Ryunosuke wasn't sure how he ended up there.
One moment, he'd been tracing the voice in the reflection.The next—his feet had carried him to a ramp leading underground.
A private parking garage.
The iron gate stood open and still, like it had been waiting.
He paused.
A sign beside the entrance read:TENANT ACCESS ONLY. VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED.
No one watched.The city behind him hummed with sunlight and motion.But here—The light thinned.The noise folded into shadow.
It wasn't curiosity pulling him forward.It was something older.Something that felt like recognition.
The elevator was dark. Unlit.So he walked.
Cool air swallowed him as he descended.
Each step muffled the city further.The buzz of the world above was replaced by silence and the low hum of fluorescent lights.
His sneakers echoed across smooth concrete.
Somewhere—distant—a car horn.Here, nothing.
Then—
He saw them.
Rows of cars.
Some were brand new—sleek, impersonal machines that gleamed like surgical tools.
Others were older.Restored with care.Chrome details catching the dim light like polished teeth.
Ryunosuke walked among them, slow and cautious.He didn't know what he was searching for.
Until he found it.
Tucked in the farthest corner, beneath a wall light dimmed by dust—
A BMW E30 325iX.
Black.Boxy.Familiar.
His breath caught.
Fingers twitched.
He moved faster now.
The scrape on the bumper.The dull sheen on the hood.The cracked leather just beneath the driver's seatbelt—
His father's car.
He stood there.
Frozen.
This wasn't possible.
Amelia had sold it. After the funeral. To keep the lights on. To save the restaurant.
He remembered the sound of her crying when she signed it away.
But here it was.
Still. Silent.Like it had never left.
He stepped forward and laid a hand on the hood.
Cold. Solid. Real.
His reflection shimmered in the windshield.
But—
It wasn't alone.
A figure sat in the driver's seat. Just a silhouette. A man.
Then—
Gone.
He stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.
Not fear.
Something deeper.
Something knotted in his ribs.
He circled to the driver's side.
Locked.
But inside—The steering wheel.The dash.Even the faded cartoon egg sticker on the glove compartment—His father used to call it Mr. Sunny-Side.
His fists clenched.
Why is it here?
Has it always been here?
Why now?
No cameras.No signs.No footsteps but his own.
Just the car.
And the echo of someone no longer alive.
He stared into the windshield again.
There—just barely visible through the dust—A smudge.
At first, a fingerprint.But under the light—
A soft bloom of violet at its edges.
He stepped back.
A chill slid down his spine.
Not terror.Not shock.
Something else.
Something like truth knocking softly on the door of denial.