?? Chapter 13 — The Shape in the Water

  Aoi woke to a thin strand of morning light slipping across her futon, cutting a pale line across the blanket like a blade of soft gold. She stared at it for a long moment, unable to move, unable to breathe properly, as if the weight of the night still pressed against her ribs.

  Her room felt colder than an early spring morning should ever be.

  Not freezing.

  Not uncomfortable.

  Just wrong—like the air had been stirred, then left to settle in unfamiliar patterns.

  Her pulse thudded unevenly, still trying to correct itself after the whisper that hadn’t fully faded.

  “Don’t leave me again…”

  The memory shivered through her, fragile but sharp enough to sting. Aoi brought a hand to her chest, pressing lightly, as if she could push the echo back into silence.

  The quiet that followed was brittle.

  The kind of silence that seemed to hold its breath.

  When she finally sat up, her blanket slid down her lap in a sluggish sweep, and she blinked against the faint dizziness that washed over her. She pushed the paper door open just enough to see the courtyard.

  The water basin sat in its usual place.

  Still.

  Calm.

  Then, without any wind, the surface rippled.

  Once.

  A single, controlled ring expanding outward like a message.

  Aoi sucked in a shallow breath and let the door slide shut again, trying to swallow down the tremor crawling up her spine. She wiped her palms on her thighs before pulling herself to her feet.

  Her reflection in the glass cabinet by the hall caught her eye.

  It matched her perfectly—no lag, no distortion—but her gaze seemed slightly off-focus, almost as if someone else were peering out with her. Like a second presence hiding behind her pupils, leaning close.

  She looked away quickly.

  “Good morning,” Grandma Kiyomi called from the kitchen. Her voice was warm, practiced, familiar—yet stretched thin at the edges, like a cloth beginning to fray.

  Aoi stepped into the dining space, tying her hair in quick, too-tight motions just to keep her fingers busy. The kettle hissed softly behind her grandmother, steam curling through the air like white ribbons.

  “Did you sleep well?” Grandma asked without turning.

  Aoi nodded automatically. “Mm. Just tired.”

  Her throat felt thick.

  Grandma poured tea for both of them. The delicate ceramic cups clinked softly against the wooden tray. Her grandmother’s movements were steady, but her gaze flicked—briefly, like a slip—toward the courtyard.

  Toward the unlit lantern.

  It was a small, almost invisible glance. But Aoi caught it.

  She sat down carefully, smoothing her skirt, trying not to let her shoulder tense. The smell of tea—earthy, warm—should have felt comforting, but it wrapped around her throat instead like a fog.

  “Grandma…?” Aoi said finally.

  “Yes?”

  Grandma’s hands paused only a fraction of a second.

  Aoi’s voice hitched. Something swollen lodged in her chest, exactly where the whisper had curled the night before.

  “Oba-san—”

  The word snagged halfway. Not because it was wrong. Because something else—something older—tried to rise beneath it, swelling up her throat before she crushed it back down.

  She swallowed hard.

  Her grandmother froze mid-pour. The thin stream of tea broke and splashed onto her sleeve. She didn’t react to the heat. Didn’t wipe it.

  Her posture softened in a way that didn’t match her expression, a fragile deflation of the shoulders.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.

  Almost too quiet.

  “If a voice calls your name at night,” Grandma murmured, “you must be careful about the answer it seeks.”

  Aoi’s heart thumped painfully.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  Her grandmother didn’t answer.

  Not because she didn’t hear.

  Not because she didn’t understand.

  But because she knew.

  And chose silence.

  Aoi stared down at her tea, untouched, watching the steam rise in thin threads. The whisper from last night replayed again, soft and trembling—

  “Don’t leave me again…”

  It had sounded… almost familiar.

  Like someone saying her name the way it used to be said.

  By someone she should remember.

  ---

  The school hallway buzzed with the usual morning noise—lockers clicking open, footsteps pounding lightly against tile, the rumble of sleepy chatter echoing off the walls. But when Aoi stepped inside, the world seemed to mute itself around her.

  The sounds fell a little softer.

  The lights felt a little too bright.

  Her footsteps didn’t quite match the rhythm of the others.

  It felt like someone had turned her life slightly to the side, just enough to loosen it from its place.

  Mizuki spotted her the moment she slid open the classroom door.

