The rain had passed in the night, leaving behind a silvery sheen across the windows. Morning light filtered through the curtains in soft streaks, and the scent of warm broth lingered in the air.
Aya sat across from Kun at the breakfast table. The ramen in his bowl had grown lukewarm—he stirred it slowly, gaze unfocused, lips pressed in a thin line.
She watched him in silence.
Even now—with her son alive, whole, sitting right in front of her—Aya couldn't quiet the knot twisting in her chest. The image from earlier that morning haunted her: that impossible smile, the way he'd sat there eating, calm and cheerful… while another version of him had still been upstairs.
She broke the silence.
"Kun," she said softly, setting her chopsticks down. "Tell me the truth. Did this… Sai guy appear again?"
Kun's hand stilled mid-stir. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, but only for a second. He looked away, back down into the broth.
"Just be honest with me," Aya continued, her tone firm. "I don't want to lose you. Please. Has that bastard come back?"
Kun hesitated, then gave the smallest of nods.
"He's back," he said hoarsely. "He's… at school now. But this time, everyone can see him. It's like he's real."
Aya's heart skipped. Her fingers trembled as they gripped the edge of the table.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she asked, voice sharp with fear. "Kun, do you even understand what I saw this morning?"
He opened his mouth slightly but didn't speak.
"I saw you. Sitting here. Smiling, eating, thanking me like everything was fine. And then—" her voice cracked, "I turned and saw you coming down the stairs. Fresh out of bed. I had just made you breakfast... and the one sitting here vanished."
Kun's eyes welled up, his lower lip trembling.
"...I…"
"You have a doppelgänger, Kun." Her voice softened, but it was strained. "Do you know what that means?"
She reached across the table, her hand hovering near his.
"It'll replace you. Piece by piece. And the worst part? I might not even notice it happening."
"I'm sorry," Kun whispered, guilt thick in his voice. "I thought if I looked hard enough… I could find the truth myself. That I could fix it. For you."
Aya shook her head slowly.
"You can't fix this by hiding it. Look at yourself. Your forehead needed stitches. Your chest is bruised. Your nails, Kun. That's not just an accident. You need to tell me everything."
Later, Kun sat cross-legged on the couch, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He held a small paper crane in his hands, folded with delicate precision.
He passed it to Aya.
"Sai gave it to me. Said it was for protection."
Aya took the crane gently, inspecting it. The paper felt aged, like it had absorbed time. Too precise, too perfect.
"So now he's being nice? Giving you little gifts?" she muttered.
"He acts like nothing happened," Kun said quietly. "Like we've always known each other. Like he belongs."
Aya opened her laptop and began typing into the search bar.
"Paper crane spiritual meaning. Japan. Occult interpretations."
She scrolled past the expected results—wishes, peace, healing—until she found an obscure forum post referencing old Shinto folklore:
The Spirit-Bound Crane (霊折り鶴 - Rei Orizuru)
"A paper crane folded with one's essence—through breath, blood, or memory—could act as a vessel. A tether.
It may stabilize the presence of a spirit—or invite it in. Placed in homes of the emotionally fragile, such cranes may serve not only to protect, but to anchor. If it moves on its own or appears in dreams, it is no longer just paper."
Aya's hands trembled. She turned the crane over, now with unease.
"Where did he give this to you?"
"At school," Kun murmured. "I was having a panic attack. He gave it to me after that... to calm me down."
Aya looked at him sharply.
"You didn't tell me about that either. Kun—you're not a burden, if that's what you think. Do you understand me? You never were."
"I understand…" Kun whispered. "I'm sorry, Mom." He gave her a tired but grateful smile.
Aya nodded. "Then this crane is a no. We burn it. But before that—about what you said earlier. Seeing your father. Can you explain more clearly?"
Kun nodded faintly.
"I think I saw him… tearing paper—maybe talismans—from a doorway. Then from a wall. He was kneeling like he was praying. Crying. I don't know who to… but he looked desperate."
Aya exhaled slowly.
"Maybe we should ask your father. I hate to say it—but I think he knows something."
She stood.
"But first—let's burn this thing."
In the backyard, Aya lit a small fire in the pit. She glanced at Kun, who gave a silent nod. Then she dropped the crane in.
But instead of catching flame, the fire snuffed out.
"What?"
Both of them froze.
"No. No, no, no." Aya reached for kindling, reigniting the flame. "Burn!"
Kun watched, lips tight, as his mother ran into the kitchen.
She returned with a bottle of gas, doused the pit, and sparked the fire to life.
It roared—then fizzled out. The paper crane sat untouched in the ashes.
Aya backed away, pale.
"This can't be real…" she whispered, tears beginning to fall. "It won't burn."
Later that morning, Kun's grandparents arrived.
Kun stayed in his room, bundled in a sweater, trying to feel human again. Downstairs, Aya sat at the kitchen table with her parents. The paper crane lay between them.
"It won't burn," she said, voice tight. "I tried. I swear. It just sat there like it was watching."
Her father, serious and composed, leaned forward to examine it. Her mother whispered a quiet prayer under her breath, then looked at Aya, hesitation in her eyes.
"Are we really going this far? Maybe it's just… something else," she said, voice unsure.
But Aya shook her head firmly.
"No, Mom. This isn't something we can explain away. We need help. Real help."
Her mother hesitated, her eyes shifting from Aya to the paper crane.
"Aya... are you certain? Maybe it's just stress, or something psychological."
"No. I know what I saw. I felt it. That thing isn't just paper. It's... wrong."
Her mother looked down again, frowning, then exhaled slowly.
"This... isn't normal," she murmured. "Then maybe... maybe you should talk to someone who understands these things. A miko. Or an itako."
"A miko?" Aya echoed, glancing uneasily at the paper crane.
Her father gave a slow nod.
"We should have someone take a look at it. Maybe even an onmyouji." he said. "Someone spiritual. This might go beyond us."
Aya sat back, her expression tense.
"Then let's find one. Before this gets worse."
Upstairs, Kun sat at his window.
Outside, the wind passed through the trees gently. The world seemed still—almost peaceful.
Then came the sound—sharp, sudden, final.
A picture frame shattered.
Kun jolted. The noise hadn't come from outside. It came from behind him.
Heart hammering, he turned.
One of the framed portraits on his wall had fallen. Not just any photo—it was his portrait, the one Aya had taken last year, when he was still smiling like a real boy. The glass was in pieces, glinting like broken teeth on the floor.
Kun stared, frozen.
Then, slowly, he approached it.
His fingers hovered near the frame, breath shallow. And just as he reached down—
A whisper of motion in the window glass.
His gaze snapped upward.
In the reflection—behind him—
A figure stood.
Motionless. Pale. Head tilted.
Kun spun around.
The room was empty.
But the broken portrait lay face-up now.
His reflection in the photo… was smiling too.