What You Lost

Reina’s knuckles struck the lacquered door. She waited, then knocked again, harder. The porch light sputtered alive, distorted glow bleeding through dusty glass. Moth wings beat a frantic rhythm against the bulb. The deadbolt scraped open from within.

A couple stood framed in the doorway. The woman’s kimono was immaculate, her silver-streaked hair drawn into a perfect knot. The man beside her wore a starched work shirt, creases sharp enough to cut. They shared the same expression—polite smiles, dulled by caution.

“Are you hurt?” the man asked. “Bites? Scratches?”

She sagged against the porch post, eyelids heavy. “No. We’re tired and just need to rest.” She motioned to Ren slumped against the wall, head tilted, staring at them as if deciding whether they were real.

“Were you with anyone? A group?”

“We were. We got separated after the fire.”

Something passed between the pair—quick, electric. The man leaned forward, voice lowering.

“Up in the valley. That was you?”

“Yes. I don’t know what happened. One second, things were fine… the next…”

The woman’s nails tapped the doorframe once. The man’s lips curved upward. “Better come inside, then,” he said, stepping back into the hallway’s shadows.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

The couch’s vinyl upholstery protested under Ren’s weight with a squeak. The man—Furuya Genji, as he’d introduced himself with a bow, gripped Ren’s elbow with calloused fingers and eased him down with surprising strength. When he shifted, dark streaks from his clothes stained the pristine surface. The woman’s gaze flicked to the marks and she forced her smile to hold.

Reina hovered close, words tumbling between shallow breaths: the faint glow they’d followed through the streets, the miracle of finding intact walls and a roof when their legs had nearly given out.

His pulse was still stuttering. Tremors—brief lights behind the eyes. Each heartbeat echoed in his head. Mana. It clung to him, humming soundlessly beneath his skin. He told himself it was nothing.

“When everything went bad,” Genji said, “people scattered like roaches when the light comes on. The wise ones burrowed in. The rest?” He made a fluttering motion with her fingers. “Off they went—into the trees or back to the city. Didn’t matter which. Both were deathtraps. We saw you two coming through the mist against all that fire. Thought you were spirits walking out of hell.”

Ren studied the living room. Not a speck of dust marred the floorboards’ shine, no fingerprints smudged the brass. Framed certificates filled the walls beside bland landscapes that matched the furniture.

In every photograph, Genji and his wife, Furuya Tomoe, stood at attention—identical smiles frozen across decades.

Reina’s voice softened into gratitude. “Thank you again. It’s no wonder you’re alive. It’s so quiet here.”

“We preserve it carefully,” Genji murmured, his glance flicking toward the window. “Those things hunt by sound. We’ve watched them from behind the curtains—packs of them chasing a bird call.”

Ren looked toward that same window. His reflection stared back—washed out. He flexed his hand.

Genji’s grin widened above his steaming cup. “By the way, you two look close. More than travel companions, maybe?”

Reina sputtered. “We’re not—not like that…” she managed between coughs, color flooding her cheeks.

“Ah, these days—who can tell with the young?”

“My husband forgets himself.” Tomoe’s expression didn’t change; her glare was glacial. She set her cup down with the delicate finality of a blade finding its slot.

Something thudded upstairs—followed by lighter, uneven steps. Genji glanced at the ceiling. “The children,” he said. “Still learning the rules of our little sanctuary.” He rose. “We’ll see to them. Make yourselves comfortable. Just don’t pocket the heirlooms while we’re gone.”

Tomoe smoothed her apron. “Enjoy the tea. We won’t be long.” The door clicked nearly shut, left ajar so sound could slip through.

“They’re… nice,” Reina said. “Guess some people really can hold it together.”

His eyes lingered on the door.

“Guess so…”

The wall clock ticked a half-beat off from his pulse. He could feel the faint hum beneath his ribs. It wasn’t pain exactly—more like a resonance trapped in bone. A cold ache. A quiet gauge of what he’d burned through—and what little remained.

Reina sank into the cushions, exhaling as though letting go of something she’d carried for miles.

“After that explosion… you think anyone made it?”

“I…”

“You don’t know… I get it. Sorry, I know. I’m just worried sick about Lilly.” Reina’s voice trembled on the name. “Makabe-san, everyone—they’ll keep her safe. Right?”

He nodded, a lie meant to hold her together. He wanted to believe it too.

“The world’s ending and I—” She twisted a loose thread on her sleeve. “Whatever you’re not saying, whatever you’re holding back… I’d listen… You don’t have to carry it alone.”

“You sound like Yuka.”

“A few days ago I was worrying about exams. If someone had told me the world was ending, I’d have laughed. Now… I think I’d believe anything.”

He traced the red strands framing her face. For a moment, her features blurred with another’s. She’s not her. He forced his gaze away.

