The warmth from the ramen still lingered in the air long after breakfast.Thin curls of steam clung to the kitchen window, slowly fading into streaks of condensation.
Kun wiped the glass with the edge of his sleeve, leaving a clear oval to peer through. Outside, the countryside sat still and vast—like a memory pretending to be real.
His mother had gone back to her bedroom, muttering something about needing a nap before her night shift.
Kun didn't mind.
He was used to her absences, even when she was home.
The dishes clinked softly in the sink. The scent of soy broth and spring onions clung to his clothes. The trees outside danced slowly with the wind, the world moving with a lazy kind of silence.
Then Kun looked up—and froze.
On the hill behind the house, past the wavering fence and the tall grass, stood a figure.Still as stone.
Too still.
His breath caught. But when he blinked, the figure was gone.The wind shifted. The branches swayed.
Nothing stood there now.
No one.
...Sai?
He hadn't seen Sai all day. Kun dried his hands slowly.Something inside him itched—not fear exactly, but something adjacent to it.Unease, shaped like a name.
Later, lying on his bed, his textbook lay open but untouched. Words blurred on the page, irrelevant. His phone buzzed once.
Sai:Are you free today?
Kun stared at the screen. His thumbs hesitated, then tapped:
Kun:Yeah. Want to hang out?
No reply.
He waited.
The house was quiet.Too quiet.
The temperature dropped. Not enough to be obvious—just enough to make Kun pull the blanket tighter around himself.
Buzz.
Another message.
Sai:Look outside.
Kun sat up. His heart thudded quietly, like a knock from somewhere deep in the walls. He turned his head to the window, then slowly pushed it open.
A sudden gust of cold wind rushed in, sharp and unnatural for spring.
At the edge of the backyard, right where the woods began, stood Sai.
Smiling.
Still.
But something was wrong.
The smile was too wide, stretched just past human. His eyes—no, not eyes—black hollows that reflected no light.And yet, Kun didn't feel afraid.Just... entranced.
They met behind the house in silence.The trees no longer danced. The birds had stopped their songs.
"You came," Sai said softly, his voice close despite the distance.
"You messaged me," Kun replied. "Why are you out here?"
Sai tilted his head. "Your mother... she's home today."
Kun blinked. "Well—yeah. It's her day off. How do you know where I live?"
"I asked the teacher," Sai answered, smiling again—this time more normal, almost bashful. "I wanted to surprise you."
Kun let out a small laugh, the tension easing just enough. "You did. Uh, I made ramen earlier—there's still some left. Wanna come in?"
Sai looked at him with something unreadable in his eyes.
"Sure," he said. "If you'll let me inside."
"...Huh?" Kun paused, caught off guard. "Of course. We're friends. Come on, just be quiet. My mom's asleep. We can hang out in my room. I'll show you my sketches and stuff."
Sai's expression softened. For a moment, he even blushed. It was the first time Kun had ever invited someone into his room.
The moment felt quietly special.
Kun stepped through the back door first and gestured for Sai to follow.
He didn't know it then—but that gesture, that invitation, was a threshold crossed.A silent contract sealed.
But nothing unusual happened.
Not at first.
They climbed the stairs quietly, Kun glancing back to make sure Sai was following. Once in his room, Kun flicked on the lamp and gestured proudly.
His room was warm and small, with art posters, hanging dried flowers, soft pillows, and the faint scent of old books and incense.Underneath it all, there was a creaking in the floorboards. Old wood, older than he could name.
"This is it," he said. "It gets hot during the day, so I usually stay under the tree outside instead. It's quieter there, too."
Sai stepped in carefully, as if entering a sacred space. His eyes roamed the room like someone searching for something—something hidden, something half-remembered.
"It's cozy," Sai said softly. "Very... you."
Very familiar.
"Wait here," Kun smiled. "I'll get you the ramen."
Sai nodded.
Kun left.
And in the silence, Sai turned slowly.
He moved like a shadow folding into itself, silent as falling snow. His fingers brushed the edges of Kun's desk, the spine of a worn novel, the soft fur of an old stuffed animal.
