The train slowed with a long metallic sigh, and the countryside outside my window dissolved into fog. I pressed my palm against the glass. Cold. The kind of cold that doesn't belong to the season, but to a place itself—like the earth had forgotten what warmth felt like.
The announcement cracked through the static: "Next stop—Hanasaki Village."
That was my stop.
I gathered my bag, the one with frayed straps, and stood. The train was nearly empty. A man in a brown coat sat three rows ahead, motionless, eyes fixed on the fog outside. I thought he might look back, but he didn't. When the doors opened, the wind rushed in, and the world outside tasted of rain and rust.
The platform was narrow and old, planks creaking beneath my shoes. The sign—Hanasaki Village—was half hidden by vines. I'd seen pictures once, years ago. My mother said she grew up here. I tried to remember her voice when she said it, but all I could recall was the sound of her lighter clicking. She hadn't spoken to me in months. It was my father who sent the letter, the one that said, You'll stay with your aunt. The school there will take you.
No reason given. No apology, either.
The fog followed me as I walked down the narrow road that wound from the station. The village emerged slowly—wooden houses, stone fences, a river that shimmered faintly beneath the gray. I didn't see anyone at first. Just laundry hanging stiffly in the mist, clothes that swayed but never quite moved with the wind.
A dog barked somewhere far away. It didn't sound real.
My aunt's house was at the edge of the village, near the old shrine. The letter said so. I found it by following the path lined with paper lanterns, each unlit and damp. The air here had a strange heaviness—like breathing through cloth. When I reached the gate, the wooden sign above it read Mikura Family.
I knocked twice. The door opened before my second knock finished echoing.
My aunt stood there, gray hair pinned back, eyes small and watchful. "You've grown," she said. Her voice was flat. "Come in before the fog sets too deep."
I stepped inside. The interior smelled faintly of candle smoke and something metallic—like the air after lightning. She took my bag, set it beside the stairs, and motioned for me to sit at the table.
"You'll start school tomorrow," she said. "The uniform's in your room. Don't wander after dark."
Her words were a list, not advice. I nodded. She didn't ask about my parents. I didn't ask about the fog.
Dinner was quiet. The clock ticked somewhere behind me. Every now and then, I thought I heard something brushing against the outside wall—soft, rhythmic. My aunt didn't seem to notice. When I finished eating, she said, "Go to bed early. They don't like noise at night."
"They?" I asked.
Her chopsticks paused mid-air. "The neighbors."
She didn't look at me again.
---
My room was small but clean. Tatami mats, a futon, a small window overlooking the garden. There were no flowers—just soil, dark and damp. I stood there for a while, staring at the empty space where something should have been growing. I didn't know why it made me uneasy.
When I lay down, I tried to listen past the silence. The house creaked occasionally, wood shifting with the night. Then, faintly, a whisper of movement outside—the sound of something dragging lightly across the ground. I told myself it was the wind, that every new place has new noises.
But it didn't sound like the wind.
It sounded deliberate.
---
Morning came pale and colorless. My aunt had already gone when I came downstairs. A note on the table read: Breakfast's on the counter. Don't forget your shoes before the gate.
I followed her directions. The fog was thinner in daylight, though it still clung to the rooftops and trees like smoke. The streets were empty except for a few children in uniforms, walking in quiet pairs. They didn't talk. Just stared ahead, expressions blank, steps perfectly matched. When I passed them, none looked at me.
The school was small—a single two-story building behind a rusted gate. The sign read Hanasaki Secondary. The air smelled faintly of old chalk and disinfectant.
Inside, a teacher greeted me with a mechanical smile. "You must be Mizu Mikura. Transfer student, yes? Welcome." He bowed too low, holding the position a beat too long before straightening. "Class 2-B. Third door on the left."
The classroom quieted as I entered. Rows of faces turned toward me, all pale, all expectant. Their smiles came at once—perfectly timed. The sound of chairs shifting was synchronized, too. For a second, I thought I was dreaming.
"Introduce yourself," the teacher said.
