I woke to the smell of rain and iron.
For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. The ceiling above me wasn't mine—the wood was older, stained dark, and traced with faint, crooked lines like veins. Then the memory returned—the train, the fog, the house, the handprint.
The handprint.
I sat up quickly, breath catching in my throat. The futon was still there, folded neatly at the corner of the room. The damp mark was gone. The fabric looked untouched, as if nothing had been there at all.
But I remembered the warmth.
It had been real.
I turned to the window. The garden below was the same as last night: silent, colorless, its soil dark and heavy. Only now, something new caught my eye—a small mound near the edge of the fence, like freshly turned earth. It hadn't been there before.
My aunt's voice drifted up from downstairs. "Mizu? Breakfast!"
I hesitated, still watching the garden. Nothing moved. No hands, no shadows. Just that small mound, sitting like a wound in the soil.
When I went down, my aunt was at the stove, stirring miso soup. The smell was faintly metallic.
"You were up late," she said without turning. "I heard your steps."
I froze. "You did?"
"Mhm." Her voice was light, almost amused. "You should sleep earlier. The house listens when it's quiet."
I didn't ask what she meant.
She set a bowl before me. "Eat before it gets cold."
The soup tasted off—too salty, and beneath it, that same iron tang that clung to the fog. I tried not to grimace.
"Did Uncle leave early again?" I asked, mostly to fill the silence.
Her ladle paused mid-stir. "He's still traveling," she said softly. "You remember I told you?"
"Yes, but…" I hesitated. "When's he coming back?"
She smiled without looking at me. "When the roads are clean."
I didn't know what that meant either.
---
The walk to school was quieter than yesterday. The fog hung lower, thick enough to blur the edges of the houses. The children still walked in pairs, same rhythm, same blank eyes. I tried to match their pace for a while, but it felt wrong—like stepping into a rhythm meant for something that wasn't me.
At one corner, an old man was crouched near the gutter, scooping at the dirt with a stick. His lips moved silently. When I passed, he looked up and said, "It's breathing again."
"What is?"
He smiled with cracked teeth. "The ground."
I didn't ask more.
The school loomed ahead like a shadow in the mist. The walls seemed grayer than before. Inside, the air was still, heavy with that faint smell of chalk and mold.
When I stepped into the classroom, every head turned toward me again—simultaneously.
"Good morning," I said.
"Good morning, Mizu," they echoed.
The teacher smiled, too wide. "Perfect timing," he said. "Today, we'll review yesterday's lesson."
The day unfolded in rhythm: pencil scratches, synchronized breathing, heads turning in perfect intervals. At one point, I tried to drop my eraser just to break the pattern—but before it hit the ground, Aki bent down and picked it up, handing it back to me with that same faint, trembling smile.
"You shouldn't drop things," he whispered. "They don't like sound."
"Who doesn't?"
He blinked. His lips trembled again. "The ones under the fog."
---
Lunch break came. I sat under the covered walkway that overlooked the courtyard. The fog hadn't lifted all day. It moved slowly, like it had weight.
From here, I could see the garden behind the school—if you could call it that. Just soil, no plants. The teachers called it the Reflection Ground. They said we weren't allowed to go near it.
Still, some of the younger students were standing near the fence, staring into it. None of them spoke. None of them moved.
Then, one of them smiled. Not the way people smile. It was stretched too far, held too long.
Something beneath the soil shifted.
I blinked hard—and in that instant, the child turned away as if nothing had happened. The ground was still again.
---
After school, I found myself walking slower than usual. My thoughts felt heavy, my body heavier. The fog pressed close, thicker now, swallowing sound. The streetlights flickered as I passed beneath them, each one humming faintly before dimming out.
When I reached home, my aunt was kneeling near the garden. The mound I'd seen that morning was gone. She was smoothing the soil with her hands, fingers pale against the dirt.
"Auntie?"
She looked up, startled—though her eyes didn't quite meet mine. "You're home early."
"Were you planting something?"
Her hands stilled. For a moment, she didn't answer. Then she said, "No flowers grow here anymore."
"Why not?"
"The ground doesn't like roots."
She wiped her hands on her apron and stood. Her nails were dark, as if something had seeped beneath them.
---
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about what Aki said—the ones under the fog. The words looped through my mind until the house felt smaller around me, until even my breathing seemed too loud.
When I turned off the light, I saw the faint outline of the window. The fog outside glowed faintly silver, lit by the moon that refused to show itself.
Then I heard it again.
That dragging sound.
It moved along the outer wall, steady, unhurried.
