Ren didn't remember how he got home.
One moment, the rain had been falling like needles on his back; the next, he stood in front of the Hyūga house, his fingers trembling as he gripped the doorknob.
The world behind him still whispered. The rain carried voices that weren't his own. He turned once, half-expecting to see that shadow at the end of the street again. Nothing. Only the stillness of midnight and the faint hum of the city beyond.
He opened the door quietly.
The clock in the hallway ticked past 1:03 a.m.
Inside, the house was dark, except for the faint amber glow spilling from the living room lamp. He could smell Hana's herbal tea, still warm on the table. She must've been waiting again.
Ren slipped off his shoes and stepped in slowly, careful not to wake anyone. His clothes were soaked, leaving a trail of water behind. He glanced toward the couch.
Hana was asleep there, head resting on her arm, the tea untouched.
Her face looked calm—too calm. But the deep lines under her eyes told another story: worry that had stretched through too many nights.
Ren's chest tightened.
He placed a blanket gently over her shoulders and whispered, "Sorry, Mom."
Then he froze.
On the table beside her was a folded piece of paper, damp at the corners. He picked it up. Inside were faint sketches—drawings of a shrine, old talismans, and… a shadow behind three figures.
His hands shook. It was almost the same as the photo he'd found earlier.
He looked at Hana again.
Even asleep, she seemed tense, as if she knew.
Ren went upstairs. His steps were slow, deliberate. Every creak in the wood echoed too loudly, like whispers crawling through the walls. He closed his bedroom door and sat on the floor, the dampness of his clothes seeping into the tatami.
He took out the photograph he'd stolen from the shrine. The paper was slightly burnt around the edges, but the faces were still clear—his family, before everything had gone quiet.
He stared at the shadow in the background. The outline wasn't random. It looked human. Male.
He could almost see eyes in the dark part of the photo—eyes that watched them even as they smiled.
Ren's throat went dry.
He reached for the small knife he kept on his desk, slicing a tiny cut on his finger to test if he was awake. The pain was sharp, clean, real. Blood welled up, sliding down his palm.
Then the floor creaked again.
This time, it wasn't him.
He turned his head slowly.
Someone was standing outside his room. A faint outline through the sliding paper door—tall, unmoving.
"Dad?" Ren whispered.
The shadow didn't answer. It only shifted slightly, the form flickering with the light. He reached for the door, heart hammering.
But when he opened it—
Nothing.
The hallway was empty. Only the wind from the half-open window stirred the curtains. Still, he swore he could feel a trace of breath, like someone had just been standing there a heartbeat ago.
Ren shut the window and leaned his forehead against the wall.
What's happening to me…?
He didn't sleep that night.
---
When morning came, the house looked normal again. The sunlight slipped between the curtains, soft and indifferent. Hana was already in the kitchen, her apron tied neatly. The smell of miso and rice filled the air, grounding, familiar.
Ren walked in quietly.
"You were out late again," Hana said without turning around. Her voice was calm, but something underneath it trembled.
"I—went for a walk."
"In the old district?" she asked.
Ren froze.
"How did you—"
"I used to go there too," she interrupted, her tone lowering. "Back when your father was still... someone else."
Ren sat down slowly. "Someone else?"
Hana finally turned. Her eyes met his—warm but filled with a fear that didn't belong in daylight. "There are things about this family you shouldn't chase, Ren. The past doesn't forgive those who dig it up."
Her hands shook as she placed a bowl in front of him. He noticed the faint burn mark on her wrist—the same shape as the talisman symbols.
He wanted to ask. He wanted to tell her about the shrine, about the photograph. But when he opened his mouth, the words died. Something in her gaze told him the truth would only hurt more.
Then a voice came from the doorway.
"Morning."
Ryouji stood there, towel around his neck, his expression unreadable. His presence filled the room like a shadow that didn't belong to any light.
He looked at Ren for a moment, then at Hana. "Did he say anything?"
"Nothing," Hana replied quickly.
Ren's heartbeat spiked. The air between them was heavy, an invisible conversation passing through their silence.
Ryouji sat across from him, pouring tea without saying another word. His hand trembled ever so slightly as he did. Then he said, quietly:
"If you ever see that place again… don't go back."
Ren looked up sharply. "You know about it?"
Ryouji didn't answer.
He just stared at his reflection in the tea. "Some things stay buried for a reason. And some voices… belong to the dead."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
---
Later that day, Ren walked to school alone. The world seemed brighter, yet emptier. Every passing car, every whisper of wind against his neck, felt like something unseen following him.
When he reached the gate, a voice called out.
"Ren!"
It was Ayaka—his classmate. Her hair was tied back, her expression worried. "You okay? You've been zoning out lately."
Ren forced a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
She frowned. "You look pale. Did you sleep?"
He hesitated. "Not really."
She sighed. "You should take care of yourself. Your mom must be worried sick."
At the mention of Hana, Ren's expression faltered. The memory of her burned wrist flashed again. He muttered, "Yeah… she is."
Ayaka looked like she wanted to say more, but the school bell interrupted her. She waved and ran ahead.
Ren stood by the gate a moment longer, staring at the sky. The wind blew through the trees, whispering softly.
And in that whisper, faint but unmistakable, came the same lullaby.
This time, it didn't call his name.
It said—
"He's coming back."