Ragan woke to the smell of miso and soy, something sizzling in oil, and the distant scrape of a pan against cast iron.
The morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting uneven lines across his blanket. He stretched slowly, his back popping like a line of fireworks, and sat up. For a few seconds, he just listened.
The wind outside brushed against the trees. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. In the kitchen below, his mother hummed softly to herself, barely loud enough to hear.
He stood, washed up quickly, changed into something clean—dark jeans, black T-shirt, his old jacket still smelling faintly of his old apartment.
When he stepped into the kitchen, she didn't look up from the stove.
"Sit," she said. "Eat."
There was already a tray set out for him. Steamed rice, grilled fish, rolled egg, and soup. A slice of pickled daikon on the side. It was simple, but everything looked freshly made. The kind of meal only a parent would make without being asked.
"You're trying to fatten me up," he said, sitting.
"You look like you wrestled a shadow and lost," she replied without missing a beat. "Let me fix at least half of that."
He picked up his chopsticks and started eating.
The fish flaked apart under the slightest touch. The egg was warm, just slightly sweet. He hadn't realized how much he missed real food.
His mom finally sat across from him, mug of green tea cradled between her hands.
"You going out today?"
"I was thinking about it."
"Good. Go see your old friends. Let them know you're not dead. Some of them still ask about you when they pass through the market."
Ragan chewed the last bite of egg, swallowed, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Right. Before I forget… there's going to be some stuff arriving today."
His mom raised an eyebrow, the way she always did when something smelled suspicious. "Stuff?"
"Packages."
"Packages?"
"Yeah. For the house."
She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of 'packages for the house'?"
"Groceries. A few appliances. Some repairs."
She stared at him.
Then slowly leaned back in her chair, eyes wide, one hand flying to her chest like he'd just told her the emperor was coming for dinner.
"Oh heavens," she said in a loud, dramatic voice. "Appliances. Groceries. Repairs! My son has money. Actual money. And he's using it to take care of his aging mother. What luxury!"
Ragan gave her a look. "You done?"
"Not even close," she said, leaning forward again. "You mean to tell me that the boy who once duct-taped his sneakers because he couldn't afford new ones has a bank account that allows delivery orders?"
"They were good sneakers."
"They were disgraceful."
He laughed under his breath. "I'm serious, though. Don't freak out when the doorbell rings. The guy might show up twice."
She shook her head, a smile playing at her lips despite the sass. "Look at you. Thinking ahead. Buying things. Taking initiative. Who are you and what did you do with my stubborn, broke son?"
"I finally decided to grow up," he said, grabbing his jacket from the chair.
She stood with him, still holding her tea. "I'm proud of you, Ragan."
He paused for a second, then nodded. "Thanks."
She didn't say anything else. Just lifted her cup like a toast and sipped.
As he stepped into the entryway to grab his shoes, she called after him, "If one of those packages is a robot vacuum, I'm naming it after you and yelling at it when it forgets to clean the corners."
"Sounds about right."
"You better believe it."
And with that, he slipped out the door, the warmth of the kitchen still clinging to his back.
The air outside was bright and clean, the sky washed in pale blue. It looked like the kind of day meant for nothing important. Birds called from telephone wires. Somewhere down the road, a scooter backfired.
Ragan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and started walking. The hill from his mother's place dipped gently into town, still cracked with the same worn ridges that used to catch his shoes when he ran home from school.
The town lay spread out in lazy lines and familiar turns. Same streetlights. Same crooked fence by the old workshop. Even the same pale green vending machine outside the laundromat, humming quietly like it never stopped.
He didn't rush.
Every few minutes, he passed someone. A middle-aged man unlocking a bike. An elderly woman carrying vegetables in a basket twice the size of her. A delivery guy tapping at his phone.
Some looked up. Some didn't.
The ones who did sometimes paused for half a second—eyes narrowing, head tilting, something like recognition blooming on their faces—but none of them spoke. Not yet.
