The rain began on a Tuesday.
Soft at first—gentle taps on the shoji screens—but it didn't stop. By the third day, puddles collected in the garden and the wooden steps outside became slick and green with moss.
Hikari sat by the window, chin resting on her knees. She hadn't seen anyone but Sayoko in weeks. Months, maybe.
"Sayoko-san?" she asked.
"Yes, dear?" Sayoko answered from the kitchen.
"Can I see their photos?"
"Whose photos?"
"Mama. Papa. Haruto-nii. Everyone."
A pause.
Sayoko stepped into view with a clean towel in her hand, drying a dish.
"I put the albums away," she said. "They might get damaged with all this rain. Don't worry. You'll see them again."
Hikari pressed her lips together. "I think… I forgot Mama's voice."
Sayoko's smile faltered for the first time.
That night, Hikari drew.
She took out her crayons and carefully sketched faces she remembered—Papa's big square chin, Mama's gentle eyes, Haruto's messy hair. But when she looked at them again, the lines felt wrong.
She crumpled the page.
Then another. And another.
She tried to remember what her grandfather always wore—but couldn't.
She tried to recall her uncle's laugh—but couldn't.
Only one voice remained clearly in her head: Sayoko's.
Later, while cleaning under her futon, she found a small black hairclip. It was elegant, with a cracked pearl in the center.
It wasn't hers.
It wasn't Sayoko's either.
She stared at it for a long time.
"Sayoko-san…" she asked the next morning, "What if they don't come back?"
Sayoko froze at the sink.
Then, slowly, she turned around. "Why would you say something like that?"
"I had a dream. They were in the dining room. All of them. But they were… quiet. They didn't move. They didn't look at me."
Sayoko dried her hands carefully and walked over to kneel beside Hikari.
"Dreams aren't real," she whispered, brushing Hikari's bangs. "You still have me. That's all that matters, right?"
Hikari nodded.
But that night, when she passed the locked guest room again… she heard whispering.
Not dreams.
Not creaks.
Words.