My pulse quickened. I sat up slowly, every part of me listening.
The sound stopped beneath my window.
A whisper followed. Not loud, not clear—just a faint hum that made the air vibrate inside my chest.
Then came the softest of knocks.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I swallowed, frozen.
The whisper came again, closer this time, words forming just enough to twist the silence.
"Open the window."
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.
The glass trembled faintly. A thin crack appeared in the corner, spidering outward. The whisper turned into something like a sigh, and for a moment, I thought I saw a shape—a handprint blooming faintly against the glass from the outside, fingers long and wrong.
Then it was gone.
The fog beyond the window stilled.
And in the faint reflection of the glass, I saw something that made my skin crawl.
A second face, just behind my own.
Smiling.
The reflection lingered only for a breath—then vanished, as though the fog had swallowed it whole.
I stumbled backward, my heartbeat so loud I thought it might wake the whole house.
The air in the room felt wrong—too heavy, too still. The kind of silence that listens back.
I forced myself to whisper, "Auntie?"
No answer.
The house didn't feel like it was asleep. It felt like it was waiting.
I crept to the door and opened it just enough to peer into the hallway. Darkness stretched out like a throat. The faint smell of smoke and metal hung in the air again—stronger than before.
There was a sound coming from downstairs. Soft. Wet. Like something being dragged across the floor.
My hand trembled on the rail as I made my way down, one step at a time, the wood groaning beneath me. The sound stopped. Then came again—closer, near the kitchen.
When I turned the corner, I froze.
The kitchen light was on. My aunt stood at the table, her back to me. A large bowl sat in front of her, filled with something dark. She was stirring it with her hands, slow and rhythmic, whispering words I couldn't understand.
"Auntie?"
Her hands stopped.
She turned halfway, but not completely. I could see only the edge of her face. Her eyes were wrong—too wide, too glassy.
"Mizu," she said. Her voice was calm. "You should be in bed."
"What are you doing?"
"Preparing."
"For what?"
She smiled faintly. "For the mist."
I didn't ask more. I just stood there, watching as she turned back to the bowl. The sound resumed, the slow stirring, wet and thick. I couldn't see what was inside. I didn't want to.
When I went back upstairs, I shut my door quietly and sat on the futon, hugging my knees. I could still hear the faint rhythm from below.
The night stretched on without dreams.
---
Morning came pale again, the fog thinner but not gone. I woke to the faint sound of humming from the kitchen. When I came down, the bowl was gone. My aunt was sitting by the window, sipping tea.
"Morning," I said cautiously.
"Morning," she replied, as if nothing had happened.
I glanced toward the garden. The soil looked freshly turned again—smooth, neat, hiding whatever was beneath.
"Did you… plant something?" I asked.
She sipped her tea. "Just keeping the ground calm."
"Calm?"
She smiled. "Sometimes it dreams too loudly."
I didn't know what to say.
---
School felt even stranger that day. The moment I entered, everyone turned their heads in perfect unison again—but this time, they didn't speak. They just looked.
The teacher's smile never wavered. "Good morning, Mizu."
"Good morning," I said, forcing the words out.
The students repeated after me—same tone, same rhythm. Then, silence.
During lessons, Aki leaned over. "Did you hear them last night?"
My heart stopped for a moment. "Hear who?"
"The ones in the garden."
I swallowed. "You… you heard them too?"
He nodded slowly. "They come when the mist is thick. They like new voices."
"What are they?"
He paused. His pencil stopped mid-word. "You shouldn't ask."
"Why not?"
His eyes flicked to the window, where the fog pressed faintly against the glass. "Because they might answer."
---
At lunch, I sat alone in the courtyard. The fog hovered just above the ground, moving in slow ripples like it was breathing.
From somewhere nearby came laughter—children's laughter—but light, hollow, repeating in the same rhythm.
I looked toward the sound and saw three younger students near the fence again. They were digging into the soil with their bare hands, whispering as they did. The teacher didn't stop them. No one even looked.
I approached slowly. "What are you doing?"
One of them—her face covered in dirt—looked up at me and smiled. "We're feeding them."
"Feeding who?"
"The flowers."
"There are no flowers," I said.
Her smile widened. "That's because they haven't finished eating yet."
Then she returned to digging, humming softly. I noticed something pale beneath the soil. At first I thought it was a root. But it wasn't. It was bone.
---
When school ended, the sky had turned to dull steel. The fog thickened again, and every sound seemed to sink into it like water.
I walked home quickly, but the streets felt longer than before, the houses quieter.
