Hello... I'm Seira Mizuhara. Yes, Mizuhara, Seira. And this is my story... with the supernatural.
Where to start? Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe it all really started the day I heard about the legend of the Kurogane Spirit.
Oh... It's been a long time. But, like any good biography, I think I should start from the beginning.
That day, I was at home, bored, staring at my desk full of blank sheets. He tried, with an almost desperate determination, to think of something really worth writing. Something that had a life of its own, that touched someone, that sold... why my books published on Amazon? Not a single copy. Not one. Nothing. Absolutely nothing
I sat in my chair, sighing deeply, feeling boredom curl up in me like an invisible spider's web. I looked at my notes, tore up a few pages, scribbling down ideas that just didn't fit. Each sentence seemed to die before it even reached the role.
And then I thought to myself, quietly, almost as if I was talking to no one:
"Maybe I just need a good supernatural story..." something that makes my heart beat faster. Something that at least gets me out of this deadly boredom.
I decided that there was no point in trying to write anymore and, exhausted, I let myself fall into bed. But, as always, my sleep was not very constant. Before I could sink into a deep sleep, I woke up. The clock flashed at 3 a.m., as if laughing at me with that quiet punctuality.
I dragged myself to the kitchen to drink water, still with my eyes half-closed, trying not to bump into the furniture scattered along the way. Then I went to the bathroom, muttering under my breath about my total lack of inspiration.
It was then that I noticed something that froze me for a moment: my mother had forgotten to cover the mirror. And for a brief moment, that reflection didn't just show my tired face.
Something appeared in the glass. A spirit—sudden, silent, perfect in every detail—wore an elegant, impeccable white suit, as if it had come straight out of an old ballroom. My heart raced. Every muscle in my body stiffened. But before I could react or even draw enough air to scream, he disappeared.
I tried to rationalize. "It must be my sleepy eyes... or the bathroom lighting," I muttered to myself. That glimpse lasted only an instant, but still... There was something in that fleeting glow that seemed to study me, analyze me, almost reading my thoughts.
But I was too tired to get carried away with ghosts or mysterious apparitions. With a heavy sigh, I closed my eyes again, rolled to the side, trying to convince my brain that nothing had happened. And finally, I fell asleep again—though a twinge of curiosity persisted, insistent, like a whisper that refused to fade.
The next morning, I decided that I would not comment on anything with my parents. If I talked about what I had seen in the mirror, they would probably be scared and, on impulse, they would want to move house. They have always been very gullible about anything supernatural; Any strange shadow or noise would already make them tense, imagining ghosts in every corner.
I, on the other hand, just felt curious. The appearance in the mirror had caught my attention and intrigued me, but there was no fear in me. Just a silent, almost irresistible fascination, as if something was pulling me into a mystery I still couldn't comprehend.
I ate my breakfast, trying to concentrate on the food, but my mind insisted on wandering to that elegant, white figure. It was an enveloping strangeness, a delicate fascination that made me uneasy, as if every thought was linked to something I needed to discover.
When I was done, I put my backpack on my back and left the house. The morning wind caressed my face, passing the gently swaying trees, while the distant sound of cars on the street seemed to mark the rhythm of my own breathing.
I made my way to school, noting details here and there, but keeping my thoughts anchored in the present. I walked through the school gates, just like any other day, and tried to convince myself that nothing extraordinary had happened—though a twinge of anticipation still throbbed, silently, deep in my chest.
As soon as I entered school, my eyes met with Tsukiko Minamoto. She was known as the most popular girl in high school, admired by both girls and boys. From what I had heard, she racked up the most rejections of dating requests in school—not for lack of suitors, but because of her natural beauty, which seemed to leave everyone speechless.
Still, she didn't seem to mind all that quiet attention. The way he walked through the corridors revealed a serene concentration and a quiet confidence. It was said that she was the most dedicated and studious student in the school, someone who did not get involved in novels, despite all the charm she radiated.
As I watched her from a distance, I couldn't help but notice every detail: her impeccably groomed uniform, her hair that glistened in the soft light of the windows, and her posture that conveyed firmness and assurance. She seemed completely absorbed in her own tasks, oblivious to the world around her—but to me, every gesture was impossible to ignore.
