Chapter 4: Weekend

The weekend arrived like a long-awaited exhale, a reprieve from the chaos of school, people, and that unnerving raccoon. 

I woke to the soft glow of sunlight filtering through my apartment windows, the air warm and fresh, carrying the scent of the nearby river. 

No more crowded hallways, no more forced small talk, no more scanning the streets for a raccoon with a paper knife. Just me, Rika, and the quiet of my own space. 

Rika was sprawled across her favorite spot on the couch, sleeping like royalty, her black fur rising and falling with each gentle breath. I smiled, feeling a rare sense of peace. 

“No raccoon today,” I whispered to her, though she didn’t stir. “Just you and me, Rika.” The city outside was alive in its own way, but softer on weekends. 

The rivers that wound through the streets sparkled under the sun, ducks gliding along their currents, their quacks mingling with the songs of birds perched in the trees. 

Decades ago, this place was different choked with dust and pollution, the air heavy and acrid. Now, thanks to the energy towers and the city’s commitment to clean living, the breeze was warm and inviting, carrying the earthy tang of the artificial habitats. 

I leaned against the window, watching the ducks paddle lazily, their movements soothing my lingering nerves. This was my city, my sanctuary, where humans and animals coexisted in a delicate, beautiful balance.

But as I stood there, my body gave a sudden shudder, a jolt of unease that came out of nowhere. Rika’s ears twitched, and she snapped awake, her green eyes wide as she leapt off the couch and darted toward the door. 

My heart lurched. “Raccoon?!” I gasped, my voice trembling as I braced myself for that familiar beady-eyed stare. But when I peeked outside, it wasn’t the raccoon. 

It was just Rika’s cat friend, a scruffy tabby from the neighborhood, lounging on the steps. I let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to my chest. “Get it together, Ayumi,” I muttered. “It’s just a cat.”

Still, the scare lingered, prickling at the edges of my mind. To distract myself, I grabbed my headphones, slipped them on, and let music fill the silence something upbeat, loud enough to drown out thoughts of raccoons and paper knives. 

As I moved around the apartment, tidying up absentmindedly, my eyes caught on something in the corner of the room. A book, its cover worn but familiar, tucked behind a stack of old notebooks. 

I frowned, crossing the room to pick it up. “What’s this?” I murmured. “I don’t remember buying you.” It was my childhood favorite, a storybook filled with tales of wonder and mystery. 

I flipped it open, the pages soft and yellowed, and a wave of nostalgia hit me. My fingers traced the title of my favorite story: The Cosmic Serpent. 

I settled onto the couch, Rika curling up beside me, and began to read, the words pulling me back to simpler times. 

“Millions of years ago, there was a serpent, bigger than Earth itself, roaming the universe in search of someone. It scoured every corner of the cosmos, but its search was in vain. 

Desperate, the serpent transformed into five blazing stars, shining as brightly as it could, hoping to be seen. Even now, the Cosmic Serpent waits in the night sky, its light a beacon for the one it seeks.”

I closed the book, my gaze drifting to the window. The story had always captivated me, the idea of something vast and ancient waiting patiently in the stars. 

On clear nights, I could still pick out those five stars, twinkling in a pattern that felt alive. But today, the story stirred something else in me a sense of unease, like the serpent’s search was somehow tied to the strange events of the past few days. 

I shook my head, trying to dismiss the thought. It was just a story. Then my stomach growled, loud enough to startle Rika. I groaned, realizing I hadn’t eaten all day. “Great job, Ayumi,” I muttered. 

Today was supposed to be grocery day, but the thought of stepping outside made my chest tighten. Every time I left the apartment, I saw that raccoon in my mind, its paper knife glinting, its eyes locked on mine. 

I didn’t want to face it again, didn’t want to feel that creeping dread. But I couldn’t starve, and Rika’s food was running low too. I had no choice.

I stood, grabbing my bag and steeling myself. “No raccoon,” I said firmly, as if saying it would make it true. “Just groceries. In and out.” I opened the door, my heart pounding, half-expecting to see those beady eyes staring back at me. 

Instead, I saw something else: a paper knife, its edges crumpled and torn, stabbed into the wood of my door. My breath caught, my body freezing as I stared at it. 

The raccoon was nowhere in sight, but I felt it its presence, heavy and mournful, like a weight pressing down on me.

I scanned the street, the river, the trees. Nothing. But the sadness was palpable, like the air itself was grieving. The raccoon was here, or it had been, and it needed something from me again. 

My hands moved before I could stop them, reaching into my bag for a notebook. I tore out a page, my fingers folding it with practiced ease, creasing it into the shape of a knife. 

It was as if my body was acting on instinct, driven by the raccoon’s silent plea. When I finished, I set the new paper knife on the steps, my hands trembling. “There,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Take it and leave me alone.”

A rustle came from the bushes nearby, and there it was the raccoon, its eyes gleaming as it emerged. It didn’t run toward the knife with the same joy as before. 

Instead, it approached slowly, almost reverently, picking up the paper knife with delicate paws. It looked at me, its gaze softer now, not menacing but… 

grateful? It chirped once, a small, mournful sound, then turned and disappeared into the shadows, the knife clutched tightly.

I stood there, my heart racing, unsure of what had just happened. Why did it keep coming back? Why me? And why did it feel like the raccoon wasn’t just an animal, but something more, 

something tied to the paper knives and maybe even the guy with the magazine? I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of questions. I had groceries to buy. I couldn’t stand here all day, paralyzed by a raccoon.

The trip to the store was uneventful, but my mind was elsewhere. I moved through the aisles mechanically, grabbing essentials bread, milk, cat food while my thoughts churned. 

The raccoon’s sadness, the paper knife’s intricate folds, the Cosmic Serpent waiting in the stars it all felt connected, like pieces of a puzzle I was too afraid to solve. 

By the time I got home, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the apartment. Rika greeted me with a lazy yawn, oblivious to the storm in my head.

I unpacked the groceries, my eyes drifting to the storybook still open on the couch. The Cosmic Serpent’s tale lingered, its search for “someone” echoing my own unease. 

What if the raccoon was searching too? What if it wasn’t just a raccoon, but a sign, a messenger? I pushed the thought away, but it clung to me, stubborn and heavy.

That night, I checked every window and door, locking them tight. Rika curled up beside me as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. 

The stars were out, visible through the skylight, and I traced the pattern of the Cosmic Serpent, its five points glowing faintly. I wanted to believe it was just a story, that the raccoon was just an animal, that the paper knives were just paper. 

But deep down, I knew better. Something was coming, something bigger than me, and the raccoon was only the beginning.

As I drifted toward sleep, a faint sound broke the silence soft, deliberate footsteps, like tiny paws on the floor. My eyes snapped open, but Rika was still beside me, her breathing steady. 

The sound stopped, replaced by a single, chilling chirp from outside. I didn’t dare look at the window. Instead, I pulled the blanket tighter, my heart pounding, and whispered, “No raccoon. Not tonight.”

But I knew it was out there, waiting, its paper knife ready. And tomorrow, I’d have to face it again.

To be continued…