When I reached the gate, I saw my aunt standing by the garden again. She was humming the same tune the children had been singing. Her hands were covered in dirt.
I wanted to ask her what she was doing, but something in her posture stopped me—like if I spoke, she'd turn and I'd see something I shouldn't.
That night, I wrote everything down in my notebook. The faces, the whispers, the sound under the window. I told myself it was all imagination, stress from the move.
But when I closed the notebook, I noticed something scrawled at the bottom of the last page—words I didn't write.
We see you, Mizu.
The ink was still wet.
I stared at the words until the ink bled faintly into the page, the edges softening as though the notebook itself was breathing.
The letters shimmered faintly—no, they pulsed—like the beat of something alive beneath the paper.
My throat felt dry. I touched the corner of the page. The ink wasn't just wet. It was warm.
I shut the notebook, pressed my palm against the cover, and tried to breathe. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe my aunt came into my room while I slept.
But the handwriting wasn't hers—it was childlike, too perfect, every letter the same height.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The fog pressed against the window again, pale shapes moving behind it, sometimes forming the outline of hands, sometimes faces. Whenever I blinked, they changed.
I whispered into the dark, "Who are you?"
No answer. Only the faint creak of the house, as if it exhaled.
At some point, I must've drifted off—because when I woke, it was morning again. The light didn't feel like morning light though. It was dull, tinted gray, as if the sun was reluctant to rise.
Downstairs, my aunt was cooking. The same smell—smoke and iron.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked without turning.
"I… think so."
"Good. You'll get used to the sounds. The house creaks when it remembers."
"When it remembers what?"
She smiled faintly. "What it used to hold."
---
I went to school early that day. The path through the woods felt narrower, the trees bending slightly inward, their branches like fingers brushing my hair.
Halfway there, I saw Aki waiting near the shrine. He wasn't smiling this time.
"You shouldn't walk alone," he said. "Not when the mist lingers."
"Why?"
"Because it follows."
I wanted to laugh it off, but his expression didn't change. "What follows?"
"The ones that still smell human."
My breath caught. "You mean the demons?"
He looked at me—finally, his voice barely audible. "They were human once. That's why they're hungry."
He walked away before I could answer, vanishing into the fog.
---
At school, everyone acted as if nothing was strange. The teacher taught, students laughed, chalk scraped the board. But I noticed something wrong with their reflections in the window—slightly delayed, half a second off. When someone turned, their reflection turned a little later, like it needed to catch up.
When the bell rang for lunch, Aki didn't show up. His seat remained empty, and no one mentioned him. When I asked the teacher, she paused, smiling politely.
"Aki?" she said. "There's no one by that name in this class, dear."
I froze. His desk was right there, his books still stacked neatly.
"But—he—"
She touched my shoulder gently. "You must've been dreaming again. The mist does that to newcomers."
---
After school, I waited near the gate, but no one came. The village felt deserted. Even the cicadas had gone silent.
When I reached home, I saw something hanging from the tree by the garden—a strip of cloth. It looked like part of a school uniform. My uniform.
I looked down at myself. My sleeve was intact. The piece on the branch was older, faded, torn as if it had been there for years.
Something inside the house creaked again.
I stepped in, quietly. The floorboards moaned under my weight.
From the kitchen came the soft hum of my aunt's voice, the same melody the children had sung near the fence. I followed the sound—and froze in the doorway.
The table was set for two. But not with plates. With bowls. Each filled with dark liquid that smelled faintly of rust.
My aunt looked up and smiled. "You're early."
"What… what is this?"
"Remembrance," she said. "Every night, we share what the garden gives back."
My stomach turned. I looked at the bowls again. Something inside them moved—slow, like a heartbeat beneath the surface.
"I'm not hungry," I whispered.
Her eyes softened. "You will be."
That night, I dreamt—or maybe I didn't. I was standing in the garden, the soil trembling beneath my feet. The fog rose high, swallowing the trees, the sky, the air.
From beneath the earth came whispers—hundreds of voices murmuring together, the same word over and over.
Mizu.
Then the ground cracked open, and dozens of pale hands reached up, clawing toward the surface, trying to drag themselves free.
I screamed—but no sound came.
The mist filled my mouth, thick and cold.
I woke up choking.
The window was open.
Outside, something moved through the fog—tall, thin, crawling on all fours. It stopped at the edge of the garden and turned its head toward me.
I couldn't see its face, but I could feel its smile.
I didn't move.
The thing in the fog stood perfectly still, its long limbs swaying slightly, like they were waiting for me to blink first.
When I finally did, it was gone.
