At the beginning of summer, when the air grew thick with ancient scents and the cicadas sang as if trying to stop time itself, the small village of Tsubame seemed to float in a motionless bubble, suspended between past and present.
The streets were narrow, lined with stone walls and cherry trees which, though no longer in bloom, still left behind an echo of spring.
Grass grew silently along the paths, and the houses—side by side—quietly preserved the habits of their inhabitants.
Among them, a bit away from the heart of the village, stood a modest yet elegant house, with dark roofs and sliding wooden windows, where Ayumi lived with her mother.
Ayumi was nineteen, but there was a rare depth in her eyes—something seldom found in someone still in school. Her father had died when she was just a child. His absence was more than an emptiness—it was a silence that had taught Ayumi to move gently through the world, as if each gesture might awaken a memory too fragile to touch.
Her home was steeped in a calm made of small rituals: the sound of tea being poured in the morning, the soft rustle of pages from a book left open on the tatami, her mother's tired yet gentle voice calling her to dinner.
A little further away, covered in ivy and melancholy, stood a much larger house. Abandoned. The shutters, once green, were chipped, and the windows looked like eyes that had been closed for too long. Every time Ayumi passed in front of it—often after school, her backpack slung over one shoulder and her thoughts wandering—her gaze would linger on that house like one looks at an old photograph forgotten in a drawer.
It wasn't just an empty house. It was a fragment of her past, etched in memory with the clarity of a childhood dream.
She still remembered them, even if only in pieces—the people who used to live there. The laughter that spilled from open windows on summer evenings, the warm lights that painted the garden, and most of all… that boy. Maybe he was her age, maybe a year younger, but he had always seemed smaller to her.
Quiet.
A little strange.
But his eyes—black and deep as a starless sky—she had never forgotten.
They had grown close by chance, through garden games and shy glances behind the gate. In him, Ayumi had sensed something different, something that felt familiar, even if she didn't know how to name it.
Then, one day, the family disappeared.
No goodbyes.
No explanation.
The house was left empty, and Ayumi had cried silently for days, telling no one.
Since then, every time the wind stirred the dry branches around that house, she felt a quiet weight pressing on her chest. She didn't know why, but it was as if something—or someone—was still there, waiting.
Now that she was older, and had learned to smile even when feeling empty inside, that thought returned more often.
"I wonder where he is now…" she thought. "That boy with the dark hair. The boy I never forgot."
What Ayumi didn't know was that the silence of that house was no longer empty.
One evening, in the shadows of a sunset stolen from the world, a slender, dark figure stood in front of the rusty gate.
He was no longer a child.
His name was Feitan.
The days passed slowly, each one like the last—like gentle waves on a forgotten shore. Ayumi had grown used to that silent rhythm, where even the smallest things—a crow in flight, sunlight reflected in a puddle—became worthy of note. It was an ordinary afternoon. Or at least, it seemed to be.
The sky was covered with soft clouds, like cream spread across the blue, and Ayumi walked the dirt path that led home from school. The sound of her footsteps mixed with the rustling of the trees, and her scattered thoughts—some about school, some not—chased each other in her mind.
Then she saw it.
In front of the old villa—the one that had for years held her sense of loss and nostalgia—something had changed.
Boxes.
Dusty, some torn, others tied with thick twine, stacked near the front door. For a moment, she stopped, as if her legs no longer obeyed. Her heart gave a strange jolt, as if something inside had suddenly awakened—still dazed from sleep.
"Someone's moving in…"
The words formed inside her before she even thought them. Yet, they sounded almost unreal. She couldn't remember the last time that house had visitors.
The last time she had seen a light on inside… it had been in a dream—she was almost sure.
The gate, half-open, creaked softly, moved by a gentle breeze.
No one in sight.No truck.No voices.
Just the boxes, like a promise yet to be fulfilled.
Ayumi stood there a moment longer, her fingers gripping the strap of her backpack, her heartbeat slowly accelerating. Then she began to walk again—almost running—as if afraid the world might change again before she could tell anyone.
When she arrived home, she flung the door open with a burst of enthusiasm her mother rarely saw in her eyes.
"Mama!" she called, hastily kicking off her shoes and leaning into the kitchen.
Her mother, seated at the table with a cup of tea in her hands, looked up. Her face, though tired, was as serene as ever.
"You saw them too, didn't you? The boxes…"
"Yes, Ayumi. This morning, on my way to the market. I saw a boy in front of the house. Small, thin… I couldn't see his face clearly, but he looked young."
A smile lit up her face, and for a moment she seemed smaller, lighter—as if that simple detail—not being alone next door anymore—could return to her something she hadn't even realized was missing.
"Mama, can I make something for him? I want to bring him some cookies… something nice, to welcome him."
Her voice trembled slightly. It wasn't just excitement. It was a yearning for connection, a desire to fill a space that had been empty for too long.
Her mother looked at her in silence for a few seconds. Then she nodded gently.
"All right, Ayu. Let's make butter cookies. You used to love those when you were little, remember?"
Ayumi nodded. And while her mother stood up to fetch flour and eggs, she remained there, standing, gazing out the window. The trees swayed softly, and in the sky the clouds began to part, letting through a pale but warm light.
For the first time in years, that abandoned house no longer felt like a place of ghosts.
It felt like the beginning of something.