Aoi noticed the silence before she noticed the absence. Usually, the compound woke around her. There were footsteps in the covered corridors, bowls touching softly in the kitchen, someone splitting wood beyond the courtyard. Even before she opened her eyes, she could feel the house moving around her: people carrying water, folding cloths, clearing snow, preparing food. That morning, there was nothing. The brazier had been fed. The room was warm. Shun’s futon was empty. Aoi sat up slowly. His blanket had been folded and put away. His coat was gone. On the low table beside the window, a cup of tea had been left for her beneath a small ceramic lid, still warm enough that steam gathered underneath it. She stared at it for a moment. Then she dressed. The east corridor was empty. Aoi stepped into it barefoot first, then remembered the cold floor and returned for her slippers. The house creaked quietly under the weight of snow. Pale morning light pressed through the windows, blurring the courtyard into white shapes. She called once. “Shun?” No answer. The main house was warmer than usual. The stove in the kitchen had been lit, and rice rested in the pot beneath its lid. A bowl of miso soup sat covered on the table. Two cups had been placed beside it. Only two. Aoi stood in the doorway. “Hello?” A chair scraped softly against the floor. Yui sat near the kitchen window. Aoi had not seen her at first. She wore an oversized gray sweater with the sleeves pulled over her hands, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. A mug sat untouched in front of her. She was staring outside at the snow. “Oh,” Aoi said. “You’re here.” Yui looked over. “Apparently.” The answer was dry enough that Aoi almost smiled. “Where is everyone?” Yui turned back to the window. “Gone.” “I can see that.” “They had something to do.” Aoi stepped farther into the room. “What?” Yui lifted one shoulder. “Grandmother asked for something.” Aoi looked toward the central corridor. The old curtain was not visible from the kitchen, but she could picture it clearly anyway. The faded flowers. The porcelain bowl. The warm air beneath the doorway. “What did she ask for?” Yui’s mouth moved in something that was not quite a smile. “She does that.” Aoi waited. Yui did not explain. There was no snow on the floor by the entrance. No wet shoes lined beneath the rack. They must have left together, Aoi thought. Masako, Takumi, Reiko, Daichi, Haruto, Shun. Perhaps all of them. The thought made the house feel larger. Or emptier. “Did they say when they would be back?” Aoi asked. “No.” “You were left here alone?” Yui gave her a look. “You were left here too.” Aoi sat across from her. For a while, neither of them spoke. Outside, snow slipped from the roof in a soft, heavy sheet. Somewhere in the walls, water moved through old pipes. The absence of the family made every small sound feel exposed. Aoi lifted the lid from the soup bowl. “Do you want breakfast?” “I already ate.” “You should have something warm.” Yui looked down at her untouched mug. “That sounds like Masako.” Aoi paused. “I didn’t mean—” “I know.” Yui took the mug in both hands but did not drink from it. Aoi watched her. Without the rest of the family, Yui looked younger. Not childish. Just tired in a way that seemed too old for her face. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes. Her fingers, visible inside the long sleeves, were bitten raw around the nails. “You don’t like it when they leave?” Aoi asked. Yui glanced at her. “I don’t like it when they come back.” Aoi did not know whether she was joking. Yui looked away first. “They like it when the house is quiet,” she said. “Who?” Yui’s gaze rested on the kitchen door. “You’ll know.” The answer left a small cold space between them. Aoi looked down at the rice pot. “Why didn’t they take you with them?” “They don’t always need me.” The words were casual. But Yui’s fingers tightened around the mug. Aoi remembered Haruto saying Grandmother needed them more in winter. He had sounded proud. Useful. Necessary. Yui made it sound like a punishment to be left behind. After a while, she asked, “Why did you come here?” Aoi looked up. “Shun wanted to see his grandmother.” “No.” Yui’s voice remained soft. “Why did you come?” Aoi opened her mouth. Nothing came out. The honest answer was too vague to say aloud. She had come because Shun had asked. Because his family had wanted them there. Because the house had looked so warm from the road, with its corridors lit against the snow. Because part of her had wanted to see what it felt like to belong somewhere that had room for so many people. “I thought it would be good to know his family,” she said. Yui studied her. For a moment, Aoi thought she might laugh. Instead, she said, “They always like new people at first.” Aoi felt herself stiffen. “Who?” Yui