I woke to the sound of breathing.
Not my own — deeper, slower, heavier. The kind of sound that doesn't come from lungs but from the earth itself. It rose and fell around me, almost rhythmic, like I was lying inside a creature that slept and dreamed beneath the ground.
When I tried to move, my arms sank into something soft and wet. The smell hit me then — soil, rot, and the faint metallic tang of blood. It was dark, not just because there was no light, but because the air itself felt thick, the darkness textured, alive.
I turned my head slowly. Thin lines of green light ran through the walls like veins, pulsing faintly. The surface was rough and damp, layered with roots that seemed to move when I wasn't looking. They flexed gently, like they were breathing along with the earth.
My breath came out ragged. "Hello?"
The word didn't echo. It just disappeared, swallowed whole by the dark.
I sat up, my body heavy as if filled with mud. The floor wasn't solid — every time I shifted, I felt the give of soft ground beneath me. My fingers brushed something round, smooth, and cold. I thought it was a stone until I felt the hollow sockets.
A skull.
I let go immediately, trying not to scream. The sound would have felt wrong here, too human.
Somewhere in the distance, water dripped in slow, even intervals. It was the only thing that sounded alive.
I forced myself to stand. My knees trembled, and for a moment I thought they wouldn't hold me. The light veins on the walls pulsed again, faintly illuminating the passage ahead — a tunnel curving downward, swallowed by fog.
There was nowhere else to go.
---
The deeper I went, the stronger the smell became. It wasn't decay — not exactly. It was like the scent of something sweet left too long in the sun. My skin itched, my throat burned.
The walls seemed to close in the further I walked. I had to hunch to avoid the roots brushing my face. Some were thin and wiry, others thick as wrists. When I accidentally touched one, it twitched beneath my fingers.
I froze.
Then, from somewhere deep inside the wall, I heard a faint moan.
I stumbled backward, heart pounding. The wall quivered again — not stone, not soil. It was flesh. Layers of skin, soft and porous, breathing slowly.
"Where the hell am I…" I whispered.
The sound of my voice made the air shift. Something whispered back — not in words, but in rhythm. It was almost like an echo, but lower, slower, mimicking the shape of my breath.
I ran.
---
I don't know how long I moved through that tunnel. Time didn't exist down there — only the sound of my feet slapping wet ground and my heart in my ears.
Then, finally, I saw a glow ahead. Pale green light seeped through a crack in the wall. I pressed against it, and the dirt gave way easily, crumbling like sand.
I stepped through into a space that didn't make sense.
It was vast — wider than the school gym, maybe even larger than the entire village square. The ceiling arched high above, alive with those glowing veins, the light shifting slowly as though the walls breathed.
And in the middle of it, there was a garden.
At least, that's what it looked like.
Neat rows of stalks rose from the ground — tall, thin, trembling slightly. At first, I thought they were vines, but when I looked closer, I realized they weren't plants at all. They were strands of hair, black and brown and gray, each one swaying as though stirred by a wind that didn't exist.
The hair grew from the ground itself. From the shapes buried beneath it.
Faces.
Dozens of them.
Their eyes were closed, mouths half-open, their features frozen in expressions of sleep or pain — I couldn't tell which. Each face was half-buried, the hair sprouting upward like some grotesque crop.
I clutched my chest, trying to keep my breathing quiet. I didn't want to wake them.
But some were already awake.
The faces nearest to me twitched faintly, lips moving, whispering something too soft to catch. The sound was low, like wind through grass.
I leaned closer, against every instinct.
"…Mizu…"
I stumbled backward so fast I nearly fell. The voices rose slightly, still soft but urgent, overlapping, repeating my name like a prayer.
Mizu… Mizu… Mizu…
"No…" My voice cracked. "No, stop…"
But they didn't stop. The whispers grew faster, layered until it was one endless word, my name stretched into a sound that didn't belong to any language. The ground trembled. The stalks — the hair — began to move as though stirred by a rising wind.
Something below the surface shifted.
And then one of them opened its eyes.
---
It was Aki.
His face was half-covered in soil, his lips cracked, his eyes dull but alive. The roots coiled around his neck like veins.
"Mizu," he whispered, his voice dry as paper. "Why did you come back?"
My heart stuttered. "Aki…? You— you're alive—"
He shook his head weakly. "Not like you think."
"I'll get you out—"
"No!" His voice cracked, echoing faintly through the cavern. "Don't touch the soil. It remembers. It takes what it touches."
I froze.
Behind him, more faces stirred. Some smiled. Some frowned. Some mouthed words with no sound.
I whispered, "What happened to you?"
His eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "We fed it. Until we became it."
"Fed what?"
"The garden."
---
Before I could speak again, another voice came from behind me. Calm. Familiar.
"You shouldn't be here, Mizu."
I turned.
My aunt stood in the entryway, perfectly clean, perfectly composed. The faint green light made her skin look translucent.
"I told you not to wander," she said. "The garden doesn't like being seen."
"What is this place?"
