The Buddha temple stood quietly at the mountain of the village, its stone lanterns moss-covered, its wooden beams worn by rain and time. From outside came the steady hum of cicadas, the gentle clack of bamboo striking against stone in the temple garden, and the faint ringing of a wind chime swaying in the summer breeze.
Inside the main hall, Akumu and Kaede Tsukihara sat cross-legged upon the polished wooden floor. Their long white hair spilled down their backs like pale rivers, crimson eyes half-hidden beneath lowered lashes. Their skin—pale and cool—seemed almost carved from marble, as if life itself had been drained long ago.
Kaede's head was bowed, strands of hair shadowing her face as she traced a finger along the worn edge of a sutra scroll. The air was heavy with incense smoke, curling upward like ghostly fingers. Suddenly, she lifted her gaze. Her crimson eyes flicked to the entrance.
"Come," she said quietly, the word carrying through the silence like the chime's faint ring.
Two figures hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside.
Kaito Mori entered first. He carried himself stiffly, shoulders squared as if trying to wear the pride of his wealthy family like armor. His indigo kimono, trimmed with fine golden thread, shimmered faintly under the lantern's glow. His black hair was neatly tied back, his sandals sounding out of place against the temple's worn floorboards.
Behind him followed his younger sister, Yui Mori. She wore a soft lavender kimono embroidered with cranes in flight, the fabric whispering gently as she moved. Her long hair was tied with a silk ribbon the color of plum blossoms. She glanced around with cautious eyes, her grip tightening on her sleeve as if the stillness of the temple pressed too heavily upon her.
The four stood together, the soundscape wrapping around them: cicadas droning, bamboo clacking, incense crackling faintly in its burner. Kaede and Akumu sat with their quiet, almost otherworldly calm, while Kaito and Yui shifted awkwardly, the weight of silence making them feel both welcomed and intruding.
It was not yet tense, nor frightening—only a strange, quiet meeting in the Buddha temple, where the living and the almost-unliving shared the same air.
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Strange, isn't it? How a single word can carry so many shapes. Love.
Everyone claims to know it. Everyone swears they've felt it. They talk about it in songs, in whispers, in promises they never keep. But when you sit alone—yes, even you, reading these lines—don't you wonder if what you felt was really love… or something else entirely?
They tell you it's warmth. But what about the sleepless nights, staring at a ceiling with someone's face burning into your skull?
They tell you it's joy. But what about the silence after an argument, the hollow space where laughter used to be?
They tell you it's selfless. But what about the way you hold on tighter, even when you know you should let go?
I don't understand feelings. Maybe I never will. But you do. Or at least, you pretend to.
Tell me—when was the last time you thought of someone so sharply it hurt?
Not the kind of pain you admit out loud, but the kind that gnaws at you in secret.
Do you remember the way your chest tightened?
The way you bit your lip, as if you could bleed the thought out of yourself?
You didn't tell anyone, did you? You tucked it away. You buried it under jokes, under distractions, under the weight of everything you "should" feel instead.
But it's still there.
And sometimes—don't lie—you're afraid someone will notice. The way your eyes shift when their name comes up. The way you hesitate before denying.
What would happen if someone really looked at you, deeply enough, and saw that secret?
Would you laugh it off?
Would you deny it so strongly that your voice shook?
Or would you go quiet, knowing the truth had already slipped out through your silence?
You don't have to answer. Not to me.
But answer it to yourself, if you dare.
Because love, in the end, is never what people claim it is. It's a ghost that follows you. A hand pressed against your back, steering you even when you think you're walking on your own. It lingers in your shadow, waits in the hollow of your chest.
And love wears so many faces.
Family love—do you believe in it?
The one that swears it will protect you, but cuts you open with expectations sharper than knives.
The one that says blood is thicker than water—yet drowns you with the very weight of that blood.
Obsession—does that word scare you?
Or do you secretly crave it?
Someone who watches your every move, memorizes your smallest habits, aches for you even in their sleep. Would you call that devotion… or would you call it madness? And if you've ever been guilty of it yourself, did you admit it—or bury it so deep you pray no one ever digs it up?
And then there is betrayal.
Perhaps the purest form of love. Because only the ones you love enough to trust can shatter you so completely. A lover. A friend. A parent. A sibling.
Did it happen to you? Did you see the knife in their hand too late, or did you feel it first in your back?
Did you forgive them?
