Chapter Two: Threads of the Ordinary (continued)
The morning air was light but sharp — like a whisper that knew a secret. Reina adjusted the sleeves of her jacket as she walked past the old shrine on Akechi Street. Few people used the path anymore, not since the newer temples got vending machines and free Wi-Fi. But Reina liked this one — it never changed, and she didn't trust things that changed too easily.
A black cat sat at the base of the torii gate, watching her. She paused. The cat didn't move, didn't blink. For a second, it felt like the two of them were the only ones awake in the whole town.
She looked away first.
Yukinomori was strange that way — always watching. From quiet windows. From rusted gates. From crooked rooftops. You could walk the same street a hundred times, but on the hundred and first, something would feel… off. Like a door that wasn't there before. Or a mirror that returned a smile a second too late.
Reina had learned not to question it.
At school, nothing felt strange. Or rather, everything was strange in a normal way.
Ayumu was already at their desk, earphones in, sketching in his notebook with quiet intensity. Reina caught a glimpse — it looked like a scene from their town. But different. The buildings were twisted. The sky was black. There were cracks running across the sun.
"You always draw dark stuff in the morning?" Reina asked, sliding into her chair.
Ayumu didn't look up. "Morning's the only time I remember them clearly."
"Them?"
"The dreams."
She tilted her head. "You dream about that place?"
"No," he said, still not looking up. "I wake up from there."
She didn't reply.
Sometimes it was better not to. Especially with Ayumu.
Class went on. The hum of fluorescent lights. The smell of pencil shavings and chalk. Ms. Eiko's flat voice reciting formulas like she'd lost the will to live years ago. Reina half-listened. Her eyes kept drifting to the clock, which had been stuck on 9:23 for the last ten minutes.
Or had it?
She blinked. It moved to 9:24.
She frowned. No one else seemed to notice.
After school, Reina took the long route home. She passed the bookstore that hadn't opened in years — even though the lights were always on. She passed the record shop where the same song played on repeat. And finally, she passed the house with the paper door.
It was gone.
There had always been a door there. Thin. Worn. With old kanji etched into its frame. But today, just wall.
Reina stopped.
Something inside her said not to knock. Not to stare too long. Not to ask.
But she did stare.
And for just a moment — less than a breath — her reflection in the glass window beside the wall... blinked before she did.
She walked away fast, heart beating too loud in her ears.
Reina didn't speak to anyone that evening. Even her mother's usual cheerful humming in the kitchen felt distant — like it was coming from another room entirely, one that didn't exist. She stayed in her room, the curtains drawn, the lights dim. Her phone buzzed once — a message from Nagi.
> Nagi: "Hey. Do you remember what happened in class around 9:20?"
Reina stared at it.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She typed:
> "The clock stopped. Why?"
But before she could hit send, the message deleted itself.
She blinked.
She hadn't touched anything.
The message field was empty now. Just a blinking cursor, waiting.
She tried again.
Typed it slower this time. Hit send. This time it worked. The check mark appeared beside the message.
But no reply came.
Instead, her screen flickered once. Briefly.
The home screen returned — but one of her apps was gone. A calendar app she always used. Just... vanished.
Reina slowly set the phone down, her breath tight in her chest. She looked out the window. The town outside was perfectly still. No people. No cars. Even the trees weren't moving.
She reached for the light switch beside her bed — and that's when she noticed the thin white feather on her windowsill.
It hadn't been there before.
It was too long to belong to a pigeon. Too light to have just drifted in. It was perfectly clean — and it shimmered faintly, as though it didn't quite belong in this world.
She picked it up.
The instant her fingers touched it, a voice whispered into her ear — not loud, not clear — like wind squeezing through cracks in a door.
> "Do not wake what sleeps beneath Yukinomori."
She dropped the feather.
No sound. No echo. But her bedroom light flickered... then shut off completely.
Reina didn't scream.
She just stood there in the dark, watching as the feather on the floor slowly disintegrated into thin air — not burning, not crumbling, but dissolving like fog touched by morning sun. Gone in seconds.
She took a step back. The floor creaked louder than usual. Was it always that loud?
No response from Nagi.
No messages, no calls, not even a notification.
Outside, Yukinomori was still frozen.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, everything came back.
A breeze shook the trees.
A car passed.
The humming from the kitchen returned, mid-tune, as if nothing had ever paused.
But Reina knew it had. She felt the space where the silence had been — like a bruise beneath her skin.
She rushed downstairs. Her mother stood at the stove, flipping rice into a bowl.
"Reina, tell your brother dinner's ready—" she said, not looking up.
"I don't have a brother," Reina replied.
Her mother froze.
Only for a second.
Then she laughed. "Stop joking. Go get him."
Reina blinked.
She looked around.
There were two pairs of shoes at the door. One was hers.
The other was far larger. Covered in dried mud. She had never seen them before.
"Mom," she said slowly. "What's his name?"
Her mother stirred the rice. "What do you mean?"
"Your son. My… brother."
Her mother turned, smiling — but her eyes were glassy. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. She looked like she was answering, but Reina heard nothing.
It was as if her voice had been erased.
Then — just as Reina took a step toward her — the sound snapped back into the room.
"...already upstairs, probably gaming again," her mother finished.
Reina's hands were ice cold. Her breath was shaky now.
She turned and stared up at the staircase.
It was empty.
Dark.
Still.
A shadow moved just past the top step. Slow. Deliberate. Someone was up there.
And yet — no memories surfaced. No images. No birthdays. No fights. No laughter.
Just a name — suddenly pushed into her brain.
"Ren."
Her supposed brother.
She didn't remember him.
But the house did.