It wasn't cold. Not really. But the town felt like it had slipped into something softer than silence. A stillness with its own rules. Like it didn't mind being forgotten.
Ragan walked past the closed bookstore where he used to hide from rain. Past the alley where a stray cat once clawed his ankle because he got too close to its kittens. He even walked past the cracked window of the market where he once got caught shoplifting candy.
They'd patched that window with a sign now.
No one was inside.
He cut through the side path by the river where the trees leaned a little too close to the railings, brushing his shoulders as he passed. The sun shimmered on the water's surface, reflecting gold and green. He stared at it for a while.
Then he blinked.
Just on the opposite side of the water, tucked between two large trees, something moved.
He squinted.
Nothing.
Maybe it had been a dog. Maybe just a shift in the leaves. The town was full of things that moved like ghosts even before there were actual ghosts involved.
He kept walking.
Every few blocks, that feeling came again. The one that curled around the base of his skull.
Not quite pain. Not fear either.
Just presence.
Someone watching from a place that had no light.
It faded when he turned onto a narrow side street, one of the last that still had its old paving stones. A few storefronts remained—half-dead businesses still clinging to the idea of life.
He paused in front of a stall stacked with bundled vegetables. Old, wooden beams held up a makeshift awning. A man knelt nearby, retying the cord that held the onions together.
He looked up.
"Oi," he said, shading his eyes. "Is that who I think it is?"
Ragan blinked.
The man stood, brushing off his hands. His hair had gone from black to mostly grey, but the face was unmistakable.
"Kazuya?"
The older man grinned. "Well damn, the ghost returns."
They met halfway in a one-armed hug that nearly dislocated Ragan's shoulder.
"You're heavier than I remember."
"You're lighter than I remember."
"Hey, this is all functional weight. I deliver crates now."
Ragan laughed, letting himself sink into the familiarity for a moment.
"You sticking around this time?" Kazuya asked, pulling back and squinting at him.
"Thinking about it."
"Well, your mom's been glowing lately," Kazuya said, nudging a crate aside with his foot. "Ever since I told her a while back that something good would come her way soon. Guess even I didn't expect you to be the surprise."
Ragan snorted. "Not sure if I count as a good thing."
Kazuya gave him a look. "You came back, didn't you?"
Ragan nodded. "Yeah."
"Then you count."
They stood in silence for a moment. Kazuya adjusted his grip on the rope he was using to tie up his bundles, but his eyes kept drifting toward the slope in the distance—the road that led toward the woods. Toward the dojo.
Ragan finally asked what had been pressing at the back of his mind since he arrived.
"The dojo... what happened to it?"
Kazuya's hands stilled.
His smile thinned.
"It's still there," he said after a moment. "Technically. Still standing, still open. No one really locked it up."
"Anyone using it?"
He shook his head. "Not since... you left. A few people poked around. Some of the older guys stopped in now and then. But there's no one teaching. No students. Not for a long time."
Ragan's stomach tightened. "Sensei?"
Kazuya hesitated again, then let out a slow breath.
"He didn't take the lack of business too well. Not when the students left. Not when the place emptied out. He'd spent most of his life building that dojo, training people up, keeping the old ways alive. Then one day, it was just... him and the dust."
Ragan looked down at the ground. He already knew what was coming.
"He started drinking. Got bitter. Pushed people away. Then a few years ago... he ended it."
The words weren't loud. They didn't need to be.
Ragan felt them settle in his chest like stones dropped into still water.
"He didn't leave a note," Kazuya added. "Didn't leave anything. It was like he just... couldn't find a reason to stay. And without that place full of life, he couldn't go on."
They were both quiet for a while.
The sound of the market nearby drifted in and out, the murmur of conversations, the buzz of a delivery truck pulling away.
"He taught us more than just form," Ragan said eventually. "He taught us how to endure."
"I think he forgot how to use that part on himself," Kazuya replied.
Ragan looked toward the distant hill. "You said the place is open?"
"Technically. Some kids throw old sports gear in there. But the space is still there. The floor's still strong. You could go. Light some incense. Say something. Might mean a lot coming from one of his favorite student."