looked toward the hall again. “Everyone.” The word sat between them. Before Aoi could ask another question, Yui stood. “I’m going to my room.” “Yui—” But Yui was already at the door. She paused with her hand on the frame. “Don’t go near the central hall while they’re gone.” Aoi stared at her. “Why?” Yui looked back. Her expression had closed. “Because you’ll want to.” Then she left. *** For several minutes, Aoi remained at the kitchen table. The soup cooled beneath its lid. She tried to read the notebook she had bought in the village, but she could not focus on the words she had written. Masako. Takumi. Reiko. Daichi. Haruto. The names looked strange now. Too small on the page. She closed the notebook and slid it into the pocket of her sweater. The house was quiet. Not peaceful. Quiet in the way a room could become quiet after someone stopped speaking. Aoi stood. She told herself she only wanted water. The kitchen tap was beside her. She could have filled a glass without leaving the room. Instead, she stepped into the corridor. The central hall waited at the far end. There was nothing unusual about it. Nothing that had not been there yesterday. The same polished floorboards. The same dim light. The same windows clouded by warmth from inside. Still, Aoi walked toward it. Not quickly. She passed the place where Reiko usually set down her basin. The table outside Grandmother’s room held a covered tray, a stack of folded cloths, and a porcelain bowl filled with clear water. The tray had not been there the night before. Aoi stopped beside it. She lifted the edge of the cloth cover. Beneath it sat a bowl of pale porridge, mostly untouched. There were pieces of softened fruit beside it. A spoon lay across the rim. The food had cooled. Aoi lowered the cover. Behind the curtain came a sound. A slow inhale. Wet. Deep enough that she felt it in her own chest. Then a long exhale. Aoi did not move. The curtain remained still. No shadow crossed it. No hand appeared beneath it. There was only the warmth, thick against her face, and that breathing on the other side. She thought of Shun’s voice in the dark. *They were listening.* Aoi reached toward the curtain. Her fingers stopped a few centimeters from the fabric. Her phone rang. The sound tore through the hall. Aoi flinched so hard that her shoulder struck the wall. Shun’s name filled the screen. For a moment, she only stared at it. Then she answered. “Shun?” His voice came through immediately. “Where are you?” Aoi looked at the curtain. “In the house.” “I know.” There was something wrong with his voice. Not fear. Not anger. Strain. “Where?” Aoi swallowed. “The kitchen.” A long silence followed. Not a broken signal. A silence. Then Shun said, very softly, “Aoi, step away from the door.” Her hand went cold around the phone. She did not answer. “Aoi.” “How do you know where I am?” “Please.” The word sounded almost like pain. Aoi looked at the curtain again. The fabric did not move. Behind it, the breathing had stopped. “Shun,” she whispered. “What is in there?” “Grandmother is resting.” “That is not what I asked.” “Step away from the door.” His voice had changed. Not louder. Less like a request. Aoi took one step backward. The air shifted. It was so slight she might have imagined it, but the warmth pressing against her face seemed to loosen. Somewhere inside the walls, a low interference crackled through the phone, then cleared. Shun exhaled. “Good,” he said. Aoi stared at the curtain. “What did you do?” “I did not do anything.” “You called me.” “Yes.” “Because you knew.” Shun was silent. Snow hissed against the roof. Aoi pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Tell me what is happening.” His answer came after too long. “Do not go near that room when no one is there.” “No one is here now.” “I know.” The words made her stomach twist. Then, quieter: “Please.” The call ended. Aoi stood alone in the hall. The screen went dark in her hand. Behind the curtain, something shifted. A small sound. Almost delicate. Aoi stepped back again. Her heel struck the edge of the table. The porcelain bowl trembled, water rippling against its sides. “Don’t touch that.” Aoi turned. Yui stood at the end of the corridor. She was pale. For once, there was no sarcasm in her face. Only exhaustion. Aoi looked down at the phone. “He called.” Yui did not ask who. “He knew where I was,” Aoi said. “He told me to step away.” Yui’s eyes moved to the curtain. Then back to Aoi. “They always know when someone gets too close.” Aoi wanted to ask how. The question rose to her mouth. Yui crossed the hall quickly and caught her wrist. Her hand was cold. “Don’t ask that here,” she whispered. Aoi looked at her. Yui’s grip tightened. “Not where it can hear you.” Then, from beyond the curtain, the breathing began again.

Book 2, Chapter 4: The Call From Inside