Chapter 1 – The Town Submerged in Silence

Shiomori Station looked like a forgotten skeleton. The platform was covered in moss, and the wooden planks creaked under every step, as if complaining about my arrival.

There were no bright signs, no vending machines, not even a clock. Just fog, swallowing the edges of the place until it was reduced to a ghostly stage.

I dragged my suitcase across the damp ground. The echo of its wheels vanished into the mist, as if the town itself had swallowed the sound.

No taxis, no attendant to welcome visitors. The only human figure was an old man sitting on a bench, a closed umbrella resting on his knees.

He watched me silently. I felt like he expected me to say something, but his gaze was so heavy I just nodded my head. He returned a slight gesture, no words exchanged.

I found a small rusted sign pointing toward the town center. ‘Shiomori – 2 km.’ I began to walk.

What felt like hours later, the fog parted, revealing the first houses. They were weathered wooden buildings, blackened with age, with sloping roofs and broken windows. Some seemed inhabited, but many were abandoned, sinking into their own decay. The silence was absolute.

I stopped in front of a small inn. The sign hung crooked: “Minshuku Tsukuyomi.” I remembered my psychiatrist’s recommendations, the words printed on the brochure: “Warm hospitality, fresh air, inspiration by the lake.”

I knocked on the door. After a few seconds, it opened, and a middle-aged woman appeared, wearing a gray kimono and a serious expression.

“Welcome to Shiomori,” she said softly, almost as if not wanting anyone else to hear. “You must be Mizuno-san.”

I nodded. She led me inside. The smell of damp tatami and old wood hit me immediately. The room was lit only by an oil lamp; no electricity in sight.

“We don’t usually get outsiders this time of year,” she said while pouring tea into a bowl. “Even less… people who come alone.”

I didn’t respond. I took a sip. The tea was lukewarm, bitter.

The woman turned her tired eyes back to me.

“I suppose you’re one of those novel writers looking for inspiration in this peaceful place.”

‘Peaceful’ was not the word I would have chosen. I’d say abandoned instead. Nature seemed to be reclaiming the town, determined to erase whatever still clung on.

“No, of course not. I’m an artist… or I was, before…”

“Oh, lack of inspiration. Don’t worry. Lake Tsukuyomi is famous for inspiring people. They say if you pray long enough at its torii, the moon goddess might answer your prayers.”

‘Moon goddess,’ ‘kappas,’ ‘ghosts’… the usual mountain superstitions.

“Yes… that’s what the brochure said. I guess it’s just to attract visitors,” I said with resignation.

“Brochures say many things. It’s late to be out now. Why don’t you settle into your room? There will be fish for dinner tonight,” the woman said.

I suppose I can’t complain any further… I’m supposed to be here to clear my head, and I don’t even have cell service. Maybe it’s better to disconnect altogether.

“Thank you,” I said at last, heading to my room.

When I entered, everything felt frozen in time. A traditional room: a wooden table and chair next to the window, faintly lit by a soft lamp.

I placed my suitcase beside the closet. The futon was ready, and to my surprise, it smelled familiar… jasmine. My favorite scent.

I set my sketch folder, pencils, and other belongings on the table. Then, a whisper, muffled by the wind’s murmur, seemed to call my name.

I spun around, heart pounding, searching to confirm I was alone. For a moment, I thought it might be an elaborate trap from my editor and psychiatrist—a cruel joke.

Nothing.

Silence reclaimed the room, but that whisper forced me finally to look toward the window. And there it was: Lake Tsukuyomi. Its surface was covered by a light mist, framed by the pines around it.

Like something from a horror movie. Not inspiring me in the slightest. Yet I stayed there for hours watching it… or maybe it was the lake watching me.

I doubt it. It’s just stagnant water in the middle of a mountain. Nothing more.

I stepped away from the window, trying to convince myself it was nothing more than tiredness. A long day, a forgotten town, a lake wrapped in fog… nothing else.

I lay down on the futon, the scent of jasmine clinging to my skin. I closed my eyes.

Then I heard it again. A whisper, clear this time, soft, too close.

“Ayaka…”

I snapped my eyes open.

The room was empty. Only the lamp flickering.

But in the window’s glass, the lake’s reflection seemed to curve into a smile.