  “Aoi?”

  Her voice dropped instantly from cheeriness to concern.

  “You look… exhausted.”

  Aoi tried to smile. She really did. But it sat wrong on her face, stiff and strained.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Mizuki’s brows lowered—gently, but firmly.

  She didn’t believe her for even a breath.

  Aoi shuffled to her seat, backpack weighing heavier than usual. As she sat down, a faint prickle crawled along the back of her neck, like a stare sinking through her skin.

  Not a human stare.

  Colder.

  Quieter.

  Like someone leaning over her without touching.

  She kept her eyes on her desk.

  Homeroom started. The teacher droned through attendance, voice blending with the scratch of chalk on the board. Students whispered behind hands, shuffled papers, tapped pens. Normal.

  Too normal.

  When the teacher began passing out worksheets, Aoi reached for her pencil automatically. She didn’t even need to think—her hand moved on its own, writing the first thing every form required.

  Her name.

  Then she blinked.

  And blinked again.

  The ink didn’t say Aoi.

  Not exactly.

  It was her handwriting… but the strokes were wrong. Bent. Tilted. Like muscle memory had guided her hand toward a name she had once used a long, long time ago.

  A name her brain refused to recognize.

  Or refused to let her recognize.

  Her fingers tightened around the pencil until her knuckles paled.

  She stared at the half-formed characters, their lines warped like reflections in disturbed water.

  Then—

  A shadow fell over her hand.

  Mizuki.

  Without a word, she slid the paper toward herself, blocking it from the teacher’s view. Her hand covered Aoi’s trembling fingers, warm and grounding.

  Aoi let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

  Mizuki mouthed silently:

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  “Talk to me later.”

  Aoi nodded once.

  ---

  Lunchtime beneath the ginkgo trees should have been peaceful. Students sprawled across benches, unpacked bentos, laughed at dumb jokes, scrolled through their phones. The wind carried the faint scent of fried food from the cafeteria.

  Aoi sat with Mizuki and Kana, but her heartbeat still wasn’t steady. Every time she blinked, she felt like she left a piece of herself a fraction of a second behind.

  Kana plopped down across from them with dramatic flair, waving a paper in her hand.

  “Okay okay okay—listen! New shrine rumor dropped this morning!”

  Mizuki groaned softly. “Kana, please—”

  “No no, this one’s good!”

  Kana leaned forward.

  “They said someone saw fresh footprints near the lanterns last night.”

  Aoi stiffened.

  Kana continued, oblivious:

  “BUT—here’s the creepy part—there were only prints going in. None coming back out.”

  Several students nearby made exaggerated spooky noises. Others laughed.

  Aoi didn’t.

  Her palms felt damp.

  Mizuki’s eyes flicked instantly toward her, catching the way her shoulders curled inward. The worry on Mizuki’s face sharpened, serious.

  Kana kept going:

  “And apparently—this is the weirdest part—someone claims they saw a girl kneeling under one of the lanterns. Like, really really late. One of the paper lanterns? Yeah. She was just… kind of… sitting there. Not moving.”

  Aoi’s breath hitched.

  “Was it a prank?” a student asked.

  “Probably,” another muttered.

  Kana grinned. “Maybe! Or maybe it was a ghost! The Lantern Girl! Ooooh—”

  Aoi stood abruptly.

  “I need a drink,” she said, voice too thin.

  She didn’t wait for permission.

  She didn’t wait for reactions.

  She walked away.

  Mizuki rose immediately. “Aoi—wait.”

  Her footsteps followed close behind, faster than Aoi’s retreating heartbeat.

  As they stepped into the quiet hallway, Mizuki reached gently for her sleeve.

  “Aoi… what’s going on?”

  Aoi couldn’t answer.

  Because the rumor wasn’t a rumor.

  And because she wasn’t sure the girl kneeling under the lantern had been a stranger.

  ---

  The rooftop walkway was quiet in a way the rest of the school never managed to be. The kind of quiet that held its breath. Thin afternoon sunlight filtered through the long glass wall, turning the floor into soft, wavering reflections. From below, the distant sounds of clubs and chatter floated upward—muffled, far away, like they belonged to another world.

  Aoi felt Mizuki tug her gently by the sleeve, urging her away from the doorway.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Just for a minute.”

  Aoi followed without resisting.