His presence touched everything gently... possessively.
Then he saw it.
A book tucked between two sketchpads.Small. Old. Its corners frayed from too much handling.
Kun's diary.
Sai sat on the edge of Kun's bed, crossing his legs delicately, and opened it from the beginning.
The first pages were childish—scribbles about school lunch and soccer games.But as he flipped through the months, the entries began to darken.
I got pushed again today. I didn't tell Mom. I don't want her to be sad.
They broke my pencils and laughed. I cried in the bathroom. I hate school.
Why doesn't anyone want to sit next to me?
Maybe if I was gone, they'd be nicer.
Sai's smile slowly faded.
He kept reading.
I tried talking to someone today. They walked away.
Sometimes I think about disappearing. Just... poof.
But then I remembered Mom would cry. So I stayed.
Sai closed the book gently.
He stared down at it in his lap, fingers tracing the worn cover. His expression was unreadable.
Then he whispered to the diary, soft as breath, "You're just like me, aren't you?"
The door creaked open, and Kun poked his head in, holding two steaming bowls. "Ramen's here! I even added some egg. Lucky you."
Sai turned slowly, his usual warmth back in place, the diary already hidden behind his back.
"That's kind of you," he said.
They ate together in the room, chatting softly about books, old anime, and the quiet beauty of countryside mornings. But Sai's gaze kept drifting—to the bed, the books, the walls—like he was mentally shifting the furniture of a dollhouse that now belonged to him.
And Kun… Kun laughed, unaware.
Unaware of the door he had just opened.
—
After they finished eating, Kun placed the empty bowls on his desk and flopped back onto the bed. Sai remained seated on the floor, legs folded neatly beneath him, hands resting in his lap.
He looked content, smiling at nothing in particular.
A soft meow broke the silence.
Kun sat up. "Ah—Gray."
A sleek silver cat with amber eyes padded silently into the room. His tail swayed as he stopped at the threshold, fur suddenly bristling. He let out another low meow, but this time it was different—cautious. Defensive.
Kun chuckled, patting the bed. "Come on, boy. Don't be shy."
But Gray didn't move. He stared past Kun—at Sai.
Sai tilted his head, gaze meeting the cat's. "You see me, don't you?" he murmured softly, just loud enough for Kun to hear.
Kun blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," Sai replied, still smiling. "He's just a good cat. Very... aware."
Gray hissed.
In a blur of silver fur, he darted out of the room and down the hallway, his claws tapping frantically against the wooden floor.
Kun frowned, clearly confused. "He's never acted like that before… weird."
Sai's gaze lingered on the door. "Animals are often the first to notice the unnatural."
Kun laughed awkwardly. "You're saying you're unnatural?"
Sai said nothing.
—
Later that evening, soft murmuring drifted from Kun's closed door.
His mother had just finished brushing her hair in the bathroom, yawning into her sleeve as she passed the hallway toward the kitchen. A beer in one hand, she paused when she heard it—Kun's voice.
She moved closer to the door, listening.
"...No, you're not a burden. I like hanging out with you," Kun was saying. A pause. Then a laugh. "Of course you can stay longer."
Silence.
Then more whispering. Fainter this time.
Her brows furrowed.
Kun had never really brought friends over before. Let alone kept company in his room so long. And it wasn't like she'd heard anyone come in besides him.
She leaned closer.
"Kun?" she called softly.
The talking stopped immediately.
For a moment, nothing.
Then Kun's voice, a bit startled: "Ah—yeah? I'm just… chatting with Sai. He dropped by."
There was a beat of hesitation.
"Sai?" she repeated. "You never mentioned he was coming over."
"Yeah, uh… I invited him. Hope that's okay?"
She hesitated. "Sure. Just... don't stay up too late."
"Okay!"
But something gnawed at her gut. The house suddenly felt colder. Still.
And as she walked away, she glanced back down the hallway—just once.
The bedroom door remained closed.
But the feeling didn't leave her.
The sense that there had been more than just her son in that room.