There was a smell.
Not the usual smell of grilled fish or stewed meat that filled the house before dinner. Not the soft sweetness of tatami or the faint perfume of Sayoko's laundry soap.
This was different. Thicker. Sour and sweet at the same time. It came from the far end of the hallway—where the old guest rooms were.
And it never left.
Hikari tried to ignore it. She read old picture books, played with her dolls, and drew new faces every day—new families with new smiles. But the drawings were always silent. Their eyes never looked back at her the right way.
One afternoon, when Sayoko was outside tending to the garden, Hikari stood in front of one of the locked doors.
She pressed her ear to the wood.
Silence.
Then—Scrape.Thump.Soft breathing?
She backed away quickly, heart pounding.
Sayoko called from outside, "Hikari-chan? Are you inside?"
The girl ran back to her room before answering, "Yes!"
She didn't ask about the sound.
She didn't want to hear the answer.
Later that evening, as Sayoko stirred a pot in the kitchen, Hikari stood behind her.
"Sayoko-san," she said quietly, "why do we never eat chicken anymore?"
Sayoko stirred slower.
"We ran out."
"But there used to be a lot."
Sayoko turned to her with a calm smile. "You have a good memory."
Hikari nodded.
Then added, "The beef tastes different too."
This time, Sayoko didn't reply. She simply ladled the soup into a bowl and set it in front of her.
"Eat before it gets cold."
Hikari picked up her spoon, but didn't move.
The broth shimmered with oil, thick and golden. Something dark and soft floated beneath the surface. It looked like meat.
But not any kind she knew.
That night, she didn't sleep.
She sat awake, knees pulled to her chest, listening to the house breathe.
The rain had stopped.
But the smell was still there.
She got up, crept down the hallway in her socks, and stood once again before the door.
Her fingers touched the handle. It didn't move. Still locked.
She turned away—But then stopped.
One of the sliding fusuma doors, farther down the corridor, was cracked open just slightly.
That door was never open.
She swallowed hard and moved toward it.
Inside, the room was pitch black. The smell was strongest here. Like something rotten wrapped in flowers.
She reached for the door.
But just before she could pull it open—
A hand touched her shoulder.
She gasped and spun around.
Sayoko stood behind her, eyes wide in the dark.
"Why are you here?" she asked softly.
Hikari tried to answer, but no sound came out.
Sayoko knelt in front of her, gripping her shoulders.
"Some doors should never be opened, Hikari-chan."
The next morning, the door was nailed shut.