  She didn’t have the strength to pretend anymore.

  The moment they stepped into the open space, Mizuki turned, blocking Aoi’s path with both hands on her shoulders. Her eyes—usually bright, always lively—were wide with worry.

  “You’re scaring me,” she said, voice low and steady.

  Not accusing. Not dramatic.

  Just honest.

  Aoi lowered her gaze. “…Sorry.”

  “That’s not—” Mizuki cut herself off, exhaling sharply. She took both of Aoi’s hands in her own, warming them between her palms. “I’m not asking for an apology. I’m asking you to talk to me.”

  Aoi felt her throat tighten. The rooftop breeze slipped through her hair, cold against the back of her neck.

  “I don’t know how to explain it,” she whispered.

  “Then don’t explain it.” Mizuki’s grip softened, thumbs brushing lightly across Aoi’s knuckles. “Just tell me what you’re feeling. That’s enough.”

  Aoi swallowed hard. Words pressed at the back of her mouth, rising like water—

  The whisper.

  The water’s reflection.

  Her name written wrong.

  The presence behind her eyes.

  But when she opened her lips—

  Her breath faltered.

  Her heartbeat stuttered painfully.

  Because in the glass wall beside them—

  Where two reflections should have been—

  A faint blue shimmer hovered directly behind Mizuki’s reflection.

  A glow.

  Small, soft, almost fragile—

  But impossibly wrong.

  Aoi flinched back, eyes widening.

  Mizuki moved instantly.

  “Aoi? What’s wrong?”

  Aoi didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  She reached out on instinct and grabbed Mizuki’s wrist, pulling her sharply toward her.

  Mizuki stumbled. “H-Hey—!”

  The moment Mizuki’s reflection shifted out of alignment, the blue glow flickered—

  thinned—

  and dissolved like steam.

  Aoi’s breath left her in a shaky exhale.

  Mizuki steadied herself, bewildered. “…Aoi?”

  Aoi’s fingers were still around her wrist. She realized it too late and pulled away, flustered.

  “S-sorry…”

  Mizuki didn’t let the distance form. Instead, she took Aoi’s trembling hand again, slower this time. Firmer.

  “You don’t have to tell me everything,” she murmured. “But let me stay with you. Just that much.”

  Aoi stared at their joined hands.

  Mizuki’s warmth felt too real.

  Too alive.

  Too vulnerable.

  And in that moment, fear washed over Aoi—not for herself.

  For Mizuki.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” Aoi whispered.

  Mizuki’s expression softened—not with pity, but with a steady kind of resolve Aoi had never seen in her before.

  “Then I’ll stay right next to you,” Mizuki said. “So whatever’s happening… has to go through me first.”

  Aoi’s breath caught in her throat.

  She didn’t know whether to cry, or cling to her, or run away.

  So she did the only thing she could manage:

  She squeezed Mizuki’s hand back.

  Just once.

  A small promise neither of them could name.

  ---

  Aoi reached the shrine much earlier than usual.

  The sun hadn’t fully set yet, but twilight had already begun to thicken across the courtyard—quiet, smoky blue creeping between the lantern posts. The air felt cooler at the shrine, as if the temperature dipped the moment she stepped through the gate. Pine needles rustled softly overhead, though the branches themselves barely moved.

  Aoi drew in a breath that tasted faintly of incense and damp earth.

  Inside the house, the sliding door was left slightly open. Warm light spilled through the crack in a narrow stripe across the wooden floor. She slipped her shoes off at the entrance and stepped inside.

  Her grandmother was kneeling at the low table, arranging offerings with meticulous care. Rice in one bowl. Salt in another. A small plate with seasonal fruit. A cup of fresh water. Her movements were steady, deliberate—ritual motions she had repeated all her life. But her posture was stiff, her shoulders tight with tension she wasn’t showing in her face.

  Aoi sat across from her without speaking.

  The silence between them stretched long and thin.

  “Welcome home,” her grandmother said finally, her voice gentler than usual. “You’re early.”

  “I wasn’t feeling well,” Aoi murmured.

  “I see.”

  The replies were too short. Too controlled.

  Aoi folded her hands in her lap, feeling the faint tremor in her fingers. She watched her grandmother’s hands move from item to item—rearranging, adjusting, straightening—even though everything was already aligned perfectly.