Or did you pretend to, while keeping the scar fresh in your heart like a brand?
So, reader, the question isn't whether you've known love.
No—love has already touched you, bruised you, scarred you.
The real question is simpler.
What has love turned you into?
A believer?
A prisoner?
A shadow of who you once were?
You don't have to say it out loud. I already know the answer is hiding behind your silence.
---
The glass doors hissed shut with a sterile pshhh, sealing them inside. The air changed immediately—thicker, colder, buzzing faintly as though the very oxygen had been filtered of warmth.
The hum of the machines was restless, uneven—bzzzt… bzzzt…—a reminder that nothing here was steady, nothing was trustworthy.
The scientists moved carefully, too carefully, as though every gesture might be judged. Their lab coats were crisp but wrinkled at the sleeves, stained at the edges with coffee, ink, and something darker no one dared identify.
One man scribbled notes in a journal, his pen scratching in harsh, rapid strokes, then pausing suddenly—like he was afraid of writing too much, or perhaps afraid of writing the wrong thing. He glanced at the security camera in the corner before lowering his head again.
Another woman typed at her console, the clatter of keys tak-tak-tak echoing in the sterile room. But her eyes weren't on the screen; they darted sideways every few minutes, checking the shadows in the glass reflection. When she thought no one was watching, she rubbed her hands together until her knuckles turned red, like she was trying to warm herself—or scrub something off her skin that wasn't there.
Two younger assistants whispered near the specimen tanks, their voices clipped and sharp. They weren't gossiping—they were bargaining with each other, exchanging small tasks like prisoners trading favors just to survive another shift. Their laughter was brittle, breaking too quickly into silence.
Every sound, no matter how ordinary, felt wrong here.
The drip of liquid into a vial. Plink… plink… plink.
The sudden whir of a centrifuge, spinning too loud, too fast, like it wanted to burst.
Even the shuffling of papers seemed like screams in disguise.
And whenever someone had to cross the floor, carrying samples or reports, their footsteps were fast, clipped, and full of tension—as if lingering too long in the open might invite something they couldn't name.
The lab wasn't haunted by ghosts.
It was haunted by the people inside it—each one trying to bury their fear, each one failing in small, desperate ways.
---
The inside of the Fujimoto house felt dim, even though the lights were on.
Soft white bulbs hung from the ceiling, but their glow did little to warm the space. The curtains were drawn halfway, allowing only thin strips of late-afternoon light to slip through and rest on the wooden floor. The air carried a faint scent of incense—subtle, not overpowering—mixed with the quiet stillness of a home that had been waiting.
Aiko noticed it immediately.
This was not a house prepared for visitors.
This was a house prepared for remembrance.
At the far end of the living room stood a small household altar. A framed photograph of their daughter rested at its center, bordered with white flowers—chrysanthemums, carefully arranged. A thin trail of smoke rose from an incense stick, curling slowly upward before disappearing.
No one spoke.
The only sound was the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant tick of a clock in the adjoining room.
Mr. and Mrs. Fujimoto knelt on the tatami mats before the altar.
Mrs. Fujimoto's hands were folded together, fingers trembling slightly as she bowed her head. Mr. Fujimoto sat beside her, straight-backed, as if holding himself together through sheer discipline alone.
Aiko and the others remained seated a respectful distance away.
They waited.
After a few moments, Mrs. Fujimoto reached forward and adjusted the incense stick. The ash fell softly into the burner. The sound was almost inaudible—but in the quiet room, it felt loud.
"She lived in a hostel," Mrs. Fujimoto said suddenly, without looking back.
Her voice was calm, but empty.
"Near her college."
Aiko nodded gently.
"Yes, ma'am. We know."
"She used to call every night," Mrs. Fujimoto continued. "Even if it was just for five minutes. She would tell me what she ate, how her classes went, who annoyed her that day."
Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile.
"She never skipped that."
Kenji lowered his gaze.
Mr. Fujimoto spoke next, his voice deeper, heavier.
"She believed parents should know everything. She said secrets only grow heavier with time."
Renji shifted slightly, listening carefully.
"And then?" Aiko asked softly.
Mrs. Fujimoto's hands tightened.
"Three weeks ago… she stopped."
The incense smoke wavered.
"She still called," she said. "But the calls became shorter. She said she was tired. That hostel life was busy. That exams were near."
Souta leaned forward just a little.
