Warning!
This story contains intense psychological scenes, mental disorders, self-harm, and loss.
It may not be suitable for sensitive readers.
He walked slowly, one hand gripping his bag, the other buried in the pocket of his gray coat.
His pale face betrayed exhaustion, his eyes hollowed by sleepless nights.
Black hair stirred in the icy Tokyo breeze.
Makoto, twenty-four, seemed as if he had stumbled out of a dream too heavy to leave behind.
Why did I even agree?
My mother asked me to take care of her... she said she was alone... and I... agreed.
Just like that. Without thinking.
He hated making thoughtless decisions,
yet today, he had,
pushed by a force he couldn't name.
The building was old, its paint faded, windows small and tight.
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step sounding a soft, restrained gasp.
Apartment 402.
He knocked.
Silence.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
Sighing, he retrieved a small silver key from his pocket-the spare his mother had handed him, warning:
"You'll need it... Ri doesn't know how to welcome anyone."
He turned the key.
The door creaked open.
He stepped inside.
Silence.
The apartment was unnervingly clean.
Not merely clean... sterile, as if someone had polished every corner with their gaze before their hands.
The scent of disinfectant hung in the air, clinical and cold.
To his right, she sat.
Ri.
In the corner, on the bare floor before a low brown table, she remained motionless.
Her loose gray sweater swallowed her hands,
her silver-gray hair gleamed softly over her shoulders,
her pale, almost translucent face unmoving, expressionless, chilling.
She didn't look at him.
Her eyes were fixed on a small plate before her,
nuts lined up meticulously from smallest to largest,
and beside it, a sealed chocolate milkshake.
Makoto froze.
He glanced around the room.
The curtains were half-closed, the light dim.
By the window, on the floor, a small lifeless gray bird lay still.
No blood.
It was as if it had simply fallen asleep and never woken.
His gaze returned to Ri.
Is this... her?
The child...?
How old is she?
She didn't move.
Didn't even glance at him.
As if he were invisible.
A cold silence lingered between them.
The faint sound of the wind outside whispered through the half-closed curtains.
Makoto swallowed hard, unsure if he had entered a room... or a story that had begun long before him.
Something is wrong.
And he could feel it, deep in the pit of his chest, before he even dared to ask.
The room... was no longer empty.