When people talk about the moment before death, they always describe it as peaceful. A white light, they say. A tunnel. The faces of loved ones waiting with open arms.
I don't know who came up with that comforting lie, but I can tell you with absolute certainty: they've never stood on a chair with a rope around their neck at three in the morning, listening to their grandfather's wet, rattling coughs through the ceiling.
There is no peace in this house. There never has been.
The chair beneath my feet—one of the old dining chairs my mother used to sit in, back when she was alive, back when "family dinners" meant something other than the absence of conversation—creaks with every shallow breath I take. The rope I've fashioned from frayed climbing cord digs into the soft flesh under my jaw. I tied it myself, following instructions I found on a forum where people like me gather to share their exits like recipes.
*Loop it twice. Check the beam. Make sure it's load-bearing.*
I checked. Three times. The beam runs across my bedroom ceiling, a support structure my father installed when he was still capable of caring about structural integrity, before the cancer ate through his lungs and left him wheezing apologies into my mother's hair.
That was four years ago.
She followed him six months later. Heart attack, the doctors said. I think she just decided there was nothing worth staying for.
I don't blame her.
The house has been dying ever since. You can smell it if you stand still long enough—not just the decay of old wood and peeling wallpaper, but something deeper. Something rotten in the foundation. The walls sweat in summer, condensation that looks too much like tears. The pipes groan at night, a chorus of metallic screams that sound almost human.
And upstairs, my grandfather waits to die.
He doesn't know I'm doing this. Or maybe he does, and he's too far gone to care. Most days he doesn't recognize me. He calls me by my father's name, asks when dinner will be ready, why the house is so cold.
*"Takeshi,"* he'll whisper, his voice like gravel scraping against bone. *"Takeshi, why did you leave me here?"*
I don't correct him anymore.
I'm seventeen years old, and I have exactly three thousand yen left in the account my parents set up for "emergencies." The school counselor stopped calling after the fifth unanswered email. My classmates—the ones who remember I exist—avoid me in the hallways, as if loneliness were contagious.
Maybe it is.
The last time someone spoke to me was six days ago. A girl named Hana, all bright smiles and genuine concern, cornered me after homeroom.
*"Yamada-kun,"* she said, her voice soft, careful, like she was approaching a wounded animal. *"Are you okay? You look… tired."*
Tired. As if sleep were the problem. As if eight hours of unconsciousness could somehow rewind the years of decay, resurrect the dead, fill the empty spaces in this house with something other than silence.
I told her I was fine.
She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes—that flicker of pity, that flash of discomfort that comes when people realize they've stumbled into someone else's private hell and don't know how to excuse themselves.
She hasn't spoken to me since.
Good.
I don't need her pity. I don't need anyone's pity.
All I need is for this chair to kick away, for the rope to do its job, for the few seconds of agony to pass into the promised nothing.
*Nothing* sounds beautiful right now. Better than this. Better than waking up every morning to the smell of my grandfather's soiled sheets, the sound of his labored breathing, the knowledge that I'm the only thing standing between him and complete abandonment.
I'm not standing anymore, though. I'm balancing. One foot on the chair, one foot in the grave.
I take a breath—my last one, I tell myself—and I'm about to kick when I hear it.
A sound.
Not my grandfather's coughing. Not the house's usual symphony of decay.
This is different.
It starts as a low vibration, barely perceptible, like the hum of electrical wires buried in the walls. Then it grows. Deepens. Becomes a rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* that seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.
My hands—still gripping the rope at my neck—begin to shake.
The sound intensifies. It's coming from downstairs. From the front door.
*Thud.*
*Thud.*
*THUD.*
Not a knock. Not a person.
Something is *hitting* the door. Hard enough that I can hear the wood splintering, the hinges groaning, the frame cracking under repeated impacts.
I should move. I should step down from the chair, investigate, do something.
But I can't.
Because for the first time in months—maybe years—I feel something other than numbness.
I feel *fear*.
