Rain tapped softly on the window that night, steady as breathing.
Ethan had just sat down with a cup of instant noodles when the voice called from upstairs.
"Ethan."
He almost spilled the noodles. "Yeah?"
Silence for a second. Then: "Come here."
Her tone wasn't commanding; it was small. Uncertain. That alone was enough to make him set the cup down and climb the stairs.
Kaori stood in the doorway of the guest room, dressed in one of his long shirts again, hair loose around her shoulders. She looked different—less the warrior and more the girl underneath, eyes wide in a way he hadn't seen before.
He blinked. "Everything okay?"
She hesitated, then nodded toward the empty room behind her. "I can't sleep."
He smirked. "Yeah, house full of ghosts tends to do that."
Her stare didn't waver. "Stay here. Just tonight."
That made him stop. "Wait, what?"
She crossed her arms, though the motion was more defensive than stern. "You heard me."
Ethan's brain short-circuited for a second. "I mean, sure, but… you've got a bed, and I've got a couch. How's that—"
She stepped aside.
The couch from downstairs was in the corner of her room. Somehow she'd dragged it up the stairs by herself.
He looked from the couch to her. "You moved my couch."
"Yes."
"Up a staircase."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"So you can sleep there."
Ethan rubbed a hand over his face. "You really are terrifying."
But she didn't smile. She looked at the window instead, at the reflection of the room. "I heard things again. Scratching. Breathing. It stops when you're here."
That quiet admission pulled the humor right out of him.
He nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll stay."
She said nothing, just turned and sat on the bed, facing the window. The rain kept up its rhythm, whispering against the glass.
Later, the room was dim but warm. Kaori had turned off the main light, leaving only a single lamp glowing beside her.
Ethan lay on the couch with a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and the house's new paint. The springs groaned under his weight.
Across the room, Kaori sat with her knees drawn up, watching the curtain move with the wind.
"You know," he murmured, "most people use dream catchers for nightmares. You just use me."
"Be quiet."
He chuckled softly. "Yes, ma'am."
For a while, the only sound was rain. He began to drift, eyelids heavy. The house felt almost gentle like this—no cold spots, no whispers, just the soft percussion of weather.
Then the lamp flickered.
Ethan's eyes opened halfway. He frowned at the ceiling. "Great. Here we go again."
Kaori turned sharply. "What?"
"Nothing. Just—"
The bulb steadied before he could finish.
He let his eyes close again, but the peace was thinner now. His mind wandered between sleep and wakefulness. He thought he heard footsteps above them, even though this was the top floor. A faint creak, then silence.
He rolled onto his side. "Kaori, if your pet ghost wants midnight snacks, tell her to keep it down."
No reply.
He opened his eyes.
She was still sitting up, back to him, shoulders tense. The reflection in the window showed her face pale and drawn, eyes fixed on something high above.
Ethan followed her gaze.
The ghost was on the ceiling.
She clung there like a spider—white dress hanging downward, hair spilling toward the floor, eyes black pits that caught the lamplight. Her limbs were wrong: too long, too still.
Ethan's breath caught in his throat.
Kaori didn't move. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "Do you see it too?"
"Yeah," he said. "Unfortunately."
The ghost's head turned slowly, impossibly, until her face was upside-down. She stared straight at Ethan.
For a long, endless second, no one moved.
Then she began to crawl.
No sound, just the shudder of the lamp as she passed over it, each motion like silk tearing. Her fingers left faint trails of frost across the ceiling.
Ethan's hand clenched the blanket. "I'm gonna pretend she's just inspecting the architecture."
"Don't speak," Kaori hissed.
The ghost stopped above Kaori's bed. Her hair brushed the air inches above Kaori's head. The lamp flickered again, longer this time, throwing shadows that danced across the walls.
Kaori's breath came in short, shallow bursts. Ethan could hear it. He sat up slowly, not daring to blink.
The ghost's hand stretched downward, fingers opening.
"Kaori," he whispered.
"I see her."
The fingers brushed the air above Kaori's shoulder, then froze mid-motion. The ghost turned her head toward Ethan again.
A sound followed—soft, almost questioning. A single inhale.
Then she retracted her hand and began to move backward, gliding along the ceiling until she reached the corner above the door. There she stayed, still and silent. Watching.
Kaori lowered her sword from where it had been resting across her lap. "She's guarding something."
"Yeah," Ethan muttered, "my sleep."
Her gaze flicked to him. "You can still joke?"
"If I stop, I'll scream."
That earned him the faintest curve of a smile—quickly gone.
They both waited, watching the shape above the door. The lamp buzzed faintly, throwing its small circle of light around them. The ghost didn't move again.
Minutes passed. The rain softened.
Kaori finally lay back on the bed, blade within reach, eyes still on the ceiling. "Don't fall asleep first," she said quietly.
Ethan pulled the blanket up to his chin. "I'll try."
But exhaustion won. His eyes blurred, the edges of the room fading. Even as sleep dragged him down, he saw the last image clear as daylight: the ghost's white form, still clinging to the ceiling like a broken angel, staring down at him.
Her head tilted once, slow and deliberate.
Then, just before darkness took him, she smiled.