The car slows down before it stops completely.
The driver grips the steering wheel too tight. His eyes don't meet mine in the mirror.
"I… I can't go any further," he says. "This road—people say it's cursed."
I almost laugh.
Almost.
That word again.
Cursed.
That's what they always called us.
I reach into my bag, pull out the money, and place it on the console between us. He looks at it like it might bite him.
"It's fine," I say. "I'll walk."
He turns halfway in his seat, fear plain on his face. "Miss… don't go. Turn back. Nothing good waits there."
I open the door anyway. Cold air rushes in, sharp and dry, carrying the smell of dust and old trees.
"I'll come back," I say quietly.
I step out. The door shuts. The taxi doesn't wait—he takes the money and drives off, fast, like the road itself might reach out and grab him.
I'm alone.
The path ahead is cracked and uneven, with weeds growing where people stopped coming. No lights. No signs. Just silence—thick, heavy, familiar.
Each step pulls something tight in my chest.
This used to be home.
Now it feels like a place the world erased on purpose.
Broken houses line the road, roofs collapsed, old seals carved into walls—faded, useless. Time didn't ruin this place. We did.
I walk slower.
Not because I'm afraid—but because I remember.
Training here. Laughing here. Bleeding here.
Everything started here.
And so did everything that went wrong.
The wind moves through the empty buildings, sounding almost like voices. I don't stop. If I do, I might hear what they're saying.
I tighten my grip on my bag and keep walking.
This place didn't fall apart on its own.
In the end—
I was part of the reason it did.
I reach the entrance of my house.
Nothing has changed.
That's the first thing that hurts.
The gate still leans slightly to the left. The stone steps are cracked in the same places. Even the charm hanging near the door—half-burnt, useless now—sways the way it used to.
Like time stopped here and decided this place wasn't worth fixing.
I step inside.
The door creaks softly, the sound echoing too loudly in the empty space. Dust hangs in the air, but beneath it, the house still smells the same—old wood, dried herbs, faint traces of incense.
I take another step.
And for a second—
I'm not alone.
I hear the sound of cooking. A pot simmering. The soft clink of a ladle against metal.
"Dia," my mother's voice calls, calm and familiar, like it never left. "Don't just stand there. Wash your hands."
My breath catches.
I turn my head slowly.
The kitchen is warm in my mind. Light filters through the window. She's there, back turned to me, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely. Steam rises around her like a dream that refuses to fade.
I take a step toward her.
"Maa—" My voice barely works.
She laughs softly. "You're late again. Training, right? You always push too hard."
I almost smile.
Almost.
I move closer, reaching out—and my fingers pass through empty air.
The warmth disappears.
The kitchen is cold. Dark. Silent.
No light. No steam. No, her.
My hand trembles as I lower it.
I stand there for a moment, letting the ache settle properly this time.
This house remembers her better than the world does.
I walk deeper inside. My footsteps echo through rooms that once held voices, arguments, and laughter. Everything is where it used to be—tatami mats worn down, walls marked with old seals, a training corner that still feels heavy with cursed energy.
It's all the same.
I stop in the middle of the room and breathe in slowly.
"I'm back," I whisper.
I walk to my room.
The door sticks a little, just like it used to. I push harder than necessary and step inside.
Dust. Silence. Memories stacked where time stopped caring.
My eyes go straight to the wall.
Photos.
Old ones. Faded at the edges.
Me. Shoko. Geto. Nanami. Gojo.
We're all smiling—real smiles. Shoko's leaning slightly away like she always did, Suguru's calm and steady, and Gojo—
Gojo isn't looking at the camera.
He never was.
In every photo, his head is turned just a little toward me. Like the world behind the lens never mattered as much. Like the camera wasn't worth his attention when I was standing right there.
My throat tightens.
There's another photo—just me and him. Training ground behind us, both of us tired, both pretending we're not. I'm laughing at something stupid he said.
He's holding his blindfold in his hand.
The same blindfold I gave him.
I recall that day too vividly. I shoved it into his chest and told him that covering his eyes with a cloth made him look ridiculous.
He grinned. "So this is from you? Guess I'll keep it forever then."
And he did.
In every photo after that, it's there—wrapped around his eyes, worn like it belongs to him. Like it's part of him.
Like I was.
I look away before my chest tightens too much.
My desk is still by the window. I open the drawer and pull out my diary. The cover is worn, pages thick with thoughts. I never said it out loud. Beside it, a few loose photos—some with the others, some with him.
I hesitate.
I shouldn't take these.
This place is already heavy enough.
But I don't want to leave pieces of myself behind again.
I slide the diary into my bag. Then the photos. I don't look at them twice.
I zip the bag shut.
Before I walk out, my feet stop on their own.
The closet.
I don't know why I go there. I don't even expect anything to be left. I remember throwing it away—into the river, hands shaking, telling myself I didn't need reminders after he said he wanted a break. I remember watching the water swallow it and feeling relieved.
Or at least, pretending to.
I open the closet anyway.
Clothes hang untouched, wrapped in dust and time. I push them aside and reach behind, fingers brushing against the cold wall—
And then I feel it.
A small box.
