Sometimes I see things. Not exactly things. I sit quietly and watch the dust—tiny specks floating in the morning light that comes through the paper screen. They drift like little spirits, twisting and spinning in the sunbeams. I can watch them forever.

Mama’s humming floats in from the kitchen. It’s soft and warm, like a blanket wrapped around me. Sometimes, when I look carefully, I think I see shadows moving just beyond the light, rippling like ribbons in the wind. I don’t know if they’re good or bad. My stomach tightens a little, but I tell myself they’re beautiful, like little dancers performing just for me. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out. I blink, and they vanish, leaving only sunlight and the soft, floating dust.

I tell Mama once. “There’s something behind the curtain.”

She smiles and pats my head. “It’s just your imagination, Rin.”

I nod, but my fingers curl tight in my lap. I want to believe her, but every day there are more of them. Sometimes I feel them brush past me—cold and quick. Like they’re trying to say, we’re here.

At night, lying in bed, I feel them pressing closer. I hug my blanket around me, pretending it’s a shield. This feels real—not just my imagination.

We live above a little tea shop. The walls are thin. I hear the kettle screaming as the old man downstairs makes his morning tea. Its scream always makes me think something’s trying to get out. The smell is the best part—sweet jasmine, or my favorite, matcha, fresh and grassy. I love our apartment. But the shadows have lots of places to hide here.

When the sun goes down and the streets get quiet, I hear whispers in the walls. Not words. Just soft noises, like wings brushing against silk. I hold my breath, hoping Mama won’t hear, hoping they aren’t real. Sometimes I think they’re calling my name.

Mama is kind. Warm. I want to ask her again about the shadows, but when I do, her smile feels tight, and her eyes look far away. I feel bad for asking.

One rainy night, I wake to a scratching sound on the window. Slow. Deliberate. My heart thuds. I sit up, but all I see is the rain, drumming on the glass. I feel eyes on me, even though I can’t see anything.

I try to sleep, but something unseen stretches across my room, coiling like smoke. The whispers thread through my thoughts, soft and strange, like they want to tell me something. I wish they’d just say it and go away.

The next morning, Mama brushes a wet strand of hair from my face. “Eat breakfast,” she says, but her eyes are tired. I wonder if she hears the whispers too, or if she’s pretending they don’t exist.

Some nights I dream of a place where the sky is full of stars, and the air smells like pine. Shadows there have shapes, faces. They dance just out of reach. I don’t understand it, but I think the shadows are waiting for me.

I wake with a start. The room feels too cold. Shadows cling to the corners. Rain lashes the windows. A sharp, metallic smell—like blood—fills my nose. Then I hear it, ragged and low, like someone gasping for breath. I turn toward the sound. My throat is tight. The sliding door to the kitchen slams open with a bang.

Mama stumbles in. Pale. Wild-eyed. Chest heaving. Blood at the corner of her mouth. My words vanish.

Behind her, the shadows coil and twist. I blink, but they don’t disappear. My stomach drops. They reach for her—no longer curling like ribbons, no longer playful. Hungry, crooked fingers of darkness stretch toward her. My mind locks up; a scream tries to claw out but finds no exit. Mama always told me they aren’t real. Just my imagination. Shadows dancing in the corner. But now… now they’re hurting her. I don’t understand.

Her hand trembles as she rips the necklace from her throat. Whispering sharp, low words I don’t understand, she pushes the darkness back. They hiss and twist. The shadows aren’t beautiful anymore. They’re dangerous.

She kneels before me and presses her necklace into my hand. I clutch it tight, its warmth like a heartbeat against my skin. I’ve seen her wear it every day of my life. Now it’s mine?

“Take this. Never take it off,” she says. Her eyes are fierce, but tears shine there. “It will keep you safe. Rin, you’re special. You have to be strong. You have to survive.” She stands up. I follow a trail of blood as it hits the floor. I must be dreaming.

She mutters strange words as she turns. Glancing back, she smiles. “Remember, I will always love you.”

The door slams shut.

No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

I grasp the necklace tight, placing it over my heart. Tears stream down my face. “Maaammmaaaa!”

A faint warmth pulses through my hands. The storm outside slows. The necklace glows softly, then darkness pulls me under.

The next morning, soft light filters through the curtains. I wake alone. The apartment is quiet. Empty. For a moment I think it’s a dream until I see the blood smear on the floor.

I put on my slippers and wander through the rooms. Chairs are overturned. A mirror is broken. Cupboards are spilled open. I check every corner, every shadow, hoping to find Mama.

She’s gone.

I collapse to the floor. Knees to my chest. I rock back and forth, crying silently.

What do I do now?

Outside, I hear voices. Low murmurs from neighbors. A soft knock at the door.

“Miss Fujiwara? It’s Mr. Sato. The neighbors said they heard disturbances last night.”

Another knock. “Miss Fujiwara?”

I stay quiet. I hear him talking about getting the key.

I have to hide.

They’ll ask questions I can’t answer. Even if I try… no one will believe me.

I slip into the secret spot Mama showed me. The necklace pulses faintly, like it’s trying to comfort me.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I wake, it’s dark. Soft footsteps echo through the apartment.

Then a whisper: “Rin, where are you?”

I stay quiet.

“Rin, it’s Grandmother.” The voice is unmistakable—warm, steady.

I peek out. “Grandmother,” I whisper.

She beckons me forward. I tiptoe closer. She hugs me tight. The smell of herbs comforts me despite the chaos.

“We need to leave. Now,” she whispers. “Everything stays behind. We have to go.”

I nod. She takes my hand. We reach the fire escape. Once we hit the ground, we run. Cold air stings my face. City lights blur past. Shadows stretch toward us. Something unseen presses in, brushing close. Twisting, writhing, alive.

“Faster!” Grandmother shouts.

I push harder, arms and legs pumping.

“Don’t let go of my hand.”

We reach the edge of the city and crash into the forest.

I gasp, heart pounding. Grandmother is fast. She doesn’t even look tired.

A pulse hits my chest, almost knocking me over. The air ripples—something bad, closing in fast. Grandmother doesn’t stop—dark silhouettes whip past. My fingers clutch hers tight.

Panic claws my mind. The forest swallows us whole.