Kaen walked. Not out of habit, and not because he had somewhere to be, but because movement distracted from the pressure building beneath his skin. It was morning, technically, but the sky had flattened into an indistinct grey, and the air lacked warmth or chill—only weight. There was something wrong with the light. It filtered through the clouds as if filtered through gauze, leaving everything soft, dull, too quiet. The world hadn't changed. Not visibly. But it had slipped, somehow, a degree off-center. And Kaen felt it.
The hum returned. No longer something he could ignore or name. It wasn't in his ears—it vibrated somewhere deep in his chest cavity, steady and low, like the memory of a tuning fork pressed to bone. It grew louder the longer he walked, not in volume, but in presence. It followed him. Or rather, it moved with him. Like a second body, pacing inside his own.
He passed the vending machine again—the same one that had always sat at the corner, dusty and flickering, with its broken button and single bottle forever trapped behind the glass. But this time, it didn't buzz. It stood still, dormant, not even trying to pretend. For a second too long, he found himself staring into its reflection. He couldn't see himself. Only something tall and still that mirrored his shape… but not his timing.
He didn't stop walking.
At school, time stretched. The minutes felt longer, the space between words thicker. No one greeted him. Not coldly—just… as if they didn't see him. He removed his shoes at the entrance like always, lined them up beside the others, and began the trek to class. But as he passed the windows, he noticed something strange: his reflection didn't quite move in sync. When he turned his head, it was already looking.
The hallway stretched oddly today. He could swear it was longer than yesterday. The bulletin board was missing two flyers. The window glass was dirtier. A painting on the wall had been replaced with something indistinct—brushstrokes like static, colorless and unmoving.
When he entered the classroom, everything stopped.
Her seat was empty.
霊江 Yue.
Her chair was tucked in. Her desk spotless. Her bag was gone.
It wasn't that she was absent—absences had presence. There was no energy around her desk, no awkward glances, no questions whispered between friends. It was as though no one had noticed. Or remembered. Even the teacher didn't call her name. No pause. No stumble. Just a smooth continuation from the last to the next, like she had never slotted in between.
Kaen stared. He couldn't remember her last words. But he remembered the fear in her eyes. The way she'd looked at him. Not like a classmate, or even a person—but like a warning.
Lunchtime came and went, though he couldn't remember what he ate. No one joined him. No one sat down, no one passed notes, no one laughed nearby. The classroom felt muffled. Not quiet—just detached. Like someone had wrapped the whole building in layers of cotton.
He left before the final bell. No one stopped him. The teacher didn't call his name. Not because he was invisible—but because the structure that usually required acknowledgment had broken. It had loosened, subtly, like threads slipping from a fraying seam. The normal order of things, the unspoken rituals of the school day, had begun to dissolve.
Outside, the air felt wrong again. Dense. Electrical. The hum returned—not only louder, but more precise, as if trying to shape itself into something. It moved through his lungs now. His hands. His teeth. It wasn't painful, just there, and growing.
As he walked, the wind shifted against him. Not natural gusts, but sharp changes in pressure, like invisible shapes moving quickly past. At first, he assumed it was just his mind. But when he passed the old shrine—the one no one really visited—he stopped.
The shimenawa rope was sagging. Not just old or rotted, but cut. Split from the inside, fibers curled upward like they'd been pried apart. The bells didn't ring. They hung motionless, even as the wind pushed through the trees above. Something had passed through here. Something that did not fear boundaries.
He didn't stay long. His legs moved before he realized.
By the time he got home, the sky had dimmed, though it wasn't late. His gate was open again. The front door, too. He hadn't left it like that. He was sure. But nothing was broken. Nothing stolen. Just… displaced.
In the kitchen, his mug sat on the counter. Still warm. The kettle was empty, but damp. Someone had boiled water. Recently.
His bedroom door creaked open slower than usual. The futon was slightly wrinkled—different from how he left it. Something had sat there. The scent of his shampoo lingered faintly in the air, as if disturbed by motion. Not human motion. Something wearing it.
He stood in the center of the room, unmoving. Not out of fear, but anticipation. Something had visited. Maybe it hadn't left. He turned toward the mirror across the hall.
Fog. But he hadn't taken a shower.
He wiped the surface clean—and for an instant, his reflection split. Three of him. Not distorted. Not multiplied. Just… wrong. One version blinked. Another smiled faintly. Only one moved with him. The rest vanished before his breath touched the glass.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He lay on his side, eyes wide open, listening. Not to footsteps, or voices, or creaks in the walls—but to the hum. The constant resonance, now fused with something else. A second tone. Lighter. Higher.
Almost… curious.
Outside his window, the air shimmered faintly. Not heat. Not cold. Movement. Something was standing just beyond the edge of perception, not looking in, but listening. Waiting. Patient. Intelligent.