“How’s your head?”

“You’re making jokes now?” She studied him, brows knitting. “Aren’t you scared?”

“I am.”

“I’m not convinced. Nothing seems to touch you, Ren. Even now, you’re like a man behind glass. Don’t you fear dying? Or watching someone you care about die? Isn’t that terrifying?”

“I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t…” His voice came out softer than intended.

Her mouth parted slightly, words forming then dying on her lips. Her eyes retreated to the teacup cooling between her palms.

The hum inside him deepened—resonant. He saw the copper in her hair, the pulse at her throat, the faint cut above her brow. What scared him most wasn’t the monsters or even death itself.

What terrifies me is a world without you in it.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

Ren fought to keep his eyes open. Every blink dragged, and in those moments when his lids fell and rose again, the wallpaper seemed to pulse with movement. He told himself it was fatigue, nothing more.

Wood creaked beneath an unseen weight. He looked to the hallway, catching a flicker of motion in the dark. Something peered through the banister rails—a child, with pale skin and eyes that swallowed light. Hair hacked short, uneven. When he focused, the figure folded into the dark and was gone.

Reina’s whisper brushed his ear.

“What is it?”

“One of their children, I think.”

“I thought they were all upstairs?”

The overhead bulb stuttered, shadows jerking across the ceiling before the weak light steadied again.

Ren turned the empty teacup in his hands. The porcelain was warm but fading. He set it down.

The same boy stood in the doorway. The oversized nightshirt slid off one shoulder.

Reina straightened.

“Oh—hello?”

The boy stayed silent. His gaze flicked from Ren to her, then lingered on the untouched plates. Slowly, he raised one hand, a single finger extended—not pointing at them, but up. He turned and climbed the stairs without a sound.

“That boy,” Reina’s voice trembled. “His eyes…”

He didn’t answer.

Laughter fractured the hush. Genji’s voice filled the hall, too large for the room it entered. Tomoe glided in behind him, her expression identical to the one she’d worn an hour before.

“Apologies,” he said, drying his hands. “Our little ones forget what noise can cost us. They just needed a reminder.”

Tomoe’s teeth caught the light. “Children will be children,” she said.

“By the way, you two never told us your names.” Genji’s attention drifted toward Reina as he took his seat again. “Shouldn’t speak to strangers without introductions.”

“Aokawa Reina,” she answered automatically. “And this is Hanashiro Ren.”

“Aokawa.” Genji rolled her name on his tongue, savoring it. “Like the blue river. It suits you.”

Reina inclined her head. “You’re truly kind…”

Tomoe’s lips curved again, a shape more gesture than emotion. “We couldn’t turn away survivors. Not with what lurks in the fog.” Her fingers tapped once against the cup. “It’s nearly dawn. You should rest while you can.”

He studied her. There was weight behind those words—the kind people used when they were really giving orders.

Genji rose, the chair scraping across the polished floor. “The east wing has several vacant rooms,” he said. “Take the one at the very end. Just don’t wander. Old house. Easy to get hurt in.”

Ren pushed himself up, legs steady enough. Without thinking, his hand found Reina’s. “We’ll be sleeping together,” he said, deliberately.

Reina flushed.

━━━━━━━━━━𝑾𝑪𝑨━━━━━━━━━━

Upstairs, the air smelled faintly of candle wax.

Their steps echoed, louder than they should have. The walls were lined with more photographs—Genji and Tomoe beside strangers in formal attire, the settings different, the smiles identical.

Reina traced her fingers along a frame. “They’re all the same.”

At the corridor’s bend, a single door broke the symmetry—oak stained nearly black, with an iron handle. Beside it, a bookcase sat a shade askew—far enough to swing and darken the door completely. He paused, memorizing the placement before moving on.

A paper lantern glowed faintly above the room they couple had mentioned. He opened the door. The light switch clicked uselessly. Only the hallway’s amber spill cut through the dark, catching dust motes that drifted.

“I don’t know if it’s because of everything that’s happened, or because I can’t stop thinking about Lilly, but…” Reina wrapped her arms tight. “Something about this feels wrong.”

“Either way,” Ren said, “you should sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“I don’t know that I can.”

“Try. You hit your head pretty hard back there.”

She sat at the bed’s edge, eyes locked on the curtains. Beyond the thin fabric, fog pressed against the windowpane, swelling and retreating with each slow gust.

“What about you? Your legs were barely working an hour ago. With Lilly missing… if something happened to you too—”

“Save your strength,” he murmured. “You need to sleep.”

She bit her lip.

“Ren,” she said. “When I was unconscious—how did we escape? Why are we the only ones who made it?”

His jaw tightened.

“We survived. Focus on that.”

He reached for the lantern’s switch and the light died.