Chapter 8: The Diary in the Abandoned House

After the rain, the air felt cleaner somehow. The streets glistened in the late afternoon light, puddles reflecting bits of sky like fragments of a broken mirror. Haruto walked beside Yui, his schoolbag bouncing against his hip as he tried not to stare too much at her.

It wasn’t unusual for them to walk together now. But today was different.

“Ne, Haruto-kun,” Yui said suddenly, swaying her arms like a child testing balance on a curb. “Do you want to see my house?”

Haruto blinked. “Your house?”

She nodded cheerfully, her smile bright. “Mm! It’s not far. Just a little past the river.”

He hesitated. Until now, Yui had always vanished when they reached the corner by his place. He never asked where she went, as if the question might break whatever fragile spell allowed her to exist beside him. But now… she was offering.

“Sure,” he said softly. “I’d like that.”

Her grin widened. “Then follow me!”

---

They walked through quieter streets, away from the busier market area, until the houses grew older, roofs sagging slightly, wood weathered from years of sun and rain. Yui hummed as she skipped ahead, glancing back often to make sure he followed.

Finally, she stopped in front of a two-story wooden house at the end of a narrow lane.

“This is it,” she announced proudly, spreading her arms.

Haruto slowed, frowning. The house… didn’t look lived in.

The wooden fence leaned at an odd angle, its paint peeling. Vines crawled across the walls, clutching the weathered wood. Windows were clouded with dust, curtains drawn but ragged at the edges. And the front door bore a heavy rusted lock.

“…Yui?” Haruto asked carefully. “Are you sure this is your house?”

She laughed, a little sheepishly. “It’s been a while since I’ve had visitors. Maybe it got messy?”

Messy was one thing. Abandoned was another.

Yui, however, seemed unconcerned. She walked right through the locked gate, pausing only when she realized he couldn’t follow. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

Her smile wavered as she glanced back. “Guess you’ll have to find another way in.”

Haruto stood there for a long moment, heart thudding. Every instinct told him to leave it alone. To pretend. To not peel back the fragile curtain between Yui’s world and his.

But curiosity… and something deeper, something tender, pushed him forward.

---

The side of the house had a loose panel of wood. Haruto slipped through carefully, his shoes crunching against weeds and fallen leaves. When he reached the back, he found a small window slightly ajar. It took some effort, but eventually, he managed to push it open and crawl inside.

The smell hit him first—dust, wood rot, and something faintly metallic, like rust.

The living room was dim, light filtering only weakly through dirty curtains. Furniture was covered in faded white sheets, sagging under years of dust. Cobwebs clung to corners, and the floor creaked with each hesitant step.

Haruto swallowed hard.

“Yui?” he whispered.

Her voice chimed from deeper in the house, bright and cheerful. “In here!”

He followed, each step heavier than the last.

The sound led him to what must have once been a bedroom. The wallpaper peeled in strips, and the closet doors hung crooked. But in the center of the room was a desk. A familiar kind of desk. School-issued, with faint carvings etched into the wood.

And on it lay a small, leather-bound diary.

Haruto’s breath caught.

“Isn’t it cute?” Yui said, appearing beside him as if she’d been there all along. She leaned over the desk, peering at the diary with a fond smile. “I used to write in it all the time.”

He stared at her. “…Yui. How long has it been since you were here?”

She tilted her head, humming. “Hmm… I don’t really remember.”

Haruto’s fingers hovered above the diary. The cover was cracked, the leather stiff with age. Dust coated it, except for a small handprint-sized patch in the center—as if someone invisible had touched it often.

“Can I…?” he asked softly.

Yui smiled. “Go ahead.”

With trembling hands, Haruto opened it.

The first page was filled with neat handwriting, cheerful loops and doodles of flowers in the margins.

April 7th. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom today. I hope high school will be fun. Maybe I’ll even make a new friend.

Haruto’s chest tightened.

He flipped forward.

May 12th. Aya scolded me for being late again. She’s scary sometimes, but she means well. Haruto-kun transferred into our class today. He seemed quiet. I hope I can talk to him someday.

His breath hitched. His name. But that wasn’t possible.

He turned to the last entry. The handwriting was shaky, blotched in places as if the ink had smeared.

June 23rd. It’s raining today. I didn’t bring an umbrella, but a kind boy shared his with me. I wanted to say thank you, but…

The sentence trailed off into nothing.

Haruto’s fingers trembled as he touched the page, the smudged ink.

Behind him, Yui leaned closer, resting her chin on his shoulder though he couldn’t feel the weight.

“Strange, isn’t it?” she murmured. “I don’t remember writing that last part. But it feels… important.”

Haruto’s throat felt tight. He closed the diary gently, holding it to his chest.

The house groaned around them, the silence heavy. Dust danced in the fading light from the window, swirling like spirits themselves.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yui… what happened to you?”

For the first time, she didn’t smile. She only looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

“…I don’t know.”

---

That night, Haruto lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the diary on his desk beside the lamp. His thoughts raced, tangling together—her house, the dust, her name in the diary, the unfinished words.

He should have been afraid. Any rational person would have been. But instead, what he felt most of all… was a kind of sorrow.

Because if the diary was real, if that house was real, then Yui wasn’t just a strange, invisible girl.

She was someone who had lived. And maybe… someone who had died.

Haruto turned, burying his face in the pillow.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he would ask Yui again.

Even if she didn’t want to remember.