The box sits where I left it, small enough to disappear in my palm.
Matte black. Not lacquered—absorbing light instead of reflecting it. The surface isn't smooth if you look closely; faint cursed etchings run beneath the finish, layered so precisely they don't leak even a thread of energy. Gojo's work. Careful in the way only he ever was when it came to me.
A snake coils around the lid, engraved so finely it almost looks alive. Not aggressive - Just coiled. Waiting. Its body forms a closed circle, tail touching mouth, a seal rather than a warning. The hinge is seamless. No visible lock. It was never meant to be forced open by anyone else.
When I lift the lid, No sound.
Inside, the velvet lining is still intact. Dark. Untouched.
Empty.
For a second, my heart pounds harder than it should.
Because inside this box was something only he and I knew about.
I close the lid.
I close the box and slip it into my bag without looking at it again.
I walk out of the house.
The door shuts behind me.
I walk past the house and don't stop until the land thins out.
The path narrows the way it always did—soil turning dark, air turning heavy. The sounds change first. Insects go quiet. Wind slows, like it's being careful not to disturb something older than itself.
Then I see it.
The end tree.
Ancient. Massive. Roots twisted above the ground like veins that never learnt where to stop. Its bark is carved with marks so old they've worn smooth, not symbols anymore—just memory pressed into wood.
I stop a few steps away.
"So this is it," I murmur to myself. "Took me long enough."
I've never entered this place. Not once.
I remember watching from far away as a kid—hiding behind rocks, pretending not to stare. Maa would come here when she thought I wasn't looking. She never said why. She would just stand quietly, press her palm to the tree, and stay like that for a long time.
Whenever she missed someone.
My grandmother.
I never saw her face. No photos. No stories that lasted long enough. Maa used to say, "If you're worthy, she'll come to you herself."
I didn't think much of it back then.
I kneel near the roots and set my bag down. The cursed energy here is thin—weak, old, and dormant. Just waiting.
"Alright," I whisper. "I'm here."
I take out the small blade and draw it across my palm.
Blood wells up immediately.
I let it drip onto the ground and use my fingers to trace a circle around the tree's base—slow, deliberate. The earth drinks it easily, like it remembers this.
I smear the remaining blood across my cheeks, one line on each side. It's warm.
My voice stays steady as I speak.
"Sanguine meo, ianuam antiquam voco."(By my blood, I call the ancient gate.)
"Non veniam ut rogem—venio ut meminer."(I do not come to beg—I come to remember.)
"Per ossa matrum, per nomen non dictum,"(By the bones of mothers, by the unspoken name,)
"aperite quod clausum est."(open what has been sealed.)
"Si digna non sum, consume me."(If I am unworthy, consume me.)
"Si digna sum—inclinate."(If I am worthy—bow.)
The air shifts.
The clouds above tighten, folding inward. Wind presses through the branches, low and deep, like a breath being drawn.
The tree creaks.
Not breaking.
Opening.
The bark along the centre splits like a door remembering its purpose. Old seals flare once, weak and fading, then dissolve.
I rise to my feet.
The passage stands open.
"Its exciting," I mutter.
And I step forward.
The ground drops suddenly.
Like the earth gives up on holding me.
I slide down rough stone, my boots scraping, palms burning as I catch myself against jagged rock. When I finally stop, the air is colder here. Thicker. Heavy enough to sit on my shoulders.
I look up.
The opening above is already shrinking, light breaking apart like a dying star. One last streak of white disappears into the dark.
And then—
Only stone.
All around me, it's rock. Walls uneven, sharp, ancient. The kind of place that feels wrong not because of curses—but because it was never meant for people.
For a moment, I think of hell.
Not the fire-and-screams kind.The quiet kind.
The kind you walk into on your own.
I exhale slowly. "Great," I mutter. "This is how it starts."
The caves stretch out in different directions, mouths open and black, swallowing sound. Each one feels like it's watching me. Waiting for a mistake.
But then—
Something pulls at me.
Direction.
Straight ahead.
My head throbs lightly, like a pressure behind my eyes. A voice that isn't a voice, pressing against my thoughts.
Forward.
I don't question it.
I walk straight.
The further I go, the colder it gets. The air smells old—dust, iron, something bitter. My footsteps echo too loudly, then suddenly… not at all.
That's when I hear it.
Crying.
Soft at first. Like it's far away. Like it's not meant for me.
Then clearer.
Begging. Whispers. Broken words layered over each other, overlapping, desperate.
"Please—"
"Don't—"
"It hurts—"
My spine tightens.
I stop walking.
My cursed energy stirs instinctively, crawling under my skin. "This isn't real," I tell myself. "This place messes with people."
But the voices don't stop.
They follow.
They circle.
They feel close enough to touch.
I swallow and force myself to breathe evenly.
"If this is hell," I whisper into the dark, "it's doing a terrible job scaring me."
The pressure in my head sharpens.
Straight.
I clench my fists and move forward again, ignoring the voices clawing at my ears, ignoring the way my chest feels too tight.
Whatever this place is—
It wants me to reach the end.
And for the first time since I came here, I wonder—
What exactly is waiting for me?