I hesitated. "Um… I'm Mizu. I just moved here."
"Welcome, Mizu," the class said in unison.
The teacher clapped his hands once. "Good. You'll sit beside Aki."
A boy raised his hand. His expression didn't change. I took the seat next to him, and the lesson began. Math, I think. The teacher's voice droned steadily, never pausing, never stumbling. The students wrote notes in perfect rhythm, pencils scratching in near-unison.
I tried not to stare, but it was impossible not to notice. The same handwriting on every page. The same eraser marks. Even the same brand of pencil.
At lunch, Aki turned to me and said, "You're from the city."
It wasn't a question. I nodded. "Yeah. It's… quieter here."
"Yes," he said. "It's quiet." He smiled then, but his lips trembled slightly, like the movement didn't belong to him. "You should stay indoors when it's misty."
"Why?"
He blinked. Once. Twice. "The air isn't clean."
Then he stood and walked away, every step precise, like someone else was guiding him.
---
After classes ended, I wandered the schoolyard. The fog had rolled back in, thicker than before. It hugged the walls, pooling near the corners. I watched as a group of younger students played by the fence—except it wasn't really play. They ran in circles, laughing without sound. Every few seconds, they'd stop together, faces turned toward the trees. I followed their gaze.
There was nothing there. Just the fog.
But I thought I saw it move.
---
The path home wound through narrow alleys between houses. Curtains fluttered in windows, though I never saw anyone inside. Once, I passed an old woman sweeping the same patch of ground over and over, her broom never quite touching the dirt. When I greeted her, she smiled without showing teeth and said, "The garden's sleeping today."
"What garden?" I asked.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as if I'd said something offensive. "The one you shouldn't water."
Then she went back to sweeping.
---
By the time I reached my aunt's house, dusk had already turned the sky into a dim blur of gray and violet. The lanterns along the path were lit now, though no one seemed to have lit them. Their flames burned low and steady, untouched by wind.
Inside, the house was quiet again. My aunt was in the kitchen, cutting vegetables with slow, deliberate strokes.
"How was school?" she asked without turning.
"Fine," I said. "Everyone's… polite."
"That's good." Her knife clicked against the board. "Politeness keeps things peaceful."
I hesitated. "Do you know a boy named Aki? He said something weird about the mist."
She stopped chopping. "What did he say?"
"That it's not clean."
For a moment, the knife hovered mid-air. Then she lowered it gently. "He's right. You shouldn't stay out in it too long."
"Why?"
"Because sometimes, it remembers the ones who breathe it."
I waited for her to explain. She didn't.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. The fog outside was thicker than before, pressing against the window like a living thing. I thought about the garden—the one with no flowers. I hadn't noticed before, but the soil had faint grooves in it, like something had been dragged across repeatedly.
When I looked closer, I saw small, pale shapes among the dirt. At first, I thought they were roots. Then one of them twitched.
My heart lurched.
It was a fingertip.
The skin was gray, and something beneath the soil shifted faintly, as if disturbed by my gaze. I stumbled back from the window, breath caught in my throat. The movement stopped.
Silence.
Then—faintly—something brushed against the outside wall again, slow and deliberate.
I wanted to wake my aunt, but I couldn't move. The sound came again, closer this time, dragging from one end of the wall to the other. Then it stopped directly beneath my window.
I waited. The seconds stretched. The air grew heavier.
A shadow passed across the frosted glass—long fingers, thin as branches, curling upward.
I didn't scream. I just stared as they traced the outline of the window frame, then slid downward, leaving faint streaks behind—dark, wet streaks that looked almost red in the dim light.
The shadow vanished.
I stood there until my legs stopped shaking. When I finally dared to look outside again, the fog was still thick, but the garden looked untouched. No grooves, no fingers. Just damp, dark soil.
Maybe I'd imagined it. Maybe the fog was playing tricks on me.
I turned back toward my bed—and froze.
The futon covers were neatly folded. I hadn't done that.
And on top of them, pressed into the fabric, was a single wet handprint.
Small. Gray.
And still warm.