Night on the mountain is unlike any other night.
No snow that glows.
No moon that dares to appear.
The house was quiet.
Only one window lit softly—
a small room centered around a wooden stove,
with Yuka sitting on the floor, still.
A white cloth wrapped around her right palm—
a thin thread of blood from today's incident still seeping through.
Her eyes moved to the wooden surface beside her.
A small box.
She opened it slowly.
Inside: just a few things, but each one carefully placed.
A piece of gray chalk.
A dark stone tinged with blue.
A small cloth pouch… containing only a handful of pale gray salt.
She reached for the pouch.
Held it for a long moment.
Then stood.
She stepped outside.
The snow was falling gently.
The cold carried a scent—
like damp soil from a freshly opened grave.
She stood in front of the door.
Pulled out the chalk and began to draw an incomplete circle in the gray snow.
She took some salt from the pouch, sprinkling it carefully along the edges of the chalk circle.
Her movements were precise… silent.
As if she had memorized these rituals from a life long gone.
Then she crouched before the circle,
eyes fixed on the dark forest beyond the field.
She said nothing.
But… the trees began to move without wind.
There were shadows.
Walking.
Crawling.
Tapping the ground with feet not made for this world.
And leading them…
a small child without a face, hunched over, head tilted, with eyes pure black.
He stepped closer.
To the edge of the circle.
But could not cross.
Yuka stared at him in silence.
Then murmured:
— "You're not from here… Go back to where you came from."
The child began to scream.
But it was not a child's voice.
It was a metallic, twisted screech that drilled into bone.
The salt trembled on the ground.
It nearly dissolved.
Suddenly, Yuka pulled something from her coat pocket.
A white ribbon.
Tied in a faint, worn-out knot.
She looked at it for a moment, then… wrapped it around her left wrist.
She whispered:
— "Mom… just for tonight, keep me here."
And just like that… the child backed away.
Vanished, as quietly as he had come.
Yuka remained.
Alone.
In the snow.
In the silence.
In the circle… where the salt had run out.
But she didn't return to the house yet.
Elsewhere…
The house was quiet, as always.
All dark wood,
the scent of old tea,
and rugs that made no sound—
as if the home itself demanded silence from its occupants.
Ren entered with slow steps, bag slung over one shoulder.
The marks of battle had faded from his clothes,
but the fatigue still clung beneath his eyes.
He stepped into the small sitting room—
and there she was.
His grandmother.
Standing quietly, her face stone-still.
Wearing her usual dark kimono,
hands folded behind her back.
She held something, wrapped in a cloth.
Without looking at him, she asked:
— "Do you know what this is?"
Silence.
Then she began to slowly unwrap the cloth…
It appeared—
a familiar shape.
The remains of a plate.
Cracked, almost white, with faded golden markings…
and those fractures he knew far too well.
Ren froze.
— "Ah… no idea. Maybe one of the neighbors' dishes?"
She looked at him—finally.
A long… deep… knowing look.
The kind that knew him better than he knew himself.
— "You buried it. In the garden. Beneath the cherry tree."
He gasped inside.
— "…Oh… right. Maybe."
She didn't respond.
Simply turned her back.
Then said:
— "Your punishment is to clean all the outer hallways. This week."
— "What? But I didn't break it! I swear…"
— "For your information," she said without turning,
"I've raised you since you were in diapers.
And you've never been good at lying.
You think I'm a fool, you foolish boy?!"
She walked out.
But he dared to call after her, a bit louder:
— "By the way… do we have any salt?"
She stopped.
Then, without turning:
— "In the storehouse. Don't mess with it."
And she was gone.
Silence lingered.
Then:
— "Hah…"
He smiled.
"I found the salt."
He said it while staring up at the ceiling,
a soft, glowing smile spreading from deep within.
"For the girl who asked for it with a smile…
cold as falling snow."
He looked at his hand.
Somehow… he felt Yuka
might need more than just a handful.
---
The old house exhaled.
The air settled.
Grandmother entered her room and closed the wooden door—
softly, like an old breath of tired wood.
Ren sat on his simple cotton bed.
Listening to the silence of the house…
And then, he smiled faintly.
He stood up.
Changed into his loose nightwear,
wrapped his pale blue scarf around his neck,
and walked down the stairs—slowly, silently.
He opened the front door…
with a silence that felt deliberate, deadly.
And stepped outside.
Snow was falling gently.
A soft white layer had begun to blanket the garden floor.
But Ren… was barefoot.
He walked.
Bare soles sinking into the frozen snow.
And still… he smiled.
He whispered to himself:
— "Best feeling in the world…
to walk on something that reminds you you're alive."
He reached the narrow path,
where the storehouse stood quietly in the back corner of the garden.
Its wooden door was crooked, painted blue,
locked with a rusty latch.
He opened it slowly.
Inside—
the scent of earth, soft mold… and something else.
He stepped in and shut the door behind him.
Moonlight leaked in through the cracks in the wood.
He inhaled deeply.
— "Salt… where did you hide it, Grandma?"
---
Stacks of old wood, boxes bound in faded cloth,
dust, rot…
and the moon slipping in like a thief.
Slowly, he began to search.
— "Grandma stores everything… maybe even souls."
He muttered dryly as he pulled a box from under the table.
And then…
He saw it.
The pouch.
A small cloth bag with a faded red symbol—
a broken flower, curled and delicate.
He lifted it, smiled softly:
— "Here it is.
Mizuno-san will say thank you.
Or at least… I think so."
But suddenly—
A sound.
A muffled thud behind him.
As if something had leapt from the wall.
Something slammed him—brutally—into the wooden wall.
His head struck hard.
The air ripped from his lungs.
He crashed to the ground.
Before he could grasp what was happening—
cold hands clamped around his throat.
He opened his eyes—
A woman's face.
Hair flowing wildly in still air,
eyes black and featureless,
her mouth hanging loose as if her jaw were broken.
She was on top of him.
Strangling him.
With inhuman force.
His fingers clawed at her arms—useless.
She whispered—
in a voice cracked and dripping like it belonged to something pulled from water:
— "I WILL TAKE BACK WHAT WAS TAKEN… I WILL RIP YOU… I WILL RELEASE THE RAGE… RELEASE THE RAGE…"
He couldn't breathe.
His face turned blue.
His nails scraped the ground.
A rasped sound slipped from his throat:
— "L...l-leave… me…"
Then he saw it.
By his foot—
The pouch.
The salt.
Slowly… slowly, as if his body barely obeyed,
he reached for it.
Trembling fingers stretched,
heart pounding like a funeral bell.
Then—
he grabbed it.
He shouted with what was left of his voice:
— "TAKE THIS!!!"
And hurled the pouch straight at her.
A pause—
then a small burst of white.
Salt exploded—
like glowing ash.
The spirit shrieked—
but it wasn't a scream.
It was the sound of something skinless tearing apart.
Her face shattered first.
Then her eyes.
Then her arms.
Then her entire body—
crumbled into black dust, and vanished.
Ren lay on the floor, gasping for air.
Eyes wet.
Chest heaving.
— "All… that… for a bag of salt…?"
Then—he smiled.
A small, exhausted laugh escaped him.
— "Mizuno-san… I did what you asked me to do."
And then he passed out.