"Our home," she said simply. "All of us."
I pointed at Aki, my voice shaking. "He's alive! We have to—"
"Alive?" She smiled faintly. "That's a generous word for what's left."
"What did you do to them?"
"They did it themselves. We all do, eventually." She stepped closer, her feet barely making a sound. "The garden feeds on memory, on flesh, on what we shed when we stop being human."
"You're insane," I whispered.
She tilted her head. "If that helps you sleep, then yes."
I stumbled back, my shoes sinking slightly into the ground. The soil felt warm beneath my soles — pulsing faintly.
"Why me?" I demanded.
"Because you belong here."
Her voice was steady, too calm. The kind of calm that hides something enormous underneath.
I shook my head. "I don't. I'm leaving."
"You won't make it far."
Her eyes followed me as I stepped backward. I didn't even realize I was still moving until my heel sank into the soil again — and something grabbed my ankle.
Cold fingers, thin as sticks, wrapped around my skin.
I screamed and kicked, but the grip tightened. The soil shifted like water, and a face surfaced beside my foot — an old woman's face, pale and empty-eyed, her mouth gaping open in a silent cry. The fingers clawed higher, reaching my calf.
I wrenched my leg free and stumbled backward, panting. The ground rippled as if hundreds of hands moved just beneath the surface.
The whispers rose again, this time not calling my name but repeating one word in broken voices.
"Stay… stay… stay…"
My aunt didn't move. She watched me struggle like a mother watching a child refuse medicine.
"It only hurts when you fight it," she said.
I spat dirt from my mouth. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong," she said softly, "is thinking this world ends at the surface. You've forgotten the old roots, Mizu. What was buried before you were born still breathes below you. You just stopped listening."
I didn't answer. I just kept backing away, eyes darting between her and the faces that lined the garden floor.
Aki's mouth moved again, barely audible. "Run."
That was all I needed.
I turned and sprinted toward the tunnel, my shoes splashing in the soft earth. Behind me, the whispers erupted into a chorus of cries, the sound swelling like wind through leaves — but deeper, heavier. The ground began to move.
When I looked back once — just once — I saw the soil bulge upward as if something massive crawled beneath it. My aunt stood unmoving in the center, her arms open as if embracing it. The green light dimmed, flickering in rhythm with the earth's heaving breath.
And then, the ground split.
I didn't look again. I ran.
---
The tunnel seemed longer than before. I ran until my lungs burned and my throat felt like it was filled with dust. The air grew colder, the light dimmer, until all I could see were faint outlines of roots snaking along the walls.
When I finally stopped, my legs were trembling so hard I could barely stay upright.
The breathing sound had faded, replaced by something else — a soft, rhythmic thump.
I thought it was my heartbeat, until I realized it wasn't in my chest.
It came from behind the wall.
I pressed my ear against the damp surface. The sound grew clearer — a slow, steady beat, pulsing like a massive heart buried just beyond reach. The wall was warm beneath my skin.
I should've run again. I should've done anything but listen.
But I stayed.
For a moment, I thought I could hear something beneath the heartbeat — a murmur, faint but distinct, like words whispered underwater.
"…we remember…"
The soil shifted. A crack opened beside my face, spilling wet dirt down my neck. I jumped back just as a small root pushed through the opening, twisting in the air like a worm searching for light.
It brushed my cheek.
The contact was cold and soft, almost gentle.
And then a voice filled my head.
Not from outside — from inside.
"Mizu…"
My breath caught. It wasn't Aki this time. It was my uncle's voice.
I froze. "Uncle…?"
"Go home," he whispered. "Leave it sleeping."
My chest tightened. "Where are you? Are you alive?"
A pause. Then, faintly: "I'm here. Beneath. Where I should've stayed."
"Stayed where—"
But the root withdrew suddenly, sliding back into the wall. The crack sealed itself shut as though it had never existed.
The air went still.
I stood there shaking, staring at the place where the wall had been alive moments before. The silence pressed on me like weight.
Then I turned and kept walking.
---
I don't know how I found the way out. I remember crawling at some point, because the ceiling had lowered so much I couldn't stand. My fingers bled from scraping against the rough earth, my nails caked with mud.
And then, finally, I saw light — real light, thin and white and trembling.
The tunnel ended at a narrow opening that led to the edge of the forest behind the house. The morning sun was pale, weak, but after the darkness below it felt blinding.
I climbed out, gasping, dragging myself onto the grass.
For a long time, I just lay there, staring at the sky. The clouds drifted slowly, indifferent. The world looked normal again — absurdly normal.
When I finally stood, my legs almost gave out. My clothes were soaked with dirt, my shoes ruined. I could still feel the warmth of the underground against my skin, as if it had left its breath inside me.
The house was silent when I went back.
No sign of my aunt.
No footprints. No dishes on the table. Nothing but the faint smell of wet soil drifting from the open door.
I called her name once, but the sound felt wrong in the empty air.
Upstairs, the window of my room was open. A breeze moved the curtains softly, and for a second, I thought I saw something flutter inside — strands of black hair, caught on the sill.
