Ubume.

That night, alone in my room, the silence was suffocating. Every creak of the house sounded like a ghostly footstep. I couldn't sleep. The thought of that weeping woman being only visible to me, following me across continents, was psychological warfare. It was worse than any jump scare; it was the slow, insidious realization that reality was broken.

I needed answers. I pulled out my laptop, the screen illuminating my face in the dark, and typed the most specific, unhinged search query I could think of: "Japanese woman crying bloody ripped clothes urban legend."

The first few pages were useless: links to horror movie reviews, "Top 10 Scariest Ghosts," and some really questionable fan fiction. I was about to give up when I hit a Wikipedia entry that snagged my attention: Ubume (産女).

I started reading.

The Ubume is a yōkai or spirit from Japanese folklore, usually described as a crying or grieving woman who died in childbirth. She is often seen on dark, rainy nights, sometimes holding a baby wrapped in a bloody cloth.

I slammed the laptop lid half-closed. No. Stop. That's too close.

I took a few shaky breaths and forced myself to continue reading, tracing the words on the screen with my finger.

The myth split into a few regional variations. The one that sent a new, sharp spike of ice through my heart was this:

A common version holds that the Ubume will appear to adult males, often asking them to hold her baby for a moment. When the man agrees and she vanishes, the baby in his arms transforms into a giant rock, boulder, or a Buddhist statue. The immense weight is often said to crush the unfortunate victim.

I sat back, staring at the screen, my mouth slightly agape.

My mind started spiraling, executing a perfect, sickening descent into paranoia and madness.

Crying woman? Check. Targeting adult males? Well, I was fourteen, but I was tall for my age. Maybe the ghost's eyesight was bad. Or maybe the goal was just to mess with me before the real crush-a-human-with-a-boulder part. The baby turning into a giant rock... It was such a ridiculous, absurd, cartoonishly terrible way to die. It didn't make any sense.

I felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in my chest. It wasn't the sound of amusement; it was the sound of a mind hitting its breaking point. I covered my mouth to stifle the noise—a choked, barking sound that echoed in the dark room.

"Why me?" I whispered into my palms, the question sounding hollow and meaningless. "I just wanted a decent vacation selfie! I didn't ask to be part of some ancient, high-stakes game of 'Hot Potato' with a spiritual bowling ball!"

The more I laughed, the more terrified I became. The entire situation was so dumb. It was medieval folklore intersecting with a twenty-first-century cell phone, and the intersection point was me, Shiraishi Mamoru, a kid who just wanted to rank up in his favorite RPG.

I spent the rest of the night checking my phone every five minutes, convinced that the Ubume would somehow claw her way out of my screen and hand me a tiny, life-ending pebble.

The next few days blurred into a haze of sleep deprivation and constant fear. I walked around school like a zombie who had just found out his favorite streaming service was discontinuing his show. The only thing that managed to pull me out of my anxiety loop, even for a few minutes, was the unexpected presence of Ueno.

She was like a walking anti-anxiety pill, dispensing cheerful chatter and zero judgment. She started accompanying me not just to the station, but almost the whole way home. I was too mentally fatigued to object, and honestly, having her there was a weirdly potent defense mechanism. Maybe ghosts couldn't handle that much sunshine.

One day, as we walked past the neighborhood corner store, Ueno stopped.

"My dad owns this place," she said, tapping the laminated 'Open' sign. "I'm heading in to grab a drink. Want anything? It's on the house! Only for you, Shiraishi-kun!"

The phrase "Only for you" hit me sideways. It was so utterly genuine, so unexpectedly sweet. A sudden, mortifying blush crept up my neck and across my face. It was a reaction I hadn't felt since I was like, nine, and someone complimented my haircut.

I looked away, scratching the back of my neck with exaggerated force. "..Sure," I mumbled, trying to sound cool and casual, failing miserably. "Something cold, I guess."

We went inside. The store was a perfect slice of a typical Japanese konbini: shelves neatly stocked, the gentle hum of the freezers, the smell of hot fried chicken mixing with fresh coffee.

Behind the counter was a man who looked exactly how you'd expect a convenience store owner to look: perpetually tired, but fundamentally decent. That was Ueno's dad.

"Oh, Ueno, you're back early," he said, then glanced at me. His eyes, though tired, were immediately skeptical. It was the classic "Who is this suspiciously anxious boy hanging out with my daughter?" look.

Ueno, oblivious, beamed. "Dad, this is Shiraishi-kun! He's my classmate! He's picking out a free snack!"

Her dad sighed, a sound that conveyed twenty years of dealing with teenage whims. "Fine, fine. On the house, then. But just the one item, Ueno."

We wandered toward the refrigerated section. I picked out the most expensive, ridiculously oversized ice cream bar I could find—the kind that promises an entire experience. Ueno grabbed a bag of her favorite chips and bounced on the balls of her feet.

We left, me with my frozen prize, Ueno happily skipping with her bag of snacks.

Once we were a safe distance away, I slowed down, licking the melting ice cream that was already threatening to drip all over my uniform.

"..Why do you spend time with me?" The question slipped out, quiet and sincere. I needed to know. Was it pity? A dare?

Ueno stopped dead, turning to face me. The skipping stopped. She was suddenly completely still.

Her face went from cheerful to a deep, radiating fluster. Her eyes darted away, fixed on a spot somewhere over my shoulder.

"Because... I just... I like walking with you," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "I don't really know why myself. You're... quiet, and it's nice."

Her honesty was like a punch to the gut. My own face flushed immediately, matching her deep crimson blush. It was too much sincerity for my paranoid, trauma-ridden brain to handle.

Before I could process the sudden shift in atmosphere, she seemed to realize how much she had revealed. She let out a small, self-dismissive noise—"Ugh, never mind!"—and immediately started jogging away, leaving me standing there with a rapidly melting ice cream bar and an absolutely bewildered heart.

That night, lying in bed, I was still thinking about it. My fingers played with a strand of my hair, tracing the unexpected warmth that had bloomed when she said, "I like walking with you." For the first time in days, my mind wasn't on the weeping woman, the giant crushing rock, or the terrifying absurdity of my fate. It was on Ueno's flustered face and the comforting, mundane reality of a shared convenience store treat.

The stress of the Ubume was a constant, terrifying weight. Ueno was a moment of lightness, a necessary, cheerful