So I went to my closet. The hallway was silent at that moment, with only a few hurried students passing from one side to the other. I was absorbed in organizing my materials, trying not to think about anything other than my own notes, when, without realizing it, I didn't see Tsukiko standing right in front of me.
When I closed the closet door, I tripped slightly and ended up bumping into it. My heart raced immediately, and a wave of shame rose through my chest like fire. I didn't want to face her, but the stumble put me too close, and running away from the situation was impossible.
My body tensed for a moment, and every second seemed to stretch. All the sounds of the hallway—footsteps, giggles, the creaking of closet doors—seemed to intensify. I felt the looks of some colleagues weighing on me for brief moments, as I tried to regain my balance and process what had just happened.
So I went to my closet. The hallway was relatively quiet at that point, with only a few students rushing by, chatting quietly, or laughing with friends. I was completely absorbed in organizing my materials, every notebook, every sheet of notes, trying to concentrate on something concrete so I wouldn't overthink it, when, without realizing it, I didn't see Tsukiko standing right in front of me.
As I closed the closet door, my foot tangled slightly in something, and in a clumsy second I ended up bumping into it. My heart raced as if it had been struck by an invisible hammer, and a wave of heat ran through my body. Shame, panic, and disbelief mixed chaotically—I didn't want to face her, but the stumble brought me too close, leaving me vulnerable.
For a moment, I felt my body paralyzed. Each muscle seemed to contract involuntarily. My hands trembled slightly, and my stomach twisted in a mixture of nervousness and despair. The world around me seemed to have changed pace: the clinking of keys in the lockers, the hurried steps of students, even the faint hum of fluorescent light seemed to echo in my ears.
I quickly looked around and noticed some colleagues staring at me for a few seconds. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had become the center of attention of the entire hallway, though I was desperately trying to ignore everything. I could barely regain my balance, and worse, I could hardly believe what had just happened. Every second seemed to stretch on endlessly, and my mind revolved around a single question: "How could I be so clumsy?"
I wanted to disappear right there, merge with the floor of the hallway, while shame burned in my chest. But Tsukiko was there, in front of me, and there was something about the way she looked at me that made any immediate escape impossible. My heart, still beating fast, began to realize that this moment, as embarrassing as it was, would not be easily forgotten.
So I ended up staring at Tsukiko for a moment, not knowing exactly where to look. It was as if my body had frozen in time: my eyes locked on hers, my hands slightly shaking, and my heart beating too fast for me to control. The sensation was so intense that even the air seemed denser, difficult to breathe.
She, on the other hand, looked at me with a disconcerting calm. There was no judgment in his eyes—just something that seemed like a mixture of curiosity and unexpected kindness. Then, his voice sounded clear, firm, and surprisingly soft:
Minamoto: "Hey girl, watch out. You can get hurt like that, not only you, but someone else too."
The way she spoke took me by surprise. She was serious, but not cold. It was not a sermon or a scolding; It seemed just genuine concern, something I didn't expect to hear from her. This realization, however, did not prevent a wave of shame and despair from taking over me. My face burned, my legs felt heavier than lead, and every thought in my head boiled down to one wish: to get out of there before it got worse.
I caught a glimpse of some colleagues standing nearby. Their curious, silent gazes pierced like needles, almost as if they were facing an unlikely scene. The feeling was so uncomfortable that I actually felt like it was... a ghost in the middle of them.
Without saying anything, I mustered up the courage only to walk away. The sound of my hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway, mixed with scattered giggles and the noise of cabinets being closed. I ran to my office, trying to control the breath that was short and anxious, feeling my heart still hammering in my chest.
When I finally arrived, I sat down in my usual place, hiding my face between the locks of my hair, as if it might make me invisible. My fingers clung to the materials on the table, trying to convey the feeling of normalcy that I didn't feel. A short time later, the teacher's voice began to fill the room, and I was forced to concentrate my eyes on the board. But try as I might, my mind still remained stuck in the hallway—to that split second with Tsukiko, and to the strange mix of embarrassment and fascination she had left behind.
At halftime, as always, I didn't want to go to the cafeteria. The constant noise—shuffling chairs, loud laughter, endless conversation—always made me restless, as if every sound penetrated right into my bones. In addition, he had no close friends; Too many people around only made me feel even smaller. So I preferred to be alone in the living room, opening the lunch box slowly, every movement measured, every attentive look at the hallway.