I closed the window quickly.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw faces beneath the soil. Aki. My uncle. The others. Their mouths moving in perfect rhythm with the earth's breathing.
When I finally drifted into sleep, I dreamed of roots growing through my fingers, wrapping around my wrists. I could feel the heartbeat of the soil, slow and steady, pulsing in sync with my own.
And then I woke — or thought I did — to a whisper at my ear.
"You shouldn't have left."
I sat up, breath frozen in my throat.
The whisper still echoed faintly, as if the room had memorized it. I turned my head slowly. The moonlight from the window cut across the floor in thin, uneven stripes, lighting the wooden boards and the edges of my bed.
There was nothing there.
But I could smell the garden again — the same damp, earthy scent. Stronger now, like I was still underground.
I slipped out of bed and stood barefoot on the cold floor. The boards creaked quietly, and I winced, listening for another voice, a sound, anything. The house didn't move. It just breathed — faint groans of old wood and distant wind.
Still, something felt wrong. The air was too thick.
I opened the window to let it out, but the moment I did, a gust of cold air blew in. The trees outside were completely still. The wind wasn't natural — it came from below, from the direction of the garden.
My chest tightened.
I should've stayed inside. Locked the door. Pretended to sleep. But curiosity is a cruel thing — it whispers even louder than fear.
So I went outside.
---
The night was clear, the sky bruised with deep blue and scattered clouds. The moon hung low, swollen, bleeding silver across the grass. The garden was a darker shape at the edge of the yard — the soil uneven, disturbed where I had seen faces only hours before.
The smell hit me first. Wet and iron-like. Not the sweet decay of plants but the metallic taste of blood mixed with dirt.
I stepped closer. The air was colder near the ground, as if something drew the warmth into the soil.
The spot where my aunt had stood was sunken now, a shallow depression surrounded by faint prints. At first, I thought they were footprints, but when I knelt down, I realized they weren't made by shoes. They were too narrow. Too long. Like fingers pressing upward from beneath.
The whisper came again.
Not from behind me. Not from ahead. From below.
"Mizu…"
The voice was my aunt's. Soft, pleading, almost tender.
I fell backward, heart pounding so hard I thought I'd be sick. The soil trembled faintly — once, twice — like something trying to breathe through it.
I wanted to run, but my legs refused to move. My body wouldn't listen. I could only stare as the soil began to crack again.
A hand broke through. Pale, trembling, slick with dirt. The nails were dark and chipped.
Then another hand. Then another.
They clawed upward, weak but desperate. And then her face — my aunt's face — emerged between them, her mouth open as if gasping for air.
She looked at me. Her eyes weren't empty this time. They were filled with something worse — recognition.
"Mizu," she whispered. "Help me."
Her hands reached toward me, but her arms were sinking already, pulled back into the ground by something unseen.
I scrambled to my feet, but before I could move, the earth around her rippled again. It wasn't only her. More shapes began pushing up from below — faces, shoulders, fingers twitching in rhythm with that same slow heartbeat.
The soil was alive.
"Help… us…"
The voices came together now — dozens, hundreds — all whispering through the cracks in the ground.
I backed away slowly, one step at a time. I didn't run. I don't know why. Maybe because some part of me understood that running wouldn't matter. That whatever this was, it had already found me.
The faces began to fade again, sinking, dissolving into the soil as if the earth swallowed them whole.
All except one.
A child's face. Eyes closed, mouth peaceful.
Aki.
Her lips moved faintly. "Don't let them grow again."
And then she was gone.
---
I don't remember walking back inside. I remember the door closing by itself, the sound sharp in the silence. I remember washing my hands and watching the water turn brown. I remember sitting on the bed and realizing that the dirt under my nails was moving, pulsing softly like veins.
But most of all, I remember what I saw when I looked out the window one last time.
The garden wasn't still anymore.
Tiny shapes were sprouting from the soil — thin stalks, pale and wet, twisting toward the moonlight.
At first, I thought they were roots.
Then I realized they were fingers.
---
The next morning, the garden looked untouched. No footprints. No holes. No signs of life — or death. The soil was smooth, freshly turned, as if someone had tended it carefully overnight.
But I didn't go near it.
At school, no one mentioned anything strange. They smiled the same hollow smiles, their voices too soft, their eyes never quite meeting mine.
When I looked at Aki's empty seat, there was a small potted plant on her desk. A single bud, colorless, just beginning to bloom.
I stared at it for a long time.
That's when I realized the truth that made my stomach turn.
The petals weren't petals at all.
They were skin.
---
That night, as I tried to sleep, the whisper returned. Not from outside this time — from the inside of my pillow, from beneath the floorboards, from the walls.
"You belong to the garden now."
I pressed my hands over my ears, but it didn't help.
Because the sound wasn't coming from around me anymore.
It was growing inside my chest — soft, rhythmic, and alive.
The same heartbeat I had heard beneath the soil.
The soil that breathes.