at people like that. Just kidding. Sort of.
He sighed and closed it.
Down the hall, he heard the soft slide of a door. Sayuri's room.
He waited.
But no footsteps came.
Just silence.
And then, faintly, beneath the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the old wall clock…
A sound.
Low and quiet.
Like someone humming.
---