I was in the middle of a bite when I noticed something out of the ordinary. She — Tsukiko Minamoto — entered my office. My body reacted before I even thought: instinctively, I raised my hand to hide my face and lowered my head. I tried to blend into the chair, as if I could make myself invisible. Every muscle in my body tensed; my hands were sweating, my legs were shaking, and the chair seemed about to give way under my nervousness.
On the other side of the room, a student approached her, clearly curious and amused:
Student: "Ah, hi Minamoto. Who are you looking for?"
Minamoto replied, without hesitation:
Minamoto: "I'm looking for a certain Mizuhara."
The student laughed mockingly, pointing in my direction:
Student: "Ah, that weird one... She's there."
For a moment, I felt like disappearing for good. But then Minamoto looked up, straight and firm, and spoke with a biting calm that seemed to pierce the air in the room:
Minamoto: "Hey, it's not nice to call others weirdos. If you don't even know her, then you don't even have the right to insult others."
My heart raced like never before. Every beat seemed to echo inside my head. No one—no one—had ever defended me like this. A mixture of surprise and confusion mixed with a strange warmth that rose through my chest, almost paralyzing me. For a few seconds, I didn't know how to react, caught between the shock and the silent gratitude that was growing inside me.
As she looked at me with that quiet steadfastness, I felt something subtly changing in the room. As if, for an instant, everything else disappeared.
But soon the scenario changed. Tsukiko moved closer to me, her attentive and curious gaze covering every detail of what surrounded me. There was something about the way she watched me that made my heart race out of control.
Minamoto: "Hey, you're Mizuhara, right? Look, I'm sorry, but you still tripped and almost hurt me, and you could have..."
She stopped abruptly, her eyes fixed on my desk. The pile of meticulously arranged sheets did not go unnoticed. Each pile seemed to tell a story of its own, and Tsukiko leaned in slightly to take a closer look. His delicate hands touched some leaves, opening them carefully, as if fearing damaging something precious.
Minamoto: "Ah... What is it? Wow, you wrote that?"
My mouth dried up instantly. The heart seemed to want to escape from the chest. Her every word made me feel vulnerable, exposed, and yet... strangely alive.
Mizuhara: "Yes... I who... Kind of... I like horror."
She smiled slightly, tilting her head in a way that conveyed a genuine, almost contagious interest.
Minamoto: "Cool, that's interesting."
My thought raced, wild and disordered: "My God... How so? She finds it interesting... she finds it interesting..." My face burned, and I had to look away, looking for anything that would help me regain my composure.
Minamoto: "His writing is so good that it has a future here. If you don't mind, can I read it?"
Mizuhara: "No! I mean... You can, but only after I'm done."
Her smile widened, gentle, understanding.
Minamoto: "Okay. Once you're done, I'd like to publish it in the school headline, okay? And sorry if I seemed rude before. If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to you after class."
Mizuhara: "All right."
As she walked away, I sat there, my hands still shaking slightly, mentally repeating, "I can't believe it... she'll meet me after class... Why? Why?"
I went back to eating my lunch, each bite an attempt to calm down, but every second my mind returned to her. Ten minutes later, I managed to recompose part of my posture, but my brain was already working at high speed, questioning, trying to understand: what did she want from me?
Her every move, every word, seemed to resonate within me, and I knew that this encounter would be just the beginning of something I could not yet comprehend.
While I was still sitting, trying to organize my thoughts and process what had just happened to Tsukiko, I began to notice the conversations around. I didn't want to sound snooping, but there was something about the tones of my voice that pulled me, as if the air carried a secret just for me.
Two colleagues, leaning absentmindedly near the door, were talking without realizing that I was listening. His words, even spoken softly, had a strange weight, almost whispering directly to my mind.
"Have you ever heard that old school legend?" said one, in a tone that mixed fear and fascination.
"That of the wish-granting spirit?" replied the other, his eyes slightly wide, as if he feared being interrupted. "Yes. They say that if someone does not comply with his conditions, he disappears along with the person... and never comes back."
My heart raced, and for a moment I felt as if the world had shrunk around me. Each word echoed within me, as if it were a promise or a warning. The "wish-granting spirit" didn't seem like just a silly rumor; There was an almost palpable tension, an ancient story that hung in the halls, invisible but eerily real.