Ragan nodded. "I think I will."
Kazuya smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Tell the old bastard I said hi."
Ragan clapped his friend on the shoulder once and stepped away from the stall, heading down the slope, leaving the scent of fresh vegetables and warm sun behind him.
The path to the dojo hadn't changed much.
It wound down a little dirt road nestled between trees that leaned too far inward. Their branches met overhead, forming a crooked archway that filtered sunlight through shifting leaves. Birds called out somewhere deeper in the trees, but their song was muted here.
Like the air was quieter.
He passed the old sign—half-rotted, faded characters barely legible. But the name was still there. Even if barely. Even if almost forgotten.
Shouen Dojo.
The place where he learned to stand.
The entrance stood just beyond a bent gatepost. The fencing around the yard was rusted and cracked, barely upright. Overgrowth crawled through the gaps in the wood and stone. But the building beyond—
He stopped walking.
It looked exactly the same.
The tiled roof was weather-stained, and the boards along the side had split in places, but the bones of it were still strong. Still sharp. It stood with a kind of stubborn defiance, the way all sacred places tend to do when the world forgets them.
He stepped up onto the porch and tested the sliding door. It gave easily.
Inside, the air was stale but dry. The floor creaked beneath his feet, dust rising in faint clouds. Sunlight pierced through the gaps in the windows, casting long slashes of light across the old wooden floor.
He closed the door behind him.
It was like stepping into a memory.
The banners still hung above the rack of old practice weapons, faded but unbroken. The mirror at the front of the room was cracked along the edge but still reflected just enough to remind him of where he used to stand.
He took off his shoes and stepped onto the floor with bare feet.
The old warmth of the wood greeted him, even if dulled.
He walked slowly. Past the gear racks. Past the old sign-in sheet still clipped to the wall, yellowed and curling. Past the training hall into the inner room, where the incense bowl sat on a low table beside a simple shrine. Dust blanketed everything, but the scent of wood and dried smoke lingered, like the last breath of the master who used to sit here.
He lit a stick of incense from his lighter and placed it in the bowl.
The smoke curled upward, slow and silent.
He knelt.
Closed his eyes.
Didn't say anything at first.
Then finally whispered, "I'm sorry."
Another pause.
"Thank you."
The smoke rose higher.
He bowed once, slowly, and stood again.
For a while, he just walked the hall. Letting his eyes trace the lines of the boards. Letting his feet remember the stances. Letting the rhythm of the place move back into him, even if it was slower now. Fainter.
Then it happened.
That feeling again.
The pressure on the back of his neck.
Worse this time.
Sharper.
He turned his head slowly, scanning the room.
Nothing.
Just dust. Shadows. Wood.
But it was different now. The light had shifted. The air had thickened, like the dojo had exhaled something it had been holding for too long.
He turned fully, eyes narrowing.
Still nothing.
But the space near the rear corner, where the wall met the edge of the storage closet—it was darker than it should have been. Just a sliver. Just enough to make his pulse kick a little faster.
He stepped forward.
There was nothing there.
No footsteps.
No shape.
Just silence.
He let out a slow breath and turned back toward the shrine—
And the wall behind him exploded.
Something hit him from behind, low and hard, like a battering ram wrapped in barbed wire. He flew forward, crashed into the wooden floor, and rolled, pain bursting through his ribs and shoulders.
He coughed, scrambled to his knees, turned—
The air behind him shimmered, twisted, and something stepped out of it.
Not a person.
Not even a full thing.
A mass of twisted cloth and dried belts, limbs bent wrong, a broken jaw hanging slack beneath what looked like a warped training gi wrapped around a mannequin's chest.
Its eyes were empty.
Its hands were cracked and sharpened like splintered wood.
It moved like a memory trying to walk.
And it was looking at him.
No.
Not looking.
Targeting.
Ragan reached instinctively for the sword that wasn't there.
And the thing lurched forward with a broken scream.