_TWELVE HOURS AGO_
3:00 AM
The rain wasn't a storm; it was a constant mist, just enough to make the roads look shiny and wet.
In that corner of the district, the air smelled of wet pavement and damp stone. It was the kind of hour where the city feels like it's holding its breath.
The houses here were huddled together—narrow, two-story homes with small balconies where laundry hung limp and heavy in the damp air. Behind the darkened windows, families were lost in the heavy, rhythmic silence of deep sleep.
Down the narrow street, a stray dog shifted in its sleep under the roof of a closed convenience store, its paws moving slightly against the cold ground. A single, rusted bicycle leaned against a faded brick wall, its metal frame covered in tiny drops of water.
High above, the sky wasn't black; it was a bruised, heavy purple, thick with clouds that swallowed the stars and the moon.
Everything was still. The only sound was the rhythmic plink-plink-plink of water dripping from a leaky gutter into a plastic bucket left on a step.
It was a quiet, middle-class peace. The kind of peace that feels like it could last forever.
Inside the Amamiya house, the air was cold.
The front door opened directly into a tiny kitchen with a tile floor that was peeling at the corners. On the small wooden table, a single bowl of rice sat covered by a plastic wrap, cold and untouched. Next to it was a pile of utility bills, some with red markings stamped across the top.
The walls were thin enough to hear the steady drip from the bathroom tap. In the small living area, the wallpaper was yellowed and curling away from the ceiling. There was no heater running; instead, a thick, worn-out blanket was draped over the back of the only sofa, which had a visible tear in the armrest held together by silver duct tape.
A single lightbulb hung from a wire in the hallway, switched off. The house was quiet, but it wasn't the peaceful quiet of a luxury home. It was the kind of silence that felt heavy, like the house itself was tired of holding everything up.
Upstairs, the hallway was narrow and cramped. The floorboards groaned under the slightest weight, and the carpet was worn down to the threads in the center from years of walking back and forth.
There were only three doors. One led to a tiny bathroom where the door didn't quite close right, and the other two were bedrooms. The doors were thin wood, the kind that didn't block out much noise. At the end of the hall, a small window looked out onto the street, but the glass was old, making the world outside look blurry.
A single shelf sat against the wall, holding a few mismatched books and a cracked plastic tray for keys. There were no decorations or fancy pictures—just the bare essentials.
The narrow hallway ended at a door that didn't quite fit its frame. Inside, the room was small, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and the faint, sharp smell of medicinal patches.
Two wooden frames hung on the faded wallpaper, their glass dusty. In the first, a younger Mrs. Amamiya stood in a white, simple gown, her hand tucked into the arm of a man with a wide, honest smile. They were standing in front of a small shrine, their faces bright with a future that hadn't happened yet.
Next to it was a larger frame—the same man, a few years older, sitting on a park bench with his arm around his wife and a small girl with pigtails squeezed between them.
On the bed, Mrs. Amamiya was bent into a ball. Her fingers were locked tight around a smaller, unframed photo of her husband, pressing it against her chest even in her sleep.
Suddenly, a loud, mechanical brring-brring shattered the silence.
It wasn't the chirping of a smartphone. It was the harsh, heavy ring of an old landline sitting on the bedside table. The sound seemed to shake the thin walls. Mrs. Amamiya got up, her eyes wide. She struggled, looking at the bare walls for a clock that wasn't there, her breath coming in quick, panicked gasps.
She reached for the telephone, her hand trembling, when the door creaked open
A girl stepped into the room. She was eighteen, her long strawberry-blonde hair damp from the mist outside, the pale, rose-gold strands clinging to the neck of her oversized, faded T-shirt.
But it was her eyes that caught the light—a deep, startling red. They were clear and sharp, the kind of eyes that looked like they had seen too much for someone her age, yet still held a soft, stubborn light.
She was dressed in an oversized, faded t-shirt and simple pajama pants. She looked small and quiet, like she had been trying to move through the house without making a sound.
Asuka Amamiya reached out and caught the telephone before her mother could. She pressed the it to her ear, then looked at her mother. She didn't say a word; she just placed a finger to her lips and gave a small, tired smile, gesturing for her mother to lie back down and rest.
Asuka pressed the heavy receiver to her ear. "Hello?" she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion.
But as she listened, the sharpness in her red eyes faded. A small, genuine smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. "You're still awake? Why are you calling me at this hour? It's almost three in the morning... my birthday ended hours ago." She let out a soft, melodic laugh. "Oh, really? And why should I believe a word you say?"
From the bed, Mrs. Amamiya shifted, blinking through the dark. "Asuka... who is it?"
"Just a friend, Mom," Asuka whispered back, shifting her body to block the light of the hallway.
"A friend?" Mrs. Amamiya began to nag, her voice rising in a tired whine. "Who calls at this hour? People are trying to sleep... no manners, really..."
Asuka quickly waved a hand behind her back, gesturing for her mother to be quiet, her eyes locked on the floor. She turned her attention back to the phone. "Wait... what did you just say?"
A heavy silence followed. Asuka's smile vanished. "Right now?" she asked, her voice dropping. "What time is it?"
The voice on the other end murmured. "2:37," Asuka repeated quietly. Her face saddened, the weight of the house seemingly pressing down on her shoulders. "I can't. It's too late, and the weather is..."
She paused, listening as the girl on the other end kept talking, pleading. Finally, Asuka closed her eyes and sighed. "Okay. Okay, I'll come. Just... stay awake for me, okay? Bye."
She hung up the phone with a soft clack.
Mrs. Amamiya removed the hand she had been using to cover her eyes and looked at her daughter. "Who was that?"
"It was Kurumi," Asuka replied.
"Kurumi? Why did she call at this hour?"
"She wanted to wish me a happy birthday."
Mrs. Amamiya groaned, rolling onto her side. "Happy birthday? At three in the morning? If she forgot, she should have waited until tomorrow. Young people have no sense of time..."
"Go back to sleep, Mom," Asuka said softly, already moving toward the door.
"Asuka?"
Asuka froze. A thin bead of sweat rolled down her forehead. She forced herself to turn back, her eyes closed in a tight, fake smile. "What is it?"
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere," Asuka lied, her voice steady. "I'm just going to my room to sleep."
Mrs. Amamiya relaxed, her breathing slowing down. "Good. Don't go outside. Remember what we talked about... the omens. It's a bad night."
"I know. Goodnight, Mom."
Asuka stepped out and pulled the door shut. In the narrow hallway, she let out a long, shaky sigh. 'Old people and their superstitions.' she thought, glancing at the shadows on the wall. 'Omens and bad luck...'
She looked at her mother's door one last time. "Im sorry for lying Mom," she whispered to the empty air.
She crept down the stairs, each groan of the wood sounding like a gunshot in her ears. 'Please don't wake up, please don't wake up.' she prayed.
Downstairs, she reached for a long, dark coat hanging on a knob by the door. She slid it on, buttoning it up to hide her pajamas. She grabbed the heavy metal key from the tray, her breath hitching in her throat.
"I'll be back before she even knows," she whispered to herself.
She opened the main door. The cold, misty air hit her face like a slap. She stepped out into the 'bruised purple' night, pulling the door shut behind her.
Click. Turn. The sound of the lock echoed down the empty street. Asuka was out in the mist, and there was no turning back now.
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