When Hitomi opened her eyes, she thought she was dreaming.
The world around her was hazy, sunlight burning white through the window of an old wooden house. She lay on a tatami mat that smelled of dust and age. For a long moment, she didn't move. Her body felt heavy, as if she'd been sleeping for years.
Then she sat up—and froze.
Her hands were pale. Too pale. Her arms were impossibly long, her fingers slender and sharp. Her breath caught in her throat. She touched her face—her skin was cold, smooth as porcelain. Her nails scraped against her cheek and she felt the faint shape of a wide, unnatural smile carved into her lips.
"No…" she whispered, her voice echoing wrong. Too deep. Too hollow.
She stumbled toward a mirror on the wall. The glass was cracked, but the reflection was clear enough to show the truth.
A woman in white stood staring back—a tall, elegant, monstrous figure. Long black hair spilled over her shoulders. A wide hat shadowed her face.
Hitomi's scream never left her throat.
She collapsed, trembling. Her hands clawed at her skin as if she could peel the image away, wake up, go back to her real body. But the reflection didn't change. The face stayed.
"I'm dreaming," she said, voice trembling. "This isn't real. It can't be."
But when she stood, her reflection followed—slowly, gracefully, unnaturally tall.
And then she heard it.
"Po… po… po…"
The sound echoed faintly in her ears—an eerie, rhythmic voice she couldn't control. It came from her mouth, though she hadn't spoken.
"No… stop it!" she cried, clutching her throat. "I don't want this!"
But the voice continued, low and distant, as if the ghost inside her was still alive somewhere deeper, using her body to hum its cursed lullaby.
---
Hours passed.
Hitomi walked through the countryside in silence, the sun setting behind the mountains. She didn't know where to go. Every step felt heavy, her long limbs moving like they belonged to someone else. When she passed through small villages, people turned and stared—not because they saw her, but because they felt her.
Dogs barked. Children cried. Adults shivered, whispering prayers under their breath without knowing why.
Hitomi wrapped her long arms around herself. "Please… don't be afraid of me," she whispered, even though she knew they couldn't hear.
She walked until the night came, and the moon rose over the rice fields. The reflection of her face shimmered in the water—tall hat, white dress, black hair like a curtain. She hated it. Every inch of it.
She remembered fragments—flashes of her old life. A dorm room in Tokyo. Her best friend laughing. A train ride home to see her parents. Then, a tall shadow by the tracks. A whisper in her ear.
After that, nothing.
Now she was this.
---
By midnight, Hitomi found an abandoned shrine deep in the forest. The torii gate was cracked, and moss grew thick over the roof. But it was quiet. Peaceful.
"This will do," she murmured. "Just for now."
She sat beneath the gate, pulling her hat low. The ghost within her seemed still for the moment. No whispers. No humming. Just the sound of the wind moving through the trees.
Her hands trembled. She could still feel her heart beating somewhere inside the borrowed body. It gave her a small, painful hope that maybe—just maybe—she wasn't gone completely.
"Why me?" she asked the silence. "Why did you choose me?"
The air grew colder. The faint sound of laughter echoed from the trees.
It wasn't her laughter.
Hitomi froze. "Who's there?"
No answer. Only the sound of something walking slowly through the grass.
"Po… po… po…"
Her body moved before she could stop it. She stood, her head tilting slightly, her legs carrying her toward the sound.
"No, stop!" she gasped, trying to resist. But the ghost inside her—Hachishakusama—was awake again, using her body like a puppet.
The tall figure drifted through the woods, following the echo of its own voice.
---
Sometime before dawn, Hitomi woke again, lying beside the shrine steps. The forest was quiet. Her limbs were trembling, her throat dry.
She remembered pieces of the night before—vague images of people running, of her reflection in windows as she passed. She didn't know what had happened, and she didn't want to know.
Tears slipped down her face. "I didn't want to hurt anyone."
The voice inside her stirred.
You didn't.
Hitomi froze. "Who said that?"
I did.
The words weren't spoken aloud. They bloomed in her mind like a whisper from a dream. It was soft, almost gentle.
You're not alone, Hitomi. We're the same now.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "We're not. I'm human. You're—"
We're both lost, the voice interrupted, calm and sad. We only wanted to be seen.
Hitomi's body trembled. The ghost didn't sound angry or malicious. It sounded lonely.
The two souls sat in silence for a long time. The wind brushed through the trees, and the first light of morning crept into the forest.
Finally, Hitomi whispered, "Then let me stay here. Just for a while. I won't hurt anyone. Please."
The voice didn't answer, but she felt the body relax—the ghost retreating slightly, letting her breathe again.
For now, she was in control.
She looked out toward the sunrise and made a quiet promise to herself.
"If there's anyone who can save me… maybe I'll find them someday."
The faintest sound of the book's chain echoed through the wind, far away—unheard by her, but felt.
Somewhere in Tokyo, Rika Aoyama stirred in her sleep, the book on her back trembling for a brief moment before going still.