  It felt like watching someone avoiding eye contact on purpose.

  “Grandma?” Aoi asked quietly.

  Her grandmother’s hands stilled.

  Aoi hesitated, breath held like something fragile balancing on its edge.

  “…What’s following me?”

  For a moment, nothing moved. Not even the incense smoke curling from the burner.

  Her grandmother lowered her head slightly, shadows gathering around her eyes.

  “Aoi…”

  “You know something,” Aoi pressed, voice trembling before she could control it. “I can feel it. Something is watching me. Calling me. It knows my name. And—”

  Her throat tightened.

  “—it feels like it knows me.”

  Her grandmother did not speak. She only sat there, her fingers clasping together so tightly the knuckles whitened. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath the shifting weight of her silence.

  “Please,” Aoi whispered. “Tell me.”

  Her grandmother inhaled slowly, shakily, as if preparing herself for a truth she never wanted to speak.

  “There are lanterns,” she began, each word measured, “that come from prayers. Wishes offered with hope. Gratitude offered with love.”

  Her voice softened but also trembled—barely noticeable, yet Aoi felt it.

  “And then,” she continued, “there are lanterns born from… loss.”

  Aoi felt her heartbeat twist painfully.

  Her grandmother kept her gaze downward, eyes fixed on the table as though looking up would unravel her.

  “Some lights linger because they were never properly guided,” she said. “Some memories cling to their flames. Waiting. Searching.”

  Aoi’s breath hitched. “Searching for what?”

  Her grandmother’s lips pressed together. “For the one who can carry them.”

  The room felt suddenly smaller—closing in, the walls listening.

  Aoi swallowed hard.

  “…Is it calling me?”

  This time, her grandmother looked up—and the expression she wore struck Aoi harder than any answer. There was sorrow there. Worry. And something deeper, like a secret weighing on her heart.

  But she said nothing.

  That silence spoke more loudly than any explanation.

  Aoi’s voice cracked. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  Her grandmother closed her eyes, just for a moment—like someone bracing against a wound.

  Then she reached out and placed a cup of tea in front of Aoi, hands unsteady for the first time.

  “Don’t go near it alone tonight,” she whispered. “Promise me.”

  Aoi stared at the cup.

  The tea rippled once—just once—though neither of them had touched the table.

  Her grandmother didn’t react.

  Maybe she had expected it.

  Aoi lowered her gaze to her trembling hands.

  She didn’t promise.

  And her grandmother didn’t ask again.

  ---

  Mizuki arrived just as the last traces of daylight slipped behind the hills.

  A soft knock sounded at the door—two short taps, one long. The familiar rhythm made Aoi’s chest loosen slightly. She opened the door to find Mizuki standing there with a paper bag held awkwardly in both hands.

  “Your grandma let me in,” Mizuki said. Her voice was light, but her eyes immediately swept over Aoi’s face, taking in the exhaustion she couldn’t hide. “I, uh… brought snacks. Emergency comfort carbs.”

  She lifted the bag like a peace offering.

  Aoi managed a tiny smile. “Thank you.”

  Mizuki seemed relieved by even that small reaction. She followed Aoi out into the courtyard, where twilight was settling in thick, muted layers. The shrine lanterns were beginning to glow with their warm golden light, one by one, soft halos flickering gently in the gathering dark.

  They sat side by side on the stone steps outside the house. Mizuki unpacked the buns—a simple assortment from the bakery, warm enough that steam still curled faintly from the paper.

  “Here,” Mizuki said, tearing one in half and offering it. “Eat or I’ll feed it to you myself.”

  Aoi took it, the warmth grounding her slightly. She listened as Mizuki launched into chatter—the kind that didn’t require Aoi to say much. School gossip. Kana’s dramatic retelling of an argument between two teachers. A guy in their class tripping on the stairs and insisting it was intentional “training.”

  Aoi tried to focus on the sound of Mizuki’s voice. Calm, familiar. Pulling her back toward something normal.

  But she couldn’t ignore the feeling crawling along her spine—slow, cold, deliberate.

  The unlit lantern in the far corner of the courtyard remained dark.

  Yet she could feel it.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Mizuki paused mid-sentence. “Aoi… are you even listening?”

  Aoi blinked and looked up. “Sorry. I’m—just tired.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  Aoi looked down.

