At the beginning of summer, when the air grows thick with ancient scents and cicadas sing as if to stop time itself, the small village of Tsubame seemed to float in a still bubble, suspended between past and present.
The streets were narrow, lined with stone walls and cherry trees that, though no longer blooming, left behind an echo of spring.
Grass grew quietly along the paths, and the houses—side by side—kept the habits of their residents with silent composure.
Among them, slightly removed from the village's heart, stood a modest but elegant villa with dark roofs and sliding wooden windows, where Ayumi lived with her mother.
Ayumi was nineteen, yet there was a depth in her eyes rarely found in someone still in school. Her father had died when she was just a little girl. His absence was more than a void—it was a silence that had taught Ayumi to move gently through the world, as if every gesture might awaken a memory too fragile to touch.
Her home was steeped in a quiet made of small rituals: the sound of tea being poured in the morning, the soft rustle of pages from a book left open on the tatami, the tired but kind voice of her mother calling her for dinner.
Just over a kilometer away, cloaked in ivy and melancholy, stood a much larger villa. Abandoned. The shutters, once green, were chipped, and the windows looked like eyes closed for far too long. Every time Ayumi passed by—often after school, backpack slung over one shoulder and thoughts drifting—her gaze would rest on the villa the way one looks at an old photograph forgotten in a drawer.
It wasn't just an empty house.It was a piece of her past, carved into her memory with the clarity of a childhood dream.
She still remembered, though in pieces, the family who used to live there. The laughter that poured from open windows on summer evenings, the warm lights coloring the garden, and most of all… that boy. He was perhaps her age, maybe a year younger, but to her he'd always seemed smaller.
Quiet.
A little strange.
But his eyes—deep and black like a starless sky—she had never forgotten.
They had grown close by chance, through garden games and shy glances behind the gate. She had felt something different in him, something that seemed familiar, even if she couldn't name it.
Then one day, the family disappeared.
No farewell.
No explanation.
The villa remained empty, and Ayumi cried silently for days, telling no one.
Since then, whenever the wind rustled the dry branches around that house, she felt a quiet weight tightening in her chest. She didn't know why, but it felt like something—or someone—was still waiting there.
Now that she had grown up, had learned to smile even when she felt hollow inside, that thought returned more often.
"I wonder where he is now…" she would think."That boy with the dark hair. The boy I never forgot."
What Ayumi didn't know was that the villa's silence was no longer empty.
One evening, in the shadows of a sunset stolen from the world, a slim, dark figure stood before the rusted gate.
He was no longer a child.
His name was Feitan.
***
The days passed slowly, each one resembling the last—like calm waves on a forgotten shore. Ayumi had grown used to that quiet rhythm, where even the smallest things—a crow in flight, the sun's reflection in a puddle—became events worth noting.
It was an ordinary afternoon. Or at least, it seemed so.
The sky was covered with soft clouds, like cream stretched over blue, and Ayumi walked the dirt path that led her home from school. The sound of her steps blended with the rustling of the trees, and scattered thoughts—some about school, some not—chased each other in her mind.
Then she saw it.
In front of the old villa—the one that had for years held her sense of loss and nostalgia—something had changed.
Boxes.
Dusty, some torn, others wrapped in thick twine, stacked near the front door.For a moment she stopped, as if her legs no longer answered her. Her heart skipped oddly, as if something inside had suddenly awakened—still dazed from sleep.
"Someone's moving in..."
The words formed inside her before she could think them. And yet, they sounded almost unreal. She couldn't remember the last time that house had seen visitors.
The last time she'd seen a light turn on inside had been in a dream—she was almost sure of it.
The gate, half open, creaked softly, nudged by a gentle breeze.
No one was in sight.
No van.
No voices.
Only the boxes, like a promise still waiting to be kept.
Ayumi stood there a moment longer, fingers clutched around her backpack strap, her heartbeat slowly quickening. Then she started walking again—almost running—as if afraid the world might change again before she could tell someone about it.
When she reached home, she flung the door open with an excitement her mother rarely saw in her eyes.
"Mom!" she called, quickly slipping off her shoes and leaning into the kitchen.
Her mother, seated at the table with a cup of tea in her hands, looked up.Her face, though tired, was as serene as ever.
"You saw them too, didn't you? The boxes..."
"Yes, Ayumi. This morning, on my way to the market. I saw a boy out front. Small, thin... I couldn't see his face clearly, but he looked young."
A smile lit up her face, and for a moment she seemed smaller, lighter—as if that simple detail—no longer being alone next door—could give her back something she hadn't realized she'd lost.
"Mom, can I make him something? I want to bring him some cookies... something nice, to welcome him."
Her voice trembled just slightly. It wasn't only excitement.It was a longing for connection, to fill a space that had been empty for far too long.
Her mother looked at her in silence for a few seconds.Then nodded gently.
"All right, Ayu. We'll make the butter ones. You liked those when you were little, remember?"
Ayumi nodded. And as her mother stood to get the flour and eggs, she remained there, standing, looking out the window.The trees swayed softly, and in the sky, the clouds were beginning to part, letting through a pale but warm light.
For the first time in years,that abandoned house no longer felt like a place of ghosts.
It felt like the beginning of something.