The door downstairs gives way with a sound like a bone breaking. I hear it crash inward, slamming against the wall with enough force to shake the entire house. Plaster dust rains down from my ceiling, coating my hair, my shoulders, the rope still looped around my neck.
Then: silence.
Not the comfortable silence of an empty house. This is the silence of held breath, of predators waiting in tall grass, of something watching from the dark.
I should run. Every animal instinct I have is screaming at me to move, to hide, to do anything except stand here on this chair like an offering.
But where would I go? The window? It's a two-story drop, and my body is already so fragile from months of malnutrition that I'd probably shatter on impact.
Downstairs? Toward whatever just broke through my front door?
No.
So I stand. I wait.
And I hear it climbing the stairs.
Not footsteps. Not the measured rhythm of human locomotion.
This is… *sliding*. A wet, heavy sound, like meat being dragged across tile. Each movement is accompanied by a soft *squelch*, and underneath that, a sound like multiple points of contact—too many legs, too many appendages, all moving in a synchronized crawl that sets every nerve in my body on fire.
It reaches the top of the stairs.
My bedroom door—I never lock it, what's the point?—swings open.
And I see it.
For a moment, my brain refuses to process what I'm looking at. It's like staring at one of those optical illusions where the longer you look, the less sense it makes. My eyes keep trying to find edges, to define boundaries, to categorize what I'm seeing into something recognizable.
But there's nothing recognizable about this.
The thing in my doorway is roughly the size and shape of a person, if you squint and ignore everything that makes a person a person. Its "body"—if you can call it that—is composed of a writhing mass of what look like tentacles, but not the smooth, tapered appendages you see in nature documentaries. These are segmented, jointed in places that shouldn't bend, covered in a skin that gleams like oil in the dim light from my bedside lamp.
They move independently, each one testing the air, the walls, the floor, as if tasting the space around it.
The thing's "head"—a larger mass at the top of the writhing column—has no face. No eyes, no mouth, no features at all. Just a smooth, obsidian surface that somehow *looks* at me despite having nothing to look with.
I should scream.
I should kick the chair away, finish what I started, escape into death before this thing can do whatever it came here to do.
But I don't.
Because despite the horror of what I'm seeing, despite every rational part of my brain telling me to run, there's something else. Something underneath the fear.
*Curiosity.*
The thing moves closer. Its tentacles—I count eight, then twelve, then lose track as more emerge from the central mass—spread across my floor, my walls, my ceiling, surrounding me in a cage of glistening black appendages.
One of them reaches toward me. Slowly. Almost gently.
I watch it approach my face, watch the tip of it—sharp, tapered like a needle—hover inches from my left eye.
And then I hear it.
Not with my ears. The sound bypasses my eardrums entirely, resonating directly in my skull, in my bones, in the spaces between my thoughts.
It's a voice. Not human. Not anything close to human.
But it's a voice nonetheless.
*"You smell like loneliness."*
The words are in Japanese, but they're wrong. The vowels are too long, the consonants too wet, like someone speaking underwater. Each syllable drips with something that sounds almost like… *hunger*.
I should respond. Say something. Anything.
But all that comes out is a wheeze, a pathetic gasp that makes the rope around my neck tighten.
The tentacle near my eye moves. Traces the side of my face with impossible gentleness, leaving a trail of cold slime that makes my skin prickle.
*"So much loneliness,"* the voice continues, and now I realize it's coming from the mass itself, vibrating through the air, through the floor, through the rope still connected to my neck. *"So much… emptiness. Like a void. A perfect void."*
The tentacle at my face withdraws, and another takes its place. This one moves to my chest, pressing against the thin fabric of my shirt, right over my heart.
I can feel it through the cloth—not just the cold wetness, but something else. A pressure. A pulling sensation, like something is trying to reach through my ribs and touch my heart directly.
*"You wanted to die,"* the voice says. It's not a question. *"You were going to die. Just now. I felt it from the street. Your intent. Your resignation. It drew me here."*
My throat is too dry to speak. I swallow, tasting copper and fear, and finally manage to croak out: *"What… are you?"*
The mass shifts. The tentacles retract slightly, giving me space to breathe, though the one on my chest remains.