  Her hands trembled slightly, barely noticeable—unless someone had been watching her closely the whole time, like Mizuki had.

  “I’m okay,” Aoi whispered.

  “No, you’re not.” Mizuki’s voice gentled. She shifted closer, closing the distance between them until their shoulders touched. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

  Aoi swallowed hard, her throat tight. The pressure in her chest—fear, confusion, and something else she couldn’t name—made it difficult to breathe.

  Without thinking, she leaned sideways, letting her head rest on Mizuki’s shoulder.

  Mizuki froze for half a second.

  Then she relaxed, posture softening as she tilted her head slightly to support Aoi’s weight. No joking. No flustered babbling. No teasing comments.

  Just warmth.

  Just presence.

  Just Mizuki.

  “I’m here,” Mizuki murmured quietly. “Whatever this is… I won’t leave.”

  Aoi’s eyes burned—not with tears, but with the sharp ache of wanting to believe that promise.

  Behind them, the lanterns flickered in a soft breeze.

  All except the unlit one.

  That one remained still.

  Silent.

  Dark.

  Heavy.

  Aoi didn’t turn to look at it.

  She didn’t have to.

  She could feel the cold edge of its presence brushing against the back of her mind, as if something inside it pressed closer the longer she stayed in Mizuki’s warmth.

  Twilight thinned into night around them.

  And Aoi clung to the moment a little tighter, knowing—without understanding why—that the darkness behind her was waiting for it to end.

  ---

  Aoi wasn’t sure when she fell asleep.

  One moment she was sitting with Mizuki on the steps, leaning against her warmth as the sky darkened.

  The next—Mizuki was gone, the house was silent, and the weight of night pressed in from all sides.

  Her room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the hallway lantern outside the shoji door.

  She lay still for a moment, trying to orient herself.

  Then she heard it.

  Drip.

  A single, sharp drop of water hitting a hard surface.

  Aoi’s breath hitched.

  Drip… drip…

  Slow. Measured. Too deliberate to be a leak.

  And wrong.

  The sound wasn’t coming from outside—where the basin was.

  It was coming from inside the house.

  Aoi pushed herself upright, every muscle in her back tightening. She held her breath without realizing it, listening so hard she felt dizzy.

  The air felt colder than before—thin, as if the room had been drained of something warm and living.

  She swung her legs off the futon, her feet brushing the tatami. The floor felt damp. Barely—but enough to make her skin prickle.

  She slid her door open by a careful inch.

  The hallway beyond was still, faintly lit by the lantern hanging near the courtyard doors. Its glow was weak—as if trembling.

  Aoi stepped out slowly.

  The dripping grew louder.

  Closer.

  Her heart thudded in painful, uneven beats.

  She rounded the corner toward the inner courtyard—where the water basin sat beneath the open sky.

  But she froze halfway.

  Because the water wasn’t rippling.

  It was moving.

  Like something beneath the surface was shifting in slow, deliberate waves.

  Aoi’s breath caught.

  She stepped closer, as if pulled by a string she couldn’t resist.

  The basin’s surface trembled—like a mirror disturbed from the inside.

  Then the water rose.

  Just a few inches—enough to form a vague shape.

  Aoi’s mind rejected it.

  Her body didn’t move.

  The surface stretched upward again… lines converging… pulling into the outline of a kneeling girl.

  Long hair—wet and clinging—hung down like black threads.

  Shoulders hunched forward.

  Hands resting in her lap.

  The water figure was translucent, distorted as if reflected through a shaking lens. But the shape was unmistakable.

  It was a girl.

  A girl kneeling exactly where someone had once knelt beneath the lanterns.

  Aoi’s throat closed.

  Her lungs forgot how to draw air.

  The figure lifted its head.

  Water slid down its featureless face like tears.

  And in the broken distortion—through the rippling surface—Aoi recognized something terrifying:

  A nearly familiar face.

  A face she couldn’t name, but knew.

  Her knees nearly buckled.

  The dripping stopped.

  And the girl’s voice—soft as breath sinking into water—rose from the basin:

  “You left me.”

  Aoi’s blood froze.

  Her fingers twitched at her sides, trembling violently.

  The water-girl reached one hand upward.

  Slower than any human movement.

  Shakier than a dying flame.

  Aoi told herself to run.