I kept pretending to eat, controlling my breathing so as not to show my curiosity, but every muscle in my body was alert. My brain began to spin in a thousand thoughts: Who was this spirit? What kind of wish would he fulfill? And, more importantly... What would it mean if someone did not meet the conditions?
The words hammered in my head, and I knew I couldn't ignore that story. Something told me that I needed to investigate, not out of fear, but out of... an irresistible curiosity. Perhaps this was precisely what brought me closer to the supernatural in a way I had never imagined.
So I decided to investigate on my own. After class, I took a deep breath and told some trusted colleagues that if anyone came looking for me, I would be at school; I needed privacy for my little "adventure". He didn't want interruptions or prying eyes as he explored that legend.
I walked the corridors, trying to maintain a casual air, lightly greeting some students I met along the way. With each step, I felt my heart beating faster — not from fear, but from an almost electric curiosity. I began to ask discreet questions about the Kurogane Spirit, trying to appear casual, as if I was just discussing school rumors.
The answers I gathered ranged from intriguing to frightening. Some said that he had existed in the 80s, but no one knew for sure if he had died naturally or if he had been murdered. Others said that perhaps it was nothing more than an ancient curse that still hung over the school, shaping the destiny of anyone who dared to provoke its memory. And there were those who were more daring, who whispered in fear: it could be some kind of local demon, a presence that crossed time, waiting for anyone who dared to call it.
My blood ran slightly, but the excitement was greater. Every detail only added to the mystery, and I knew I needed to mentally record everything to use in my notes.
And then came the crux: the ritual. According to reports, at 8 p.m., it was necessary to draw a pentagram carefully on the floor, stare intently at a bathroom mirror and pronounce, firmly, three times:
"Kurogane... Kurogane... Kurogane... I want a wish."
If everything was done correctly, it would appear.
Dunno... It seemed unlikely, almost unbelievable. But, even though I believed that it would probably be nothing more than a failed experiment, I decided to give it a try. After all, if nothing happened, at least I would have a great setting and inspiration for my book — maybe even a story that was better than everything I had written so far.
As soon as the classes were over, I felt my stomach twitch in a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I walked quickly down the hallway, footsteps echoing in my ears, while my heart beat out of step. The school bathroom felt like a quiet arena, and I knew that my every move would be watched, even if no one was around.
As soon as I set foot in the hallway and, as if I had foreseen my every action, Tsukiko Minamoto appeared out of nowhere. She was there, with her impeccable posture and that curious look that seemed to cross even my soul.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, arching an eyebrow in an almost theatrical way.
— "Ah... 'm... doing the ritual of legend. Just for sport, you know?" I tried to answer, swallowing hard, my voice shaking slightly. — "And, of course, also to feel in the setting and get inspired for my book."
She frowned for a moment, as if she was pondering whether she believed me or not, and then blurted out:
— "Oh, I see... I thought you were some kind of occultist, or worse... Satanist..."
My thoughts raced: oh, what a crap... My first bad impression is already made. But, unfortunately, if I didn't do it today, it would be complicated.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart and adjust my posture, but nothing could prepare me for what would come next. The moment she looked into the mirror, I felt a shiver run down my spine. A shadow formed on the reflective surface, and all the candles around it went out at once, plunging the bathroom into a sudden, oppressive darkness.
I panicked. Breathing became short, my hands began to tremble, and every fiber of my body screamed to run away.
Then he appeared. Kurogane. The elegant and enigmatic spirit that I had only imagined before, was now there, before me, with a presence that seemed to fill the entire space.
Before I could react, he slid behind Minamoto with an unearthly grace, pushing her lightly. The push made her lose her balance, and she ended up falling on top of me. For an eternal instant, our faces were inches apart. Almost a kiss. My face burned instantly, and I felt my heart almost leap out of my mouth.
Minamoto, surprisingly, remained calm. No scream, no sign of fear. Just that curious and patient look, as if she were used to supernatural apparitions and situations that would make anyone else faint.
And him? Oh... He just laughed. Elegant, floating, as if every second of my shame was a spectacle made especially for his entertainment.
The cold of the bathroom, the sudden darkness, the accelerated breathing of everyone present... All of this was mixed in a whirlwind of sensations that I knew I would never forget.