Morning light spilled through the kitchen window, catching the edges of a world pretending to be normal.
Ethan stood by the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. He looked half awake and entirely unmotivated.
"I'm serious," he said, voice thick with sleep. "If I skip any more classes, my professor's going to think I died."
From the stairway, the ninja's voice came soft but firm. "Then stay dead for one more day."
Ethan groaned. "You know, that sounds a lot creepier coming from someone who actually owns a sword."
She stepped into the light, leaning slightly on the railing. The wound on her leg had healed enough for her to walk without limping, but the stiffness still showed. She was wearing one of his shirts again—black, too big for her, sleeves rolled up past her elbows.
He stared for a second, sighed, and tossed his bag on the couch. "Fine. You win. Guess I'll take another day off from being a responsible adult."
"You've already taken three this week," she said, her tone neutral but not unkind.
"Yeah," he muttered, "but this one's voluntary."
The day unfolded quietly.
Ethan cleaned, because it was either that or think too much. He swept the floors, muttering to himself. "Who knew ghosts shed this much dust?"
From the couch, the ninja watched. She'd spent most of the morning silently observing him, head tilted slightly as though trying to understand the strange rituals of modern life.
"Do you do this every weekend?" she asked.
Ethan shrugged. "Only when my place starts to look like a biology experiment."
He wiped the counter. The sponge slipped from his hand and fell into the sink with a wet slap. When he reached for it, he froze.
The faucet had turned itself on.
Water gushed out, cold and steady.
He glanced sideways. The ghost was standing at the far end of the kitchen, hair hanging over her face, one pale hand resting on the tap.
Ethan sighed. "Really? You couldn't haunt the bathroom instead?"
The ninja followed his gaze—but saw nothing. "What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Just… plumbing issues."
The ghost tilted her head. The water stopped. Then the cupboard door opened behind him and shut again—twice.
Ethan exhaled sharply. "Yep. Plumbing's fine."
The ninja's eyes narrowed. "You talk to yourself often."
"It's part of my charm."
He moved to the laundry next. The washing machine whined, the soap smelled faintly like lemon, and for a few minutes the house felt almost normal. He threw in clothes—mostly shirts, mostly the same color.
The ninja stood at the doorway, arms folded. "You don't own much."
"Five shirts, six," Ethan said. "It's called minimalism. Or poverty. Depends on your angle."
She looked down at the one she was wearing—gray, faded, a bit too long on her. "You don't like me wearing your clothes."
Ethan hesitated. "It's not that I don't like it. It's just—well—you're kinda wearing my last clean shirt. If a burglar breaks in, I'll have to fight him in a towel."
A faint smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. "Then you should buy more."
"With what? Spirit points?"
She didn't answer. Her gaze had shifted again—toward the window, where the reflection of the ghost lingered faintly, head turned as if listening.
Ethan noticed it too. "Don't start," he muttered under his breath. "You're part of the décor now. Behave."
The ghost vanished.
Afternoon light softened the walls. Ethan vacuumed while the ninja tidied the dishes. They didn't talk much; silence filled the space, but it wasn't heavy this time. Just… tired.
Every so often, Ethan caught her glancing around the room, eyes sharp and wary. He didn't blame her. He still half-expected the house to fold inside out again at any moment.
By the time the sun began to set, the house actually looked lived in.
Ethan dropped the mop into the bucket with a sigh of victory. "There. Clean floors, folded clothes, and zero demonic activity—so far. That's a win in my book."
She dried her hands on a towel. "You're not used to stillness, are you?"
"Stillness is just suspense waiting for bad news."
They ate in the kitchen again. Leftover curry, slightly over-salted but edible.
For once, the ghost stayed gone.
Ethan leaned back in his chair after finishing his plate. "You know," he said, staring at her shirt again, "I think we need to go shopping."
Her brows lifted. "Shopping?"
"Yeah. Clothes. For you. You've been wearing my shirts for three days, and I'm running out. I only own, like, five—and you somehow picked my favorite one."
She glanced down. "This one?"
"That exact one. My emotional-support shirt."
She studied him for a moment, then said simply, "You can't afford it."
"Hey, I can afford something. Maybe not Paris fashion, but we can find a store that sells 'survived a haunting and just needs pants.'"
Her lips twitched again—the closest thing to laughter he'd ever seen from her.
He smirked. "There it is. A smile. Mark the calendar."
For a while, they sat in the quiet clinking of plates and cooling curry. The sun outside dipped lower, throwing orange light across her face.
Ethan noticed how it softened her expression, how the hard edges faded for once. She looked… human. Not a weapon, not a survivor. Just a person.
He almost didn't notice when she spoke.
"My name," she said suddenly, voice low. "You asked before."
He straightened, caught off guard. "Yeah. You gonna tell me, or is it still classified?"
She hesitated, gaze lowering to the table. Then, quietly:
"Kaori."
Ethan blinked. "Kaori."
She nodded once. "It means 'fragrance.'"
He tilted his head. "That's… surprisingly gentle for someone who tried to stab me three times."
Her mouth curved faintly. "You deserved it."
He laughed softly. "Yeah, probably."
The air around them was still again, peaceful in a way that felt almost real. The ghost hadn't appeared in hours. For once, the house felt like a home.
Ethan leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Kaori, huh? Nice name. Guess I should start calling you that instead of 'ninja girl.'"
"You still will," she said dryly.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Probably."
Outside, the wind stirred the trees, and the house—so clean, so calm—gave a faint creak in reply, like it was listening.
Neither of them noticed the thin, pale handprint that bloomed briefly on the wall behind Ethan before fading into the white paint.