The fog remained though, hanging thicker than before, pressing against the window until I thought it would crack the glass. The air smelled of damp soil, iron, and something else — something sweet and rotten at the same time.
I stayed awake until sunrise.
When morning came, the fog had thinned but not lifted. The garden looked disturbed again — fresh mounds of earth, long furrows like something had crawled through it in the night.
My aunt was already outside, humming as always, her hands deep in the soil. She didn't look tired. She never did.
"You're up early," she said without turning.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Bad dreams?"
I hesitated. "You could call them that."
She smiled faintly. "The garden remembers those too. Dreams feed it."
"Do you know what's in there?" I asked.
She stopped humming. The silence stretched too long. "You shouldn't ask questions you don't want answered, Mizu."
"I just—"
She turned then, her eyes unreadable. "You're not from here. The land doesn't know you yet. You should show it respect."
I almost asked what she meant, but something about her tone — or maybe the faint twitch in her smile — told me to let it go.
---
School didn't feel real anymore. The air was too still, the hallways too quiet. The other students spoke, but their voices were muffled, like I was underwater.
Aki's desk was empty again — but now the seat itself was gone, as if it had never existed. The floor was spotless where it should've been.
At break, I walked past the library and saw something strange through the window — a shape sitting at one of the tables, back turned to me. Familiar posture. Familiar hair.
I opened the door quietly.
"Aki?"
The figure turned.
For a second, I thought it was him — until I saw the face. It was pale, half-transparent, the skin moving slightly as if breathing. The eyes were open but unfocused, and when the mouth moved, no sound came out.
Then it began to hum.
That same tune again.
I backed away, slammed the door shut, and ran until I reached the courtyard. My hands were shaking.
No one looked up. No one cared.
When I glanced back through the window, the seat was empty.
---
I didn't go home right away. Instead, I walked toward the old shrine at the edge of the village.
It was half-collapsed, the roof caved in, paper charms fluttering from the beams like dead skin. The air was colder there, quieter.
A wooden plaque stood by the entrance, half-buried in moss. I brushed it clean with my sleeve.
The writing was faded, but I could still make out the words:
> "To those who sleep beneath the mist — may you never wake hungry."
Something shifted behind the shrine — a rustle, soft but deliberate.
When I turned, there was nothing.
But when I looked down, I saw footprints in the soil. Bare feet. Leading into the woods.
---
I followed them.
Every step I took, the fog grew thicker. The trees leaned closer, branches whispering as if gossiping about me. The footprints stopped at a clearing — and there, in the center, was a small wooden door.
Not a shed. Not a house. Just a door standing alone, built into the earth itself.
I knelt and brushed away the leaves. The wood was old, dark, and warm under my touch. There was something carved into it — a pattern of flowers.
Except… the petals were eyes.
I heard someone whisper my name.
"Mizu."
The voice came from beneath the door.
I stumbled back, heart pounding. "Who's there?"
No reply.
The whisper came again, quieter, almost tender.
Mizu… help us grow.
I ran.
---
When I burst through the gate of the house, my aunt was waiting by the garden, still smiling.
"Did you take a walk?"
I could barely speak. "There's—there's a door—in the woods—"
She tilted her head. "You shouldn't wander there. The roots reach far."
"What's behind it?"
"The rest of us."
The rest of us.
She said it so casually that for a moment I didn't even react. Then she turned, digging her fingers into the dirt again, humming louder this time.
Something under the soil moved with her rhythm, like it was listening.
I wanted to scream at her, to demand she tell me what was happening — but I didn't. Because I realized something.
There were too many footprints in the garden for just two people living here.
---
That night, I packed my bag. I didn't care where I went — I just needed to leave.
When I opened the front door, the fog was already waiting. It curled around my ankles, cool and alive. The path to the road was gone — only mist.
Then I heard it again. The humming. Not just from my aunt this time. From everywhere. From the trees, the soil, the air itself.
And in between the notes, voices whispering softly:
Mizu… stay.
I turned back. My aunt was standing at the threshold of the house, the light behind her too bright, making her shape wrong, stretched.
"Where are you going, dear?"
"I'm leaving."
Her smile widened, but her eyes didn't move. "You can't leave. You're part of the garden now."
She raised her hand. The soil by my feet shifted, rising like water. Fingers — dozens of them — clawed from beneath, grasping at my legs.
I screamed and tried to pull away, but the earth wouldn't let go.
"Mizu," she said softly, almost lovingly. "The garden remembers every seed."
The last thing I saw before the fog swallowed me was her face — too wide, too smooth, too still — bending into something inhuman.