Chapter 23 — “The House Without Mirrors”

The house stood at the edge of the cliff, battered by salt and wind, abandoned for years.

Its windows were empty sockets staring toward the sea, paint peeling, boards creaking with every gust.

To anyone else, it would seem desolate, unwelcoming.

To Mizuki, it was paradise.

> “No mirrors,” she whispered as they stepped inside, shedding their wet coats.

Himari raised an eyebrow.

“No mirrors?”

“We won’t need them,” Mizuki said softly. “I’ll always see you. And you… you’ll always see me. That’s enough.”

The inside smelled faintly of mold and dust, the sea breeze carrying salt and decay through broken window panes.

Himari followed Mizuki through empty rooms, the wooden floorboards groaning under their weight.

They passed the fireplace where ashes of old fires lay cold, and the long hallway that seemed endless in the dim light.

> “This will be our world,” Mizuki murmured. “No one can find us here. No one can touch us.”

Himari nodded, swallowing hard. The air felt heavy, yet freeing, the kind of freedom that exists only when the world has already ended.

---

They set up a small room as a bedroom. A tattered rug on the floor, a blanket thrown across it.

Mizuki unpacked a few belongings she had carried: sketchbooks, pencils, a small wooden box filled with keepsakes from her childhood.

> “This will be our home,” she said. “Here, we can create anything… even ourselves.”

Himari watched her. She saw the glint of obsession in Mizuki’s eyes—the need to preserve everything, to keep Himari close, to lock the world outside forever.

> “And if we’re stuck here?” Himari asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Then we’ll be perfect,” Mizuki whispered, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face.

---

Days passed with eerie tranquility.

They ate, drew, whispered secrets, slept side by side.

The sea roared outside, relentless, unyielding, a constant reminder of the vast world beyond their fragile sanctuary.

And yet, within the walls of the house, time dissolved.

Mizuki sketched Himari constantly—her hands, her sleeping face, the way her hair fell across her eyes.

Himari caught herself watching Mizuki, memorizing the soft line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the tremble in her fingers.

It was love and madness intertwined, inseparable.

> “Do you remember the wisteria tree?” Mizuki asked one evening, tracing the outline of Himari’s hand in a sketchbook.

“Yes,” Himari said softly.

“This is better. No one can see us. No one can tell us what we are.”

---

But cracks began to show.

Mizuki’s obsession grew more pronounced. She would check Himari’s wrists for scratches, tug gently at her clothes if they brushed another surface, murmur questions about leaving or staying.

Himari noticed bruises on Mizuki’s own wrists—faint, hidden under sleeves. Self-inflicted, obsessive, pleading.

> “Why do you hurt yourself?” Himari asked one night, kneeling beside her.

“So you’ll see me,” Mizuki said softly, eyes wide. “So you won’t forget me. So you’ll never leave.”

Himari felt a shiver crawl down her spine.

> “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, pressing a hand to Mizuki’s chest. “I promise.”

And yet, the house without mirrors became a prison as much as a haven.

Walls absorbed every whispered secret, every shiver, every gasp.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly, making each day both blissful and unbearable.

---

One morning, Himari found Mizuki arranging shells by the window, each one polished, each one broken at the edges.

> “Why do you do this?” Himari asked.

“Because it’s beautiful,” Mizuki said simply. “Because even broken things can be perfect if you hold them carefully. Like us.”

Himari watched the waves crashing below the cliff.

She could feel the weight of inevitability pressing on her chest.

The outside world—the reality of the police, of Reina, of rumors—still existed.

And yet here, they were untouchable. Free. Obsessed. Damned.

---

At night, the sea breeze carried whispers through the broken panes.

Mizuki would trace Himari’s face with trembling fingers, memorizing, cataloging, claiming.

Himari would let herself be claimed, letting the madness wash over her like water, letting herself forget everything except the warmth, the obsession, the impossible intimacy.

> “Here,” Mizuki whispered, “we’re perfect. Forever.”

And for a fleeting moment, Himari believed it.

Until she realized that perfection in a house without mirrors meant that no one could reflect what was truly inside them—no one could see the cracks, the darkness, the inevitable collapse.

They were two fragile things, trapped together in a world built to protect their obsession, unaware that the sea outside was waiting.