Souta sat at his desk with his head down, resting on his folded arms. His legs stretched slightly forward beneath the chair.
In this position, he found a strange kind of comfort—like if he stayed still long enough, time might slip past him unnoticed.
So he waited.
And time did move faster.
There were things in life that haunted him. Not terrifying events or traumas—just memories.
Odd, uninvited ones that surfaced when his mind drifted. The kind that snuck in like a cold draft under a locked door.
He hadn't experienced anything tragic. No funerals or hospital beds. But still, his mind tormented him.
It whispered truths he never asked for. That he was ordinary.
That if he died in an accident tomorrow, he might earn a one-line mention in some newspaper's back pages.
People would skim it over, then scroll on.
His family might mourn. Maybe even cry for a few weeks. But they'd move on. Everyone always did.
His friends—whatever that word still meant—would probably forget him by the next week.
So what had he actually done? What would he leave behind? Who would say his name a year after he was gone?
A kid his age wasn't supposed to think like this. He knew that. But the thoughts came anyway, slow and heavy like rain-soaked clothes clinging to his skin.
He was just another body in a uniform, another ID number. No gifts, no talents—not in studies, not in sports, not in life.
Souta Kazehaya, student of Tachibana High School in Kanezawa City.
His face was round, a little chubby. Curly black hair puffed slightly above his forehead. His eyes were deep, round, and black—expressionless most of the time. At six feet tall, his build sat firmly in the middle: not fat, not thin. Just average.
He wore the standard black button-up blazer over a white-collared shirt, paired with straight-cut black trousers and basic school shoes polished enough to pass inspection.
"Hey, did you watch the latest meme?"
"The one with the lion?..."
Voices bounced through the classroom. Memes. Again.
Souta had tried to care. For a while, he forced himself to scroll, to watch whatever was trending just so he'd have something to say when classmates laughed at school. But none of them ever made him laugh. Not once.
So he stopped pretending.
His ears caught snippets of conversation, but his thoughts drifted. His forehead softened as the quiet settled over his shoulders like a warm blanket.
He just wanted the day to pass. Quickly. Quietly.
As if the universe obliged, break time ended. Teachers returned. Lessons dragged by. But no one disturbed him. While rows of students sat up straight, notebooks open, eyes forward—Souta kept his head down.
And no one said a thing.
As if it was normal.
As if he was invisible.
The final bell rang.
Desks scraped. Students sprang up to grab bags, voices rising into after-school chatter.
Some formed pairs, laughing and walking off together. The room thinned. Sunlight cut through the windows at an angle, dust particles drifting like lazy snowflakes.
"Ummm…!" Souta yawned, arms stretching high above his head. Ten minutes had passed since dismissal. The janitor would be annoyed again if he lingered.
He snatched his bag from under the desk and slung it over his shoulder.
"What'll you do today?"
"Me? Wanted to check that abandoned factory near school…"
Their voices trailed off behind him as he descended the stairs, heading for the main gate. He didn't care what his classmates were up to. As long as they left him alone, they could explore every haunted factory in the city for all he cared.
His shoes tapped rhythmically against the pavement. Twenty minutes to home.
Another long day behind him—though it felt like it had ended before it began.
Every day blurred into the same shape.
Souta shook his head as if to rattle the dust off his thoughts. He refused to let himself spiral. He wasn't some mopey teen in a drama.
He just needed to get home, boot up his PC, and lose himself in a few rounds of Call of Militia.
As he crossed the street, a faint rumble came from his stomach.
He hadn't eaten his lunch.
Again.
Chips would do. Something quick. Crunchy. Comforting.
Convenient, really—he was right outside a store. Almost like fate.
He stepped through the automatic doors.
"Welcome!" chirped the store clerk—a boy about his age, probably on a part-time shift.
Souta gave him a half-glance and turned toward the snack aisle.
Then froze.
His breath caught. His muscles locked tight.
Behind the shelves—barely visible—was a head.
Just… a head. A woman's head.
It should've been comical, but it wasn't. Something in his body reacted before his mind caught up. Every hair on his neck stood on end.
Her eyes were deep, black pits—bottomless. Her lips were pressed thin, dead straight. But Souta had a sick feeling that if she smiled, it would split her face in two.
Her skin… it was too pale. Not fair—white. Like it had been drained, dried out.
He looked down, heart pounding. No eye contact. Just leave.
"Something wrong, sir?" the clerk asked, tilting his head slightly.
"Ah—nothing. Forgot my wallet," Souta mumbled, already halfway to the door.
Whatever that thing was, he wanted nothing to do with it. That store could burn to the ground for all he cared.
As he stepped outside, a coldness pressed against him—not the weather.
Something… unnatural.
It clung to him like wet clothes.
Was it because of her?
"Please come again!" the clerk called behind him.
Not a chance.
His breath grew shallow. Each step felt heavier than the last. He wasn't sick—at least, he didn't think he was—but something inside him had shifted. Like a wire had snapped loose.
He sped up.
Home. He just needed to get home. He'd read somewhere that spirits couldn't leave the place they haunted, right?
That was a thing, wasn't it?
Ten minutes later, he reached the familiar building.
He opened the door and made straight for the stairs.
"Oh look, guys! My son's back!" his mother chirped, phone in hand, filming in vertical mode. "Help me unbox the new laptop?"
She was live-streaming again. Great.
"Busy, Mom," Souta muttered, brushing past her without stopping. Her disappointed sigh followed him halfway up the stairs.
He shut the door to his room.
He needed quiet. Darkness. Solitude.
But as he stood there, his breath came in shallow gasps. Sweat clung to his neck. Something was wrong—very wrong. His eyes darted around the room. Everything was normal: his PC, the scattered notebooks, his unmade bed.
And yet…
There was a weight on him. Like something had followed him inside.
His vision dimmed, the corners blackening as if ink bled into the edges. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear it.
Then he heard it.
"Souta…"
A whisper. Close. Too close.
He flicked on the light and spun in place. His eyes swept across the room. The desk. The shelves. The bed. Nothing.
Nothing.
"S̶o̸u̴t̶a̷…"
It came again. Clearer this time. Louder.
His heart slammed into his ribs. He clutched his head, fingers digging into his hair.
"No. No no no."
He wasn't hearing things.
The black mist crept over his vision. It slithered across his sight, and now—now—there was a voice.
It sounded like a woman. Whispery. Mocking.
"Did it follow me?" he gasped aloud, turning on the spot like a trapped animal.
Nothing behind him. Nothing ahead.
Of course there was nothing. Ghosts didn't have to be seen.
"Ş̵̡̛̼̙́̐̀̃o̵̯̎̔̀͌́̚͝ṷ̸͈̾̈́̃͋t̴̤͔̉́a̵̦̥͔̭͛́̆̄͜…"
His name—drawn out, warped, like it was being pulled through static. The sound clawed at his eardrums.
Something icy trickled down his spine.
And he knew, without question—
It was right behind him.
He was about to turn around.