Chapter 1 Part 6
✦ Part 6: The Frame that Doesn't End
Yuriko returned to her room, though returned didn't feel quite right.
The air inside was colder now. The ivory curtains shifted slightly even though the windows were closed. Her suitcase sat where it had before—tidy, unopened. The photo frame on the dresser remained facedown, just as she'd left it.
She walked past it without touching it.
For minutes—or maybe longer—she stood before the bed, still dressed, trying to hold onto a feeling that was already slipping. That dinner had occurred. That she had eaten. That the words had been spoken aloud.
She untied her boots slowly, feeling the fibers of the laces between her fingers, needing something tactile, something anchored.
The silence of the room pressed in like cloth against skin.
She lay down on the bed without turning off the lamp, staring at the carved molding along the ceiling.
What had she said to him?
What had he said to her?
Every word seemed to fray at the edges when she tried to replay them. Like rewinding a damaged reel of film.
She turned onto her side. Closed her eyes.
And opened them again.
The hallway pulled at her.
She didn't remember deciding to leave the bed, but her hand was already on the doorknob. Her body moved as if guided by echo instead of thought. Barefoot, silent. She stepped into the corridor.
It was darker than it had been before dinner. The lamps along the walls burned low, casting long, uneven shadows. The wood beneath her feet creaked not like a house, but like breath.
Halfway down the corridor, she passed a mirror.
Oval-shaped, rimmed in dark rosewood, with a brass stand. Freestanding. She was certain it hadn't been there earlier.
She paused.
Her reflection paused with her—but blinked before she did.
She recoiled instinctively, hand flying to her mouth.
The reflection caught up an instant later.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
No sound followed. The hallway remained still, the mirror untouched. She stepped around it slowly, careful not to look again.
Behind her: a soft click.
Sharp. Precise. Like a camera shutter.
She spun.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No camera. No breath but her own.
And yet—the air shifted. As if someone had just turned a page nearby.
A breeze, faint and sudden, brushed the back of her neck.
She reached up instinctively. Her hair was slightly out of place.
That wasn't possible.
She took a step backward, toward her room, but her heel caught on the floorboard, and she stumbled, hand grazing the wall.
Another click.
Not a camera this time. A door latch.
Down the hall, one of the bedroom doors opened an inch.
She squinted. It was too dark to see inside.
The mirror now faced her again.
She hadn't touched it.
She hadn't turned it.
But it was facing her.
She didn't run. She didn't retreat.
She simply walked.
Steady, slow, one foot in front of the other, back to her room.
The door closed behind her without a sound.
She locked it.
Then she looked at the dresser.
The photo frame… was upright.
It hadn't been.
She stepped toward it slowly, feeling her heart press against her ribs like it wanted out.
The frame was silver, with a slight tarnish at the corners.
The image inside was not black-and-white. Nor was it modern.
It was sepia-toned, old—prewar, likely. The paper textured, the corners curled slightly.
It showed a girl—about six or seven—standing in a field of tall grass.
She wore a white dress with tiny plum blossom patterns.
Yuriko recognized it.
The girl's eyes were cast downward. Not solemn—just... still.
And beside her: a figure, taller, older. A boy.
His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, but his face was turned away.
Yuriko stared at the image.
She reached out, touched the glass.
It was warm.
Her knees went soft. She gripped the edge of the dresser to steady herself, the familiar fog creeping behind her eyes. She breathed slowly, trying to ride it out.
Don't faint. Not now.
She backed away. Sat on the edge of the bed, trembling.
The air in the room felt thick. Not oppressive—just dense. Like being watched by someone very far away. Or very close.
Then she heard it.
A whisper, low, like wind through fabric.
"…turn it over."
She looked up sharply.
The mirror was no longer in the hallway.
It stood just inside her door now.
For a long time, she didn't move.
Eventually, she did what she always did.
She reached for her camera.
It sat in its case, untouched, sealed for months.
She opened it. Pulled it free. Checked the lens, the shutter, the battery.
Mechanical. Familiar. Real.
She turned it on. The screen flickered to life.
Then died.
A whisper of static hissed from the lens.
She turned toward the dresser, aimed the viewfinder at the photo.
Pressed the shutter.
Nothing.
The lens jammed. The motor spun once. Then silence.
The photo remained still.
She lowered the camera, and in the reflection of the glass frame, she saw someone standing behind her.
Tall. Black-clad. Beautiful.
When she turned—
The room was empty.
But on her bed: a second photo.
Still warm.
Still wet.
Of her.
Asleep.