The train rattled softly as it carried Rika through the veins of Tokyo. She sat by the window, watching the blur of city lights rush past, her reflection pale and distant in the glass.
It had been days since she encountered the old woman in her apartment. Days since the hunger of the Kubikajiri vanished like smoke. Her body felt lighter, freer, but her mind wasn't calm. Questions gnawed at her.
Who was she? Why had she helped? And what price would Rika eventually pay?
There was only one person left who might know something.
Her aunt.
Rika had never been close to her. They had met only once—years ago, after her parents disappeared. Her aunt had taken her in briefly, fed her, given her a futon to sleep on before she was passed into the hands of strangers. Since then, their paths had never crossed.
But now, the invisible weight of the book pressed heavier than usual, urging her forward.
When she arrived, her aunt greeted her at the door of a narrow townhouse tucked into one of Tokyo's quieter wards. She was a warm-faced woman with gentle eyes, her hair streaked with gray.
"Rika-chan?" she said softly, as if unsure the young woman before her was real.
Rika bowed. "It's been a long time."
Her aunt smiled, tears shimmering faintly. "Come inside, dear. Please."
The home smelled faintly of cedar and tea, and the walls were lined with old photographs—family portraits, faded landscapes, smiling faces Rika did not know.
They sat at the low table. Her aunt poured tea, speaking in the gentle way of someone who wanted to bridge years of distance but wasn't sure how. Rika answered politely, keeping her voice quiet, her hands curled around the warm cup.
Then something caught her eye.
A frame on the shelf by the wall.
Her breath froze.
It was a photograph of a woman. Late sixties, hair long and silver, tied back loosely. A plain kimono. Her eyes sharp yet warm, her smile faint but unforgettable.
The woman Rika had seen in her bedroom.
Her heart pounded. She stood, her legs moving before her mind caught up. She walked to the shelf, lifted the frame carefully, and stared.
"Auntie," she said, her voice shaking. "Who is this?"
Her aunt looked up, surprised. Then her smile softened.
"That's your grandmother," she said gently. "My mother. She passed away many years before you were born."
Rika's hand tightened on the frame. The air seemed to vanish from the room.
Her grandmother.
The woman who told her to take her hand. The woman who said, With my power, you can never lose control.
Her grandmother, long dead, had come to her.
Her aunt went on, her voice quiet with memory. "She was a strong woman. Kind, but… there was always something mysterious about her. People in the neighborhood used to whisper that she could see things no one else could. Spirits. Shadows. Things that didn't belong in our world."
Rika's chest tightened. The puzzle pieces clicked together.
That was why. That was why her grandmother had come. Why she had reached out her hand. Why the hunger was gone.
It wasn't just luck. It was blood.
Her blood.
Rika returned the frame to the shelf with trembling fingers. For the first time in weeks, she felt her throat tighten—not from ghostly voices or monstrous croaks, but from something far more human.
Tears.
Her aunt reached across the table, touching her hand. "You look so much like her, Rika-chan. Sometimes… I think she would be proud, wherever she is."
Rika bowed her head. She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Because deep down, she now understood.
Her grandmother wasn't gone. Not completely.
She had chosen to help.
Not as a ghost, not as a curse—
But as family.
---
Later, as Rika left the townhouse and walked back into the neon lights of Tokyo, the book at her back felt different. Not lighter. Not weaker. But steadier, as though it had finally accepted her hand on the reins.
The whispers inside were quieter, more distant.
And for the first time, she didn't feel alone in carrying them.
But far away, two other figures were not so comforted.
Keizo flicked his cigarette into the gutter, his eyes following Rika's silhouette from across the street. Tamao stood beside him, braids swaying faintly in the night air.
"She's different," Tamao murmured. "The hunger is gone. But something else is in its place now."
Keizo smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "A new hand on the wheel."
Tamao looked up at him. "Should we stop her?"
Keizo's smirk faded. "Not yet. Let's see how far the blood in her veins carries her. Because if she really inherited her grandmother's power…" His eyes narrowed dangerously.
"…then she's not the jailer anymore. She's the heir."