"Did she mention any problems? With friends? Anyone at the hostel?"
Mrs. Fujimoto shook her head slowly.
"No. That's what frightened me."
She finally turned to face them. Her eyes were dry now, as though tears had already been spent long ago.
"She always told us everything. Even small arguments. Even silly things. But those last few days… she didn't say anything at all."
Mr. Fujimoto swallowed.
"She spoke like someone trying not to worry us."
The room felt heavier with every word.
Outside, wind passed quietly through the trees, leaves brushing together in a slow, tired rhythm.
Aiko glanced briefly at the altar.
The photograph showed a young woman smiling gently, unaware of the silence she had left behind.
"On the day it happened," Mrs. Fujimoto continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "we were preparing for the evening prayers."
She gestured toward the altar.
"This is our mourning period. We were supposed to light the incense and pray for her soul's peace."
Her hands trembled again.
"But before we could… the police came."
No one spoke after that.
The incense continued to burn.
The house held its breath, as though pausing between grief and acceptance.
Aiko finally bowed her head.
"Thank you for telling us all of this. We promise—we will listen carefully to every detail."
Mrs. Fujimoto nodded once.
"Please," she said quietly. "If there is anything you find… even something small… let us know."
Because parents, even in grief, still wait for their children to come home.Darkness had weight.
It pressed down from every direction, thick and suffocating, as if the night itself had grown flesh and decided to remain. There was no sky, no stars—only a vast, endless black swallowing distance and depth alike.
And then—
A smile.
Too bright.
Too wide.
It appeared first, floating in the dark before the rest of the form emerged.
The figure moved unnaturally, footsteps silent, gliding rather than walking. Its body was wrapped entirely in red threads—hundreds of them—coiled tightly around limbs, torso, and neck. The threads pulsed faintly, as though alive, tightening and loosening with every movement. They were soaked dark, the color not just red but something deeper, heavier—blood remembered, not fresh.
The same threads.
The same binding.
The figure tilted its head slightly, the smile never fading.
Ahead stood a tree.
Not merely large—colossal.
Its trunk was wider than any temple pillar, roots erupting from the earth like the bones of something long buried and furious at being disturbed. The bark was dark, almost black, split with veins that glowed faintly from within, as though something ancient breathed inside it.
And blooming upon it—
Flowers.
Impossible flowers.
They clustered along the branches and roots, petals layered like torn silk, edges sharp and delicate at once. Their color was unknown—not red, not purple, not blue—but something in between, shimmering faintly as if the color itself could not decide what it wanted to be. They glowed softly, casting light that did not warm, only revealed.
No record of them existed.
No scroll mentioned them.
And yet they bloomed only where death had been offered.
The thread-wrapped figure approached the tree slowly, reverently, as though nearing a god.
Around them, the ground was a graveyard.
Skeletons lay scattered in countless forms—some curled as if praying, others reaching upward, fingers frozen in eternal pleading. Dried blood soaked the earth in dark stains, layered upon older stains, generations of sacrifice pressed into the soil.
And then—
She appeared.
A woman stood before the tree, unmoving.
She wore an ancient kimono, fabric dark and heavy, patterns barely visible beneath age and shadow. Her hair was impossibly long, flowing freely down her back like spilled ink. Her skin was pale—deathly so—and her eyes…
Red.
Not glowing.
Watching.
She raised her hands slowly, sleeves sliding down her arms, and spoke in a voice that felt older than language itself.
"Once again, the boundary thins."
Her gaze lifted toward the massive tree.
"Once again, the blood remembers its path."
The flowers trembled slightly, petals shivering as though in response.
She stepped forward and bowed deeply.
A perfect bow.
Ninety degrees.
Not to the ground.
Not to the dead.
But to the tree itself.
"Creator of return," she murmured.
"Bearer of threads."
"Witness of endings."
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but something worse.
"The ritual begins again."
The thread-wrapped figure behind her tilted its head sharply, the red threads tightening with a soft, wet sound.
"This time," she continued calmly,
"no hands will reach in time."
"No voices will interrupt."
"No light will expose us."
She straightened slowly, red eyes gleaming.
"The cycle will be completed."
The flowers flared brighter.
The skeletons seemed to lean inward.
And the darkness closed tighter around them all—
as if the world itself was bracing for what was about to be born.
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Author don't know if she should be sorry for uploading late (after a million year)or not.....