*"I am… hungry,"* it says simply. *"And you are full. Full of nothing. Full of absence. Full of all the love you never received, all the warmth you never felt. It radiates from you like heat. Like blood."*
I don't understand. My head is spinning, partly from fear, partly from the lack of oxygen, partly from the sheer impossibility of this conversation.
*"You're… here to kill me?"* I ask. My voice sounds hollow, distant, like I'm hearing myself speak through water.
The tentacles shiver—a ripple that runs through the entire mass, almost like a laugh.
*"No,"* the voice says, and for the first time, I detect something in its tone. Not emotion, exactly, but… *interest*. *"I'm here to fill you."*
*"Fill me?"*
*"Yes."* The tentacle on my chest presses harder, and I gasp as the pressure intensifies. *"You are empty. Hollow. I can feel it. Every part of you aches with absence. Your parents—dead. Your friends—none. Your future—already sold to despair."*
Each word is a knife, precise and clinical, cutting through the careful numbness I've built around myself.
*"I feed on that,"* the voice continues. *"On voids. On the spaces where love should be. On the silence where laughter died. I need it. I need… you."*
My hands are still on the rope. I could do it right now. Kick the chair. End this.
But I don't.
*"What do you want?"* I ask instead.
The mass shifts again, moving closer, until the tentacles are inches from my face, my chest, my trembling hands.
*"A deal,"* the voice says. *"Let me eat your loneliness. Four minutes a day. That's all I need. Four minutes where I take the pain, the emptiness, the ache that makes you want to die. And in return…"*
A pause. The tentacles curl inward, forming something that almost resembles a human gesture—hands clasped, as if in prayer.
*"In return, I'll give you warmth. The warmth you never had. The love you always wanted. I'll be everything you needed and never found."*
I stare at it. At this impossible, horrifying thing offering me an impossible, horrifying bargain.
*"And then what?"* I ask. My voice is steadier now, surprisingly calm given the circumstances. *"What happens when there's nothing left to eat?"*
The tentacles unfurl again, spreading wide like petals, like wings, like the arms of someone preparing to embrace.
*"Then we'll die together,"* the voice says, and for the first time, I hear something in it that might be… *affection*? *Longing*? *"Like lovers. Like two halves of the same whole. I'll make sure you're never alone again. Not in life. Not in death."*
I should refuse. This is insane. This is a nightmare.
But nightmares are supposed to be frightening, and what I'm feeling right now isn't fear anymore.
It's… *relief*.
Because for the first time in years, someone—something—*wants* me. Not out of pity. Not out of obligation.
It wants me because I'm exactly what it needs.
*"Okay,"* I hear myself say. The word comes out before I can stop it, before I can think, before I can question the absolute insanity of what I'm agreeing to.
*"Okay?"* The mass vibrates—excitement? Hunger? Both?
*"Yes."* I reach up with trembling hands and pull the rope off my neck. The rough fibers leave burns on my skin, red welts that sting in the cold air. *"Take it. Take the loneliness. Take the pain. Take all of it."*
The tentacles move.
They don't grab. They don't pierce. They *enfold*.
One wraps around my left wrist, gentle as a silk ribbon. Another coils around my right. More encircle my waist, my ankles, my neck, until I'm suspended in a web of glistening black appendages, my feet no longer touching the chair, my body held in the air like a puppet on strings.
The one over my heart presses deeper, and this time, I feel it *enter*.
Not through my skin—there's no pain, no breaking, no blood—but through something else. Something deeper.
It pushes through my ribs, through my sternum, through the layers of meat and bone that separate the world from my core.
And it touches my heart.
Not the muscle. Not the organ.
The *void* where warmth should be.
I gasp—a full-body convulsion that makes the tentacles tighten their grip—as I feel it happening.
