Chapter 4: A Twisted Tale
The story began on a slow-moving bus. The Hashimoto family—husband, wife, and their young daughter Miho—were traveling to a rural hospital to visit the grandmother who lay critically ill. Hashimoto's wife was sharp-tongued and clearly reluctant, showing little concern for her mother-in-law's impending death.
Hashimoto tried to gently persuade his wife, but this only made her angrier. She insisted that caring for the elderly woman was the eldest son's responsibility, not theirs as the younger branch of the family. "And certainly not mine," she snapped.
Their daughter, Miho, a ten-year-old girl with wide, innocent eyes, sat quietly. She didn't want to listen to her parents bicker and moved to the backseat of the bus, gazing out the window lost in memories of her grandmother. Though she couldn't recall ever meeting her, she'd heard stories from her father about how her grandmother had held her as an infant. She longed to see her now, though worry gnawed at her heart over the severity of her condition.
The doctor had said Grandma wouldn't last much longer—perhaps only a day or two. It felt unbearably sad.
When they arrived at the hospital, its dilapidated state and somber atmosphere hinted at the grim reality awaiting them. A plump nurse greeted them warmly and led them to Grandma's room. But when the door opened, something about the dimly lit ward sent shivers down Miho's spine. Though eager to meet her grandmother, fear rooted her feet just outside the threshold.
Unaware of Miho's hesitation, Hashimoto and his wife entered the room without pause. They disappeared behind the curtain surrounding the bed before realizing Miho hadn't followed. Irritated, they ordered her to hurry inside.
Miho obeyed, steeling herself to step closer. Pulling back the curtain, she froze. Her frail grandmother lay there like a skeleton wrapped in skin, lifeless and chilling to behold. Her father urged her softly, "Miho, hold your grandmother's hand. She used to cradle you when you were a baby."
Miho hesitated, staring at the skeletal hand. Her parents paid her no mind, exchanging pleasantries with the nurse by the bedside. As Miho stood frozen, she suddenly noticed the hand twitch slightly.
"Mom! Grandma's hand moved!" she exclaimed.
Her mother shot her a skeptical glance. "Don't be ridiculous," she scolded.
At that moment, the attending physician arrived and beckoned the Hashimotos into the hallway. "Your mother doesn't have long," he explained gravely. "Spend as much time with her as you can these next couple of days."
Hashimoto's wife frowned, visibly unwilling to waste more time on her mother-in-law. She began grumbling excuses under her breath.
Left alone in the eerie silence of the ward, Miho stared at her grandmother, growing increasingly uneasy. Turning to leave, she froze when a faint voice called out: "Wait… Miho…"
Startled, Miho stumbled backward and fell onto the floor. The voice continued, soft and gentle: "Miho, don't be afraid. It's me, Grandma. Come closer."
After a moment's hesitation, Miho cautiously pulled back the curtain again. Her grandmother still appeared unconscious, yet the voice persisted: "Miho, don't be scared. It's Grandma. Come here."
Confused, Miho whispered, "Is that really you, Grandma? Why can I hear you?"
"Yes, isn't it strange?" the voice replied. "Perhaps because I'm dying. That must be why this is happening…"
"Grandma… are you going to die?"
"Yes, my dear. I won't make it past tomorrow evening. I learned this while my soul wandered earlier."
Miho's heart sank. Slowly, she knelt beside the bed and took her grandmother's bony hand. In a weak but tender voice, Grandma reassured her: "Don't be sad, Miho. Death isn't something to fear. Just…"
"Just what, Grandma?"
"I regret never seeing my younger brother again after we parted in childhood. Miho, could you lend me your body for one day? I want to visit him."
Miho recoiled instinctively. "No, I can't!"
"But please, Miho. I don't want to leave this world with regrets. Help me, won't you?"
"No, no…" Miho backed away, trembling. Reaching the edge of the curtain, she turned to flee, but Grandma's pleading voice pursued her: "You won't reconsider, Miho? Oh, how I wish to see him again—to know if he's well, to speak to him once more…"
"It's alright, it's alright," the voice softened. "If not, then farewell, Miho. Take care of yourself."
"Goodbye, Miho…"
Miho halted mid-step, her pure eyes clouded with indecision. Then, resolve hardened her features. Slowly, she returned to the bedside and whispered, "Alright, Grandma. I'll help you—but you must promise to come back by five o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
A faint movement stirred beneath the blanket. In a whisper thin but filled with gratitude, Grandma replied, "Thank you, Miho. I'll return without fail."
"I trust you," Miho murmured. "Because you're my grandma."
---
Hashimoto and his wife, having concluded their conversation with the doctor, showed no intention of staying until the end. They entered the room to collect Miho, finding her asleep by the bedside.
Waking her, they urged her to say goodbye. Miho glanced at her still-unconscious "grandmother" and heard a childlike voice echo painfully in her ears: "It hurts, it hurts so much, Grandma. I'm suffering…"
"Say your goodbyes, Miho. We need to catch the bus home," her parents pressed.
"Don't go, Mommy, Daddy! Please don't leave me. It hurts so much…" The voice lingered, unheard by the oblivious Hashimotos.
In her heart, Miho silently vowed: Hold on, Miho. I'll return by five o'clock tomorrow.
