Fabricated Love

Chapter 26: Fabricated Love

Sunlight spilled through the trees in long golden fingers, painting the shrine in an ethereal glow. Shiro stood motionless at the center of it all, talisman clenched in his hand, breathing in air that finally felt pure. His body ached with exhaustion, but his heart was light—almost weightless, as if the centuries of guilt and pain had somehow been lifted from his shoulders.

He blinked. Then again. And again.

This... was real, wasn't it?

A soft voice called his name.

"Shiro."

He turned. Fuyumi stood at the edge of the clearing, smiling gently. Her auburn hair caught the light like fire, and her eyes shimmered with something between relief and affection.

"You did it," she whispered, stepping toward him.

"Fuyumi...?" he said hoarsely, heart skipping. "What are you doing here?"

"We've been looking everywhere for you," she said. "You’ve been gone for two days."

Shiro blinked. Two days?

Behind her, more figures emerged from the trees.

Daiki. Haruna. Even Yuuto, with a rare soft expression. They all looked tired but grateful. United. As if nothing had ever broken between them.

"You vanished," Daiki said, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was hesitant. "We were worried sick. I thought... I thought I'd lost you again."

Shiro opened his mouth to respond, but emotion caught in his throat. This couldn't be happening. Not after everything.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For everything I did. For hurting you. For all of it."

Daiki stepped closer.

"I forgive you."

Shiro started.

"You... what?"

"I forgive you," Daiki repeated. "We all do. You’re not that person anymore. You’ve changed."

Fuyumi took his hand in both of hers, warm and soft. "You've suffered enough. You deserve peace now."

He collapsed to his knees, the words hitting him like a hammer to the chest. Tears burned down his cheeks. He didn’t deserve this. He couldn’t. Not after the blood. Not after the cruelty. Not after the voice of the god itself told him he was broken.

Yet, here they were. Smiling. Holding him. Forgiving him.

Maybe this was what it meant to be free.

They walked back to the town together.

Every street was bathed in golden hour light, warm and nostalgic. The houses, the lampposts, the scattered cherry blossoms fluttering down—everything was serene. People he hadn’t seen in months waved at him. His teachers smiled. His classmates greeted him like an old friend.

There was no judgment.

Only joy.

No one whispered behind his back. No one flinched when they saw him. No one remembered the Shiro who’d spat venom, who’d isolated himself, who’d once screamed obscenities in the middle of class.

At school, he passed by the hallway where he’d once made Fuyumi cry. Now she waited by his locker with two lunch boxes—one for her, one for him.

In the courtyard where Daiki had once walked away from him, they now sat side by side, watching clouds pass overhead.

Time passed. Not quickly. Not slowly.

Just... peacefully.

Shiro slept better. Ate better. Laughed more.

They studied together for finals. They planned a summer trip. They talked about dreams and futures like they weren’t dragging corpses behind them.

And no one ever brought up the shrine.

No one mentioned the god.

No one mentioned what he endured, what he saw, what he chose.

It didn’t matter. He was home.

One night, as fireflies blinked lazily in the warm air, Shiro and Fuyumi sat beneath the sakura trees outside her house. She leaned against his shoulder, humming some forgotten song.

"Do you ever wonder," he asked softly, "if we’re really awake? If this is real?"

She looked up, her eyes shining.

"Does it matter?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to scream that it mattered more than anything.

But her warmth was real. Her heartbeat beside him was real. The way she said his name like it was something precious—that had to be real.

So he said nothing.

And time went on.

Until one night, alone in his room, he saw the first crack.

He turned off the lights and climbed into bed—but the darkness wasn’t empty.

I watched.

There was no figure. No sound. But he felt it.

A presence in the corner. Still. Patient.

Waiting.

He sat up, heart racing, sweat beading his forehead.

He whispered, "Who's there?"

Silence.

And then—just barely—something shifted in the mirror.

Not his reflection.

A version of him. But not smiling. Not at peace.

Eyes black. Skin pale. Staring.

And in that moment, something inside him cracked.

This wasn’t real.

None of it was.

He woke up the next day and tried to pretend he hadn’t seen it.

But the illusion had already begun to fray.

The people in the halls began to blur at the edges. Their faces repeated like patterns. Their voices echoed the same phrases again and again. "You’ve changed." "You’re forgiven." "You’re home."

Fuyumi’s hands were colder. Her laughter was slightly off-beat.

Daiki’s eyes lingered a little too long when he thought Shiro wasn’t looking.

And when Shiro asked about the shrine—really asked—the world stopped responding.

It would smile.

And shift the subject.

One night, Shiro sat alone on the swings, watching the stars. The world around him was too quiet. Like someone had muted the wind. The leaves. The insects.

He said aloud, to no one:

"What did I really choose?"

The world didn’t answer.

But the talisman in his pocket grew warm.

And somewhere far away—a bell tolled.

Not from this world.

But from the one underneath it.

Shiro stood.

He knew, then.

The trial had never ended.

It had only changed forms.