The bus ride back to Nolite was a silent, rolling tomb. The cheerful, pre-trip chatter had been replaced by the hum of the engine and the occasional, muffled sniffle. Ethan stared out the window, watching the bland landscape blur past, but seeing only the splintered door of Room 217 and Ben's frozen, terrified face. He'd worn his sarcasm like a suit of armor for the detectives, but now, stripped of an audience, he just felt hollow.
When the bus finally groaned to a halt in Nolite, the students dispersed like ghosts, not making eye contact, offering weak, shell-shocked waves. Professor Nolan was the first off, striding away with his briefcase as if concluding a particularly distasteful seminar.
Ethan trudged the now-familiar uneven path to his house. The crooked structure, which usually filled him with a sense of dread, now looked almost… welcoming. It was a known evil. Its horrors were predictable in their own way—scratches, floating knives, the occasional ceiling-dwelling specter. It wasn't the chaotic, random, industrial evil of a man with a chainsaw.
He fumbled for his key, but the door swung open before he could touch it.
Kaori stood there, silhouetted in the warm light of the hallway. Her usual impassive mask was gone, replaced by a tightness around her eyes, a faint line of tension in her jaw. She'd heard. The news of the massacre at the Mistwood Motor Lodge was already a screaming headline on every local channel.
For a long moment, she just looked at him, her sharp eyes scanning him from head to toe, taking in the dirt-stained clothes, the exhaustion in his posture, the faint red mark on his cheek.
Ethan braced himself for a question, for an accusation, for something.
Instead, he gave her a wide, brilliant, utterly fraudulent smile. It was a masterpiece of false cheer, a shield forged from pure willpower.
"Honey, I'm home!" he announced, his voice dripping with a theatrical, sitcom-level gusto. "Don't worry, it was nothing! Just a minor disagreement over interior design philosophy. You should see the other guy's… well, everything. It's in a lot of little bags now."
He breezed past her, dropping his bag with a thud. "Anyway, I'm just going to go wash off the… uh… 'motel ambiance'. I think I have about three layers of other people's panic-sweat on me."
He didn't wait for a response. He marched straight to the bathroom, closed the door, and turned the lock with a soft, final click.
The smile vanished from his face as if it had never been there.
He stood there, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The guy staring back had hollow eyes and a tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with the cold. The facade crumbled, and the guilt came rushing in, a tidal wave he'd been holding back with sheer, smart-assed force.
You left him. You had the sheet rope. You had your phone. You had your stupid, quick-thinking brain. You could have yelled louder. You could have pulled him. You could have done something, anything, other than save your own skin first.
He didn't scream. He didn't punch the wall. He just slid down the door, his back against the wood, and buried his face in his hands. The sobs were silent, wracking things, torn from a place so deep inside he'd forgotten it existed. Tears he hadn't shed for the cult, or the ghost, or the house, now fell for a quiet, nerdy boy who just hadn't moved fast enough. Each choked breath was an admission: It's my fault. I could have saved him.
He didn't know how long he sat there. Long enough for the hot water of the shower to steam up the room, fogging the mirror and hiding his shame. He washed mechanically, the water stinging the small cuts and bruises he'd accumulated, each one a tiny, deserved punishment.
When he finally emerged, dressed in clean clothes, his hair damp and his eyes slightly red-rimmed—which he could blame on the shampoo—he had rebuilt the walls. They were shaky, but they were up.
He walked into the living room and stopped.
Kaori was at the small dining table. Two places were set. In the center were two bowls of steaming food he didn't recognize. It was a delicate, artful arrangement of rice, vibrant vegetables, and what looked like thin slices of meat in a glossy, dark sauce. It smelled incredible, a world away from instant noodles and takeout curry.
"You cooked?" Ethan asked, his voice hoarse.
"I attempted to," she said simply, not looking at him. "It is Katsudon. A comfort food."
He sat down, the gesture feeling strangely formal. He picked up the chopsticks she had laid out, fumbling with them slightly. He took a bite. It was warm, savory, a little sweet. It was, without a doubt, the best thing he had ever tasted. It was also the most alien thing he'd ever eaten in this house of horrors.
"It's… it's good," he managed, his throat tight. "Never heard of it. Is this what ninjas eat after a hard day of… ninja-ing?"
A faint, almost invisible smile touched her lips. "Sometimes."
As he ate, his eyes, out of habit born of constant vigilance, flicked upwards.
She was there. Of course, she was there.
The ghost was clinging to the ceiling in the far corner, her white dress blending with the fresh paint. Her head was tilted, and as Ethan looked, she rotated it slowly, unnaturally, until her hair-covered face was aimed directly at him. There was no menace in the gesture this time. It felt more like… observation. Like a silent witness to his performance.
Kaori, following his gaze, saw nothing but a blank ceiling. She had, in the chaos of the last few days, almost forgotten the house's primary resident.
But Ethan hadn't. He never could. He gave the ghost a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, as if to say, I see you, too. I know.
He finished the meal in silence, the weight of the day, the guilt, the ghost's gaze, and Kaori's unexpected kindness pressing down on him. He felt stripped bare, all his clever lines and deflections used up.
He stood to take his bowl to the sink, his movements heavy with a fatigue that went far beyond physical exhaustion.
That's when Kaori moved.
She rose from her chair and, before he could react, stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
It wasn't a hesitant or awkward hug. It was a firm, tight, all-encompassing embrace. She was surprisingly strong. For a moment, he froze, his body rigid with shock. Then, the tension bled out of him all at once. He felt his shoulders slump, his head bow slightly.
It was a hug that held no judgment, asked for no explanation, and offered no empty platitudes. It was just… there. A solid, human anchor in the swirling chaos of his mind. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced since he was a very small child, a lifetime ago, when a hug could actually make the monsters under the bed disappear.
He didn't hug her back, not exactly. But he leaned into it, just for a second, letting the warmth and the solidity of her hold back the crushing weight of the night.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. She released him and turned to clear the table, her face back to its neutral, unreadable state, as if the entire thing had never happened.
Ethan stood there for a moment, the ghost watching from above, the taste of Katsudon still on his tongue, and the phantom warmth of the hug still on his skin. The house was still a demon. The guilt was still a stone in his gut. But for the first time since he'd stepped off the bus in this cursed town, he didn't feel entirely alone in it.
He looked at Kaori's back as she washed the dishes.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet.
She glanced over her shoulder.
"Thanks," he said. "For the food."
She gave a single, slight nod, understanding that he wasn't just talking about the food.
"Don't mention it," she replied, and turned back to the sink.