  To scream.

  To back away.

  But her body leaned forward instead, as though responding to an instinct older than fear.

  Her fingers lifted—mirroring the motion.

  Not by choice.

  By pull.

  When her hand hovered inches above the surface of the water—

  The reflection’s hand shot up and grabbed her wrist.

  The water didn’t feel like water.

  It felt like drowning.

  Cold—so cold she couldn’t breathe.

  Pressure wrapped around her wrist like a submerged current dragging her down.

  Aoi gasped, her voice torn from her throat.

  Her vision blurred.

  The whisper closed around her ear, inside her skull, around her heartbeat:

  “Don’t forget me again.”

  Her knees gave out—she would have fallen forward into the basin if the grip hadn’t held her in place.

  Her breath came out in sharp, panicked bursts—

  Then—

  “Aoi?!”

  Mizuki’s voice ripped through the courtyard like a scream cutting through water.

  The grip vanished.

  The reflection shattered—water erupting upward in a violent, impossible splash that soaked the stone and sprayed across the courtyard floor.

  Aoi stumbled back onto her hands, gasping.

  Her wrist dripped steadily—as though it had been underwater for a long time, not seconds.

  Mizuki was already running toward her, face pale with fear.

  “Aoi—what happened? Why are you—your arm is—Aoi, hey! Look at me!”

  Aoi stared at her own wrist.

  Water dripped down her fingers.

  Cold as riverbed stone.

  Unstopping.

  Like something hadn’t let go completely.

  ---

  Mizuki dropped to her knees beside Aoi so fast she almost slipped on the wet stone.

  Her hands fluttered helplessly—hovering over Aoi’s shoulders, her face, her wrist—as if she couldn’t decide which part to steady first.

  “Aoi—hey—hey, look at me. What happened?”

  Her voice shook, breath catching between words.

  “Aoi, why is your hand… why is it wet? Did you fall? Did something break?”

  Aoi stared at her own wrist.

  The water was still dripping.

  Not like normal water.

  Not like something that would dry.

  It clung to her skin like a second pulse, sliding down in slow, deliberate drops.

  Cold enough to burn.

  “I…”

  Her voice cracked.

  She couldn’t form the words A girl grabbed me.

  She couldn’t describe the shape rising from the basin, or the cold, or the whisper.

  Because even now, in the space where the water figure had been, the air felt wrong.

  Heavy.

  Expectant.

  Mizuki reached out slowly, cupping Aoi’s wrist with trembling fingers.

  The moment she touched it, she jerked back.

  “God—it’s freezing. Aoi, what—what did you—”

  A shadow moved in the hallway.

  Grandma Kiyomi appeared, breathless, her robe slightly askew as if she had rushed from her room the moment she heard Mizuki’s shout.

  Her gaze dropped instantly to Aoi’s dripping wrist.

  She froze.

  Every drop of color drained from her face.

  Her hands clenched tightly at her sides, knuckles whitening.

  “…No,” she whispered.

  Barely audible.

  A sound meant for no one to hear.

  But Aoi heard it.

  A name slipped from her grandmother’s lips—soft, sharp, carried on a tremor:

  A name Aoi didn’t know.

  A name she had never heard.

  A name spoken like a memory breaking open.

  Aoi’s chest tightened painfully, like the world had tilted beneath her.

  Because the moment the name reached her ears—

  Something inside her responded.

  Recognition.

  Immediate.

  Instinctive.

  Deep as bone.

  Like someone calling from across a river she had once drowned in.

  Her lips parted before she understood why.

  And she repeated it.

  The name flowed out of her mouth unsteady, trembling, as if speaking it tugged at something inside her chest:

  “…That’s… me?”

  Grandma’s breath hitched.

  Mizuki turned to Aoi, eyes wide—terrified, lost, searching for something to make sense of.

  But Aoi didn’t see either of them.

  Because the moment the name left her mouth—

  The unlit lantern in the courtyard ignited.

  A violent flash of blue—

  Not flame, not light—

  Something colder.

  Something older.

  The courtyard plunged into silence.

  The pulsing blue glow painted Aoi’s face in ghost-light, reflecting in her eyes like an answer she wasn’t ready to hear.

  And for a single, breathless moment—

  Aoi felt as though someone was standing right behind her.

  Breathing her name.

  ---