She left with her parents, the hospital door closing behind them. Only the ghostly plea remained: "Don't go… I'm scared, so scared…"
---
The next morning, Miho packed her schoolbag and headed toward the station instead of school. When classmates called after her, she ignored them and ran faster.
Embodying her youthful vitality anew, she reveled in the absence of pain. Passing a stone bridge, she spotted hopscotch squares drawn on the pavement and leapt joyfully. Her movements were fluid, energetic; her laughter rang clear as she raced through fields and parks, savoring the crisp scent of grass.
Perched on a rock, she fashioned a makeshift jacks game with pebbles and handkerchiefs, humming an old nursery rhyme: "One, two, three, wrap them in cloth. A seventeen-year-old sister holds flowers and incense. Where is she going…"
Suddenly remembering the time, she checked the sun's position and sprinted toward the train station. After hours of travel, she reached a remote town and slipped into a stranger's yard.
Inside, a middle-aged woman fed porridge to a bedridden man, scolding him harshly as droplets spilled down his neck. Interrupted by a phone call, she stormed off cursing.
Seizing the opportunity, Miho tiptoed in, kneeling beside the frail figure. Gently holding his hand, she spoke softly: "Masao, it's me, Tomoko. I'm not angry. You couldn't defy your parents' wishes—I understand. I've never blamed you…"
The old man stared at her blankly. At first he was confused, then tears slowly welled up and trickled from the corners of his cloudy eyes. Miho wiped them away tenderly, feeding him spoonfuls of cooled porridge. He swallowed weakly, attempting speech but failing. Smiling, she stroked his cheek and continued feeding him.
When the woman returned, fury contorted her face. "Who are you? Why aren't you in school? What do you think you're doing?"
Caught off guard, Miho stammered an apology and fled, only to be caught and dragged to the local police station. When Miho's mother finally arrived at the police station, Miho was sitting in an office under the watchful eye of a female officer. Her mother, visibly livid, immediately began rifling through Miho's schoolbag. Without hesitation, she slapped Miho hard across the face, shouting, "Skipping school and stealing money—what were you thinking? Are you out of your mind?"
The policewoman, startled by the sudden outburst, quickly stepped in to restrain Miho's mother. But the woman wasn't about to calm down; she lunged again, intent on landing another blow. The two struggled briefly until the officer managed to subdue her anger. When the commotion finally settled and the policewoman turned around, Miho was gone.
Panicking, the officer rushed outside but found no trace of the girl.
Miho had already fled the police station, hailing a taxi headed toward the rural hospital. As twilight descended, anxiety gnawed at her heart. Sitting in the backseat, she silently prayed: "Hang on, Miho. You have to hold on."
But halfway through the journey, the taxi screeched to a halt. The driver twisted around, suspicion etched across his face. "How much money do you have?" he demanded gruffly.
Miho pulled out her wallet and showed him what little cash she had. He frowned, snatched it all, and muttered, "This barely covers the ride so far." With that, he ordered her out of the car.
Now stranded far from her destination—and well past the 5 PM deadline—Miho gritted her teeth and started climbing overgrown mountain paths as a shortcut to the hospital. The trail was treacherous, with sharp branches occasionally whipping her cheeks and loose rocks sending her stumbling forward more than once. Each step was clumsy and painful, yet she pressed on, driven by sheer determination despite the growing darkness enveloping her surroundings. Exhausted but resolute, she reached the hospital just as night enveloped the land.
True Miho lay writhing in agony, her voice too weak for others to hear: "Grandma… please come back… I'm scared… I don't want to die…"
"Miho" rushed to the bedside, grasping the frail hand. "I'm sorry, Miho. You've suffered so much…"
---
Murakami Iori exhaled deeply. What a clever short script! It embodied mainstream values—family bonds, trust, perseverance—and the soul-swapping twist was ingenious. With minimal settings and moderate acting demands, production costs would remain low. The only drawback was its brevity, likely spanning no more than twenty minutes—not nearly enough to sustain an entire season.
Disappointed, she prepared to close the manuscript when another scene caught her eye.
A funeral hall? Was this meant to tug at heartstrings, showing Miho grieving beside her grandmother's altar?
It felt unnecessary—a rookie mistake, perhaps. Still, curiosity compelled her to turn the page.
---
Thirty years later, the funeral hall hosted Miho, now a composed middle-aged woman. Clad in black mourning attire, her hair neatly pinned up, she stood solemnly before her late mother's portrait.
As guests departed, Miho stared blankly at the photo. A voiceover echoed: "Twenty years after my father died of food poisoning, my mother passed too. For a decade, she lay bedridden, enduring untold suffering. Like Grandma, her passing was agonizing…"
Lost in thought, Miho turned away, her lips curling into a faint smile. Retrieving a handkerchief, she tied it into a ball and tossed it lightly, humming the same nursery rhyme: "One, two, three, wrap them in cloth. A seventeen-year-old sister holds flowers and incense. Where is she going…"
---
Goosebumps prickled Murakami Iori's skin. What did this mean? Had the body been returned—or betrayed? Did Grandma renege at the last moment? Was this revenge against her children?
Where was the promised warmth and trust? This sudden reversal left her unsettled. Such a kind-hearted child condemned unjustly by someone she trusted—it was unbearable.
Yet, undeniably… this script was fascinating.