The fog rolled in like it had been waiting for them.
Jun stood motionless beside a rusted "Welcome to Silent Hill" sign, its letters faded and flaked, as if even time had tried to erase the memory of this place. The road behind them was gone. Swallowed. Only white, choking mist stretched endlessly in every direction.
Leah touched his arm. "We don't have to stay long," she said softly.
But the silence beyond the sign said otherwise.
They had come on impulse. Maybe escape. Maybe hope. Maybe neither of them could admit they were afraid to be still, in a world now spiraling around two blue lines on a plastic stick.
Two months together. One heartbeat growing.
Jun gripped the handle of their overnight bag tighter and gave a nod. The streets of Silent Hill accepted them wordlessly.
The town was stuck in a memory loop: lamplight blinking without power, swings creaking in an unmoving breeze, newspapers tumbling through doorways that had long been abandoned. It felt staged—like walking through someone else's grief, just waiting to see if it would infect your own.
Leah whispered, "Did you hear that?"
Footsteps. Behind them.
They turned—nothing. Only the fog, thicker now, closer. The sound of a stroller wheel spinning.
Jun exhaled slowly and reached for her hand. "Come on."
They passed storefronts with displays of broken porcelain dolls and melted clocks. One TV inside an electronics shop turned on as they walked by, its screen flashing static—then a message formed in stark red:
> **"The child is listening."**
Leah turned to him. "What does that mean?"
He had no answer.
Then, from somewhere in the haze, came a voice: *crying*. A child's wail—soft, distant, unsettling. But something in Jun's chest leapt. An instinct buried deep beneath all the doubt and fear.
He moved without thinking, leading Leah toward the sound, down a narrow alley swallowed by brick and darkness. At the end stood a single wooden door, rocking on its hinges.
Inside, a nursery.
Ruined.
Mobiles dangled from the ceiling, spinning in reverse. The crib in the center had been shredded—claw marks trailing across its sides. Toys lay scattered, eyes gouged or missing. But the crying continued.
On the back wall, a message scratched into the plaster by tiny hands:
> *"He only comes if you're afraid."*
Leah took a step forward, and Jun instinctively pulled her back. But when he looked at her again, she was gone.
Only fog.
The floor cracked beneath his feet. The walls pulsed like lungs. Somewhere, metal scraped metal.
And then it arrived.
A figure, tall and masked, appeared in the doorway, dragging a rusted incubator behind it, cords dangling like veins. It didn't run. It *watched.*
Jun's breath caught.
Then—movement inside the incubator. A flicker of light.
He stepped closer. Slowly.
The figure's head tilted—curious.
And Jun, trembling, placed his hand on the glass. It was empty inside, except for one thing: his reflection, younger, eyes wide and terrified.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then the mask *cracked.*
A voice—his own—whispered: "You're not ready."
But he didn't step back.
Instead, Jun whispered, "Maybe not. But I'm *here*."
The figure dissolved into dust.
Leah's voice echoed through the nursery: "Jun… look."
He turned, and the fog thinned. Light spilled in through the broken windows, warm and golden. The crying had stopped.
Outside, in the distance, birds sang.
Jun stepped forward into the light, not because the fear was gone—but because *he was walking anyway.*