The encounter with the shadow-thing left Yuki raw. The rage had burned out, leaving behind a hollow ache that resonated deep in his bones. He didn't bother trying to do homework. He didn't bother making dinner. He just sat on the floor of the darkened living room, staring at the spot where Hana's ghost had pointed, where the shadow-thing had clung to the glass.
The apartment felt colder than ever, despite the mild evening outside. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, trying to generate some warmth. It didn't help. The cold seemed to emanate from within.
He caught his reflection in the dark screen of the television. A pale, gaunt face stared back, highlighted by the faint glow from the streetlight outside. Dark circles like bruises smudged the skin under his eyes. His lips were colorless. He looked… diminished. Like a candle burned down to the stub. A hollow boy.
He looked away, disturbed. But the image lingered. Hollow. It felt accurate. The grief, the fear, the constant barrage of horrific sights and sounds – they were carving him out from the inside. What was left? Anger, yes. A burning need for vengeance. But what else? Was there anything of Yuki Tanaka left besides the trauma and the curse?
He pushed himself up and walked towards the bathroom, driven by a morbid curiosity he couldn't suppress. He needed to see. Needed to look again.
He flicked on the light. The harsh fluorescence made him flinch. He stepped close to the mirror, leaning his hands on the sink, just like this morning.
His reflection stared back. Pale. Haunted. The dark circles seemed deeper. His eyes… they looked flat. Lifeless. Like polished stones.
He watched his reflection breathe. In. Out. His chest rose and fell.
Then, his reflection didn't breathe.
Yuki froze. His own lungs were still working, air moving in and out. But the image in the mirror held perfectly still. No rise, no fall of the chest. Just the unnervingly still face, the flat eyes.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He blinked. The reflection blinked too.
He took a deliberate breath. The reflection remained motionless.
He lifted his hand. The reflection lifted its hand.
He lowered it. The reflection lowered its.
He held his breath. The reflection's chest remained unnervingly still.
A tremor ran through Yuki. He stumbled back a step, his hip bumping against the towel rack. The reflection mirrored the movement perfectly.
What was happening? Was it another ghost? Another trick of his cursed sight? Or was it… him? Was he becoming so disconnected, so hollow, that his own reflection was losing the semblance of life?
He leaned closer again, his nose almost touching the cold glass. He stared into his own eyes. They were his eyes. The same shape, the same color. But the light was gone. The spark of awareness, of self, was dimming. It was like looking into the eyes of a doll.
A wave of nausea washed over him. He turned away, gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles white. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image. When he opened them again and looked back at the mirror, his reflection was breathing in time with him.
But the doubt remained. The knowledge that for a few terrifying seconds, the boy in the glass had been just an empty shell. A hollow reflection.
He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it making him gasp. He dried himself roughly with a towel, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror. He needed sleep. Exhaustion pulled at him, a heavy blanket. But the thought of closing his eyes, of descending into the nightmares that always waited, was almost as terrifying as staying awake.
He trudged to his room, the silence of the apartment feeling accusatory. He changed mechanically, pulled back the covers, and slid into bed. The sheets felt cold, unwelcoming. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The darkness in the room seemed to deepen, to press in.
He thought of Hana, her silent scream. He thought of the shadow-thing, its many limbs scrabbling at the glass. He thought of his own reflection, still and lifeless.
The hollow feeling expanded, filling his chest, his throat, his head. It was an emptiness that echoed, a void where hope used to be. He was a vessel, carved out by grief and fear, waiting to be filled by whatever darkness came next.
He closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come easily. When it finally did, it was filled with the sensation of falling, down and down, into an endless, cold, dark pit. He didn't scream. He wasn't sure he remembered how.