It's like someone is pulling thread from a spool inside my chest. Slowly, carefully, extracting every memory, every moment of loneliness, every night spent crying into my pillow, every silent dinner, every unanswered call, every time I wanted to die.
It *hurts*.
Not physically. This is deeper than pain. This is the hurt of acknowledgment, of finally having someone—something—witness every moment of suffering I've endured and saying: *Yes. I see it. I know.*
The tentacles glow. Faintly at first, then brighter, a bioluminescent pulse that starts at the points of contact and spreads through the mass like blood through veins.
And as the light grows, I feel something change.
The emptiness in my chest—the void that's been there so long I forgot what it felt like to be without it—begins to shrink.
Not fill. Not disappear.
*Shrink*, as if something is compressing it, making room for something else.
The glowing intensifies, and the voice speaks again, but this time it's not in my head.
It's coming from inside me.
*"Thank you,"* it whispers, and the words resonate in my bones, my blood, my breath. *"Thank you for letting me in."*
The tentacles release me slowly, gently, lowering me back onto the chair—the same chair I was standing on moments ago, preparing to die.
But I'm not standing anymore. I'm sitting, my legs too weak to support my weight, my body trembling with exhaustion.
The mass withdraws to the center of the room, condensing, shifting, rearranging its form into something… different.
The tentacles fold inward, layer upon layer, until they're no longer visible. The obsidian surface softens, lightens, takes on texture and color.
And standing where the horror was just moments ago is a girl.
She's my age—seventeen, maybe eighteen. Long black hair falls to her shoulders, straight and smooth. Her skin is pale, almost luminescent in the dim light. She's wearing a school uniform—not my school's uniform, but close enough. A white blouse, a navy skirt, knee-high socks.
And her face.
Her face is *perfect*.
Not in the supermodel way, not in the artificial way of magazine covers and anime characters.
Perfect in the way of memories.
Because I know this face.
I know these eyes—dark brown, slightly downturned, always looking at the world with a mixture of curiosity and sadness.
I know this mouth—small, with lips that curve naturally upward even when she's not smiling.
I know this girl.
*Miyuki.*
She died when we were seven. Car accident. Head-on collision with a truck driver who fell asleep at the wheel.
I went to her funeral. I watched them lower her casket into the ground. I cried into my mother's dress while my father stood silent, his hand heavy on my shoulder.
And now she's standing in my bedroom, looking at me with those same sad, curious eyes.
*"Hello, Kaito,"* she says, and her voice is exactly as I remember it—soft, gentle, with a slight lisp on the 'k' sound. *"It's been a long time."*
I can't speak. My throat has closed, my lungs have forgotten how to breathe.
She takes a step closer, and I flinch.
She stops.
*"Don't be afraid,"* she says. *"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."*
*"You're not real,"* I manage to croak. *"You're dead. Miyuki is dead."*
She tilts her head, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache.
*"I know,"* she says simply. *"But you needed me to look like someone. So I looked through your memories, and I found her. The girl you loved. The girl you lost."*
*"I didn't—"* I start to protest, but she holds up a hand.
*"You did,"* she says gently. *"You loved her. In that pure, innocent way children love before they learn to be afraid of it. And when she died, a part of you died too. The part that knew how to connect. The part that believed love was possible."*
She's right.
I want to deny it, to argue, to insist that I barely remember her, that it's been too long, that children don't understand love.
But she's right.
*"I'm not her,"* Miyuki—the entity wearing Miyuki's face—continues. *"But I can be her. For you. If you let me."*
She extends her hand. It looks human—five fingers, normal proportions, with clean nails and smooth skin.
But when I look at it too long, I see shadows beneath the surface. Shapes that don't quite belong. Joints that bend in ways they shouldn't.
*"It's time,"* she says. *"For the first feeding. Are you ready?"*
I look down at my hands. They're shaking. My whole body is shaking.
But I nod.
Because what else is there?
Miyuki smiles. It's a genuine smile, warm and sad all at once.
And then she begins to change.
