The rain tapped softly on the old tile roof—steady, gentle, almost like a whisper. It mixed in with the creaks of the house and the quiet hum of… whatever memories still lived here.
Up in the attic, covered in dust and shadows, Kaito Han was doing everything he could not to sneeze.
"Man, this place smells like grandma's tea box—if it got in a fight with a raccoon and lost," he muttered, brushing a cobweb off his arm. It stuck like it had personal beef with him.
The attic was dim, lit only by a sad little bulb swinging from the ceiling like it might quit any second. Dust floated in the air like snow, stirred up by Kaito's slow, tired steps as he moved between boxes.
Definitely not how he planned to spend his Saturday.
He'd rather be trading punches in some underground ring with his usual crew. But when your eighty-something grandpa asks for help cleaning the attic?
You help.
"Just stack the lighter ones on the left," came Satoshi Han's voice from below. Rough. No-nonsense. Like gravel in a teacup. "And leave the ones with red tape alone. I don't trust those."
"Yeah, yeah," Kaito grunted, arms sore from morning training. He'd pushed himself hard today, working on his speed. But now his opponents were cardboard boxes and weird-smelling blankets.
Weirdly enough… he didn't hate it.
The attic had this strange calm to it. Like time didn't really care about this place anymore. Just the sound of the rain and the scent of old wood and forgotten stories.
Then he saw it.
Half-buried under a torn cloth and a busted picture frame—something black. Thick. Leather. Hidden like it didn't want to be found.
Kaito blinked.
"Huh…?"
He crouched and brushed the junk off. The book felt heavy—not like it weighed a lot, but like it meant something. The edges were all frayed, and the cover had weird symbols on it. They shimmered faintly under the dust. Not any writing he recognized. Looked ancient.
"…What the hell is this?"
He picked it up, turning it slowly in the weak light.
A few seconds later, he heard the attic ladder creak—his grandpa coming up.
Satoshi squinted at the book and narrowed his eyes.
"…So that thing's still around," he muttered, voice quieter now. Not shocked. Not scared. Just kind of... distant. "I found it in my grandpa's closet when I was your age. Never got much info—just that it had been passed down long before him."
Kaito raised a brow. "So, like... ancient family treasure?"
"Maybe. Or just a weird old prop someone forgot to throw out," Satoshi said with a dry chuckle. "It's written in a dead language. I couldn't read a single page."
Kaito turned the book in his hands again. No title. No page numbers. Just old ink and strange letters.
"Well, it looks cooler than any history textbook," he said with a grin. "You sure it's not cursed?"
"If it is, it's the most boring curse ever. It's been sitting in that box for fifty years doing absolutely nothing."
"Alright," Kaito said, tucking it under his arm. "Guess it's my turn to babysit it. I'll mess with it later."
Satoshi shrugged and headed back down the ladder. "Just don't come crying to me if it eats your soul."
Kaito snorted. "No promises, old man."
Later that night, the storm was still going strong. Rain tapped at the window like someone trying to sneak in.
Kaito sat on his bed, the weird book resting in his lap. Open. Silent.
He hadn't stopped flipping through it since dinner. The pages weren't empty, but they might as well have been. Just lines and symbols that made his eyes hurt. Still, he couldn't stop. His heartbeat kept picking up the deeper he went.
There was just… something about it.
It didn't feel dead.
It felt like it was watching.
The room stayed quiet, but his skin tingled. The rain faded into the background. Something else was there—a buzz, a pull.
Sleep? Not happening.Not with the book this close.Not with that weird feeling crawling under his skin.
Something had woken up.
And Kaito Han had a gut feeling this wasn't just some forgotten fairy tale.
No.
This was real.
And somehow...it had chosen him.