One month had passed.
The mountain wind had softened—less biting now, more like a breath held between seasons. Icicles clung stubbornly to the roof's edge, but the snow no longer blanketed the ground. The river outside trickled quietly, half-asleep beneath thin ice. The town, like Kun, was caught in a strange in-between. Not quite winter. Not quite healed.
Inside his grandparents' house, Kun stood in front of the hallway mirror.
He tugged gently at the collar of his cardigan, checking how it sat over the red scarf around his neck. His fingers lingered at the knot—tight enough to be warm, loose enough to breathe. His reflection stared back, tired-eyed but solid.
There was a faint limp in his stance. His hip still ached on cold mornings, but he could walk again.
The mirror didn't ripple. It didn't breathe. No voices whispered from behind it.
No worms.
No blood.
No Sai.
At least—not yet.
Kun's gaze flickered downward. Part of him still expected to see some trace of it all: the haunting, the suffocation, the thing that curled in his dreams like smoke through the cracks of his skull. But the last four weeks had been… quiet.
Too quiet.
Maybe it really had been a nightmare. Maybe he'd had another episode. Delusions. Paranoia. His body had screamed for weeks afterward, but the doctors chalked it all up to a stress-induced fall in the bathroom. The wounds healed. The hallucinations stopped.
But then why did his mother cry every night?
Why did she whisper his name when she thought Kun was asleep?
Why couldn't either of them say the word "safe" anymore without it sounding like a prayer?
"Kun," a voice murmured behind him.
Arms wrapped around his waist.
His mother leaned her chin gently atop his head, smiling into his reflection in the mirror.
"I never thought you'd grow up so handsome," she said softly, teasing.
Kun blinked, surprised by the sudden affection. He gave a shy little smile.
"I've always been handsome," he muttered. "I took my Dad's fea—"
The words stopped in his throat. His eyes widened slightly.
"…Sorry," he murmured, voice dropping.
His mother paused. But her smile didn't fade. It softened instead, worn but warm.
"It's alright, Kun." She ran her fingers through his hair. "I know you miss him."
He nodded. Then looked away.
But the moment passed—like breath on glass.
She gave him a light pinch on the cheek.
"Ow—hey!"
"Do you want to see him again?" she asked gently.
Kun turned back to her, startled.
"…I can?"
"Why not?" she said, shrugging. "He's still your father. I'll call him. Ask if he has time to see you."
A smile broke across Kun's face—wide and bright, like sunlight through clouded glass.
"Thanks, Mom."
She patted his head, ruffling his hair a little too aggressively before walking toward the kitchen. "Now eat before it gets cold. You're going back to school, aren't you?"
Route Checkpoint:
▶ Yes
☐ No
(You chose Yes. Bear the consequence.)
She placed a warm bowl of freshly cooked ramen on the table, steam curling into the air like something alive. Kun limped over and sat down carefully, lowering himself onto the cushion with a soft grunt.
Across from him, his mother cracked open a can of beer.
Kun raised an eyebrow.
"It's barely 9 a.m."
"This is my vitamin," she said, winking.
"Yeah, vitamin for liver failure," he muttered.
"Mm. Delicious failure."
They both chuckled.
It felt… normal.
For a while, anyway.
But then—drip.
Kun froze.
He set down his chopsticks, eyes narrowing slightly. Somewhere—faintly—he could hear the sound of water dripping. A slow, steady rhythm. Not from the sink. Not from any faucet.
Something… off.
He closed his eyes to focus.
It wasn't scary.
Oddly, it was calming.
Like a lullaby sung through the walls.
"…Kun?" his mother said, noticing the way he'd stilled. "Is something wrong?"
He blinked and looked up quickly. "No. Just spaced out."
She didn't press. Just watched him with tired eyes.
The school gates stood exactly as they had a month ago—old, creaky, dusted with leftover frost.
Nothing had changed.
Except Kun.
He walked slower, head lowered, still carrying the soreness in his body—but it was more than that. His chest felt heavier with every step toward the building.
A few students glanced his way. Some nodded in vague recognition. Others looked away, uncomfortable.
No one mentioned the incident. No one mentioned the hospital. Just a few awkward greetings and too-wide smiles.
Then he saw it.
Second floor.
The veranda.
Sai.
Leaning casually against the railing, red scarf fluttering in the breeze, smiling down at him.
His black eyes met Kun's from across the courtyard.
He hadn't disappeared.
He had only waited.
Kun's hands clenched around the straps of his bag. His breath caught in his throat. But before he could do anything—
"Isn't he dreamy?" a voice giggled nearby.
"Huh?"
A group of girls had gathered by the entrance, glancing up at the veranda too.
"Oh, you mean Sai-kun? He's so polite! And that hair—he's like, straight out of a novel!"
Kun's blood ran cold.
They could see him.
They could talk to him.
Sai wasn't a ghost. Not to them.
He was real.
Too real.
Whispers buzzed in his ears, but they weren't the girls anymore. They weren't even voices. They were laughter. Soft, crawling laughter in the back of his skull.
The hallways darkened. The walls stretched. The air grew thick.
Kun blinked.
Rain.
He was standing in the alley again.
His eye swollen shut. His knees scraped.
The bullies were laughing.
One of them—Sai—stood at the front, smiling. Too wide.
Teeth too sharp.
"Hey—Kun!"
Someone grabbed his shoulders.
Kun gasped, flinching violently.
Reality snapped back.
Sai stood in front of him now, smiling gently.
"Are you alright?" he asked, voice filled with faux concern.
Kun could only stare. Pale and silent.
"I'm glad you're back to school," Sai said sweetly. "MiKun." And without warning—he pulled him into a tight hug.
Kun didn't push him away.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't breathe.
Because somehow, for the first time in a long time…
He felt calm.