The world was quiet when Rin walked home from school—but not the peaceful kind of quiet.
It was the kind that wrapped around your chest like a cold blanket, pressing down with each lonely step.
No one called his name after class.
No one waved in the hallway.
Sometimes, they laughed behind his back—not because he was funny, but because he didn't fit in.
Rin didn't cry anymore. He had learned not to.
He simply walked home—past the school gate, the flickering vending machine,
and the bulletin board that had never once shown his name.
At home, the porch light was on.
His mother was cooking in the kitchen—he could hear the gentle sizzle of oil.
His father's shoes were missing from the rack; he wouldn't be back until late.
And by the door, like always, waited Shiro.
A white dog with warm eyes and a quiet loyalty.
Rin bent down and rubbed his head.
"I'm home," he whispered.
Shiro, of course, said nothing.
But in that silence, Rin felt something soften inside.
Dinner was quiet.
His mother asked how school was. Rin nodded. That was enough.
He helped clean up, fed Shiro, and climbed the stairs to his room.
On his desk, beside his books, sat a small wooden box.
Inside it was a silver bell—slightly rusted now, but still precious.
His grandmother had given it to him when he was small.
"One day, when you feel truly alone… ring this in your heart," she had said.
"It doesn't make much noise. But if you listen, it will take you where you need to go."
Rin picked up the bell and held it to his chest.
He didn't ring it—not with his hand.
He simply let it rest there as he closed his eyes.
The faintest sound—so light it could have been imagined—
echoed softly in his mind.
That night, Rin dreamed.
He didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment he was blinking at the ceiling—
and the next, he was standing on a stone path under moonlight.
The air was completely still. The stars above shimmered like they were watching him.
In front of him stood a wooden shop.
Old. Slightly crooked. Warm light spilled from its windows.
A sign hung over the door in strange characters—
but somehow, Rin understood them perfectly:
"The Dreambox Shop."
The little bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside.
The sound was exactly like the bell from his grandmother.
Shelves lined the walls—filled with boxes of every shape, color, and size.
Some glowed faintly. Some shook. Some… sighed softly in their sleep.
Behind the counter sat a figure.
White fur. Long ears. Round glasses balanced on a small pink nose.
A rabbit, cloaked in stardust-colored robes, looked up from a book.
"Welcome," the rabbit said. His voice was like a warm blanket.
"You've arrived earlier than expected."
Rin stared. "You… can talk?"
"Only when dreams are deep enough," the rabbit replied.
"I'm Moonchan. Keeper of this shop. And you must be Rin."
Rin hadn't told him his name.
He turned—
Shiro had followed him in.
The dog sat beside him, tail gently wagging.
"You can talk here?" Rin whispered, stunned.
"Of course," said Shiro, his voice calm and kind.
"Just not in the other world. Rules are tighter there."
Rin's mouth fell open. He looked from Shiro to Moonchan and back again.
Suddenly, a sharp voice chimed in.
"Or maybe your mind is just weird."
A black cat peeked from behind a shelf.
"That's Kuro," Moonchan said with a sigh.
"He says he's a co-owner. Don't believe everything he tells you."
"I run the night shift!" Kuro huffed.
Moonchan ignored him and reached under the counter.
He placed a small wooden box in front of Rin.
It was smooth. Dark. Unmarked.
Yet somehow… it felt alive.
"This is yours," Moonchan said.
"A gift—or a mirror. That depends on how you open it."
Rin stepped closer. The box shimmered faintly, like it had been waiting for him.
"Go ahead," Moonchan whispered.
"Some dreams only open when you're ready."
Rin reached out and touched the lid.
And in that moment—
the shop, the moon, even time itself—
held its breath.