It happens quickly this time. One moment she's a girl, the next she's dissolving, her form breaking apart into writhing segments, expanding, growing, filling the room with that same glistening black mass.
But this time, it's different.
This time, it's *bigger*.
The tentacles spread across every surface—floor, walls, ceiling—creating a dome, a cocoon of living darkness. The center of the mass opens, unfolding like a flower, revealing an interior that pulses with the same bioluminescent glow I saw before.
And in the center of that opening is… *space*.
Room for me.
*"Come,"* the voice says, emanating from everywhere and nowhere. *"Four minutes. That's all. And then you'll understand."*
I stand. My legs are still weak, but I manage to walk the few steps to the edge of the mass.
Up close, I can see details I missed before. The surface isn't smooth—it's covered in tiny, hair-like structures that wave in an invisible current. The glow comes from deeper within, pulsing in rhythm with something that might be a heartbeat, might be breathing, might be something else entirely.
I reach out. My fingers touch the surface.
It's warm.
Not hot. Not cold. Just… *warm*.
The warmth of another body. The warmth of being held.
The warmth I've been missing for so long.
I step forward.
The mass parts around me, welcoming me in, and I feel the tentacles—no longer frightening, no longer alien—wrap around my body with impossible gentleness.
They guide me deeper, into the center, into the space prepared just for me.
And then the opening closes.
Darkness.
Complete and total darkness.
But not the darkness of blindness, of emptiness, of nothing.
This is the darkness of the womb.
I can't see. I can't hear. I can't feel anything except warmth.
And silence.
*Perfect* silence.
Not the silence of an empty house. Not the silence of loneliness.
This is the silence of peace.
For the first time in months—years—my mind stops racing. The constant loop of anxieties, regrets, memories, plans for suicide… all of it *stops*.
There's nothing here but warmth and darkness and the sensation of being held.
I don't have a body anymore. Or maybe I do, but I can't feel it. I'm just… *here*. Existing. Being.
And it's *beautiful*.
Time stops meaning anything. Seconds could be hours could be days.
I float in the warmth, in the silence, and for the first time since my mother died, I feel *safe*.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends.
The darkness pulls back. Light returns—harsh, blinding, painful after the soft warmth.
I'm on the floor of my bedroom, gasping, my clothes soaked with something that isn't quite water, isn't quite sweat.
And standing over me is Miyuki.
Human again. Smiling.
*"Four minutes,"* she says softly. *"Exactly four minutes."*
I try to speak, but my voice is gone. I try to stand, but my legs won't hold me.
So I just lie there, staring up at her, tears streaming down my face.
Not tears of sadness.
Not tears of fear.
Tears of *relief*.
Because for four minutes, I wasn't alone.
And I realize, with a clarity that terrifies me: I would give anything—*everything*—to feel that warmth again.
Miyuki kneels beside me. She reaches out, wipes the tears from my cheeks with fingers that are too soft, too smooth, too perfect.
*"You felt it,"* she whispers. *"Didn't you?"*
I nod.
*"Good."* She leans closer, her breath ghosting across my ear. *"Tomorrow night. Same time. And the night after that. And the night after that."*
Her lips brush against my temple—a kiss that burns like ice.
*"One week,"* she says. *"One week, and I'll have eaten everything. All your pain. All your loneliness. All your reasons to die."*
She pulls back, standing, smoothing her skirt in a gesture so casually human it makes my stomach twist.
*"And then,"* she continues, looking down at me with those familiar, heartbreaking eyes, *"we'll be together forever. Just like you always wanted."*
She walks to the door, pauses, looks back.
*"Get some rest, Kaito,"* she says. *"You're going to need it."*
And then she's gone.
Just… *gone*.
Like she was never there.
I lie on the floor for what might be hours, might be minutes.
When I finally manage to stand, I look at the chair. At the rope, still hanging from the beam.
I should take it down.
But I don't.
Because I know—with a certainty that reaches into my bones—that I won't need it anymore.
Not because I want to live.
But because I've found something better than death.
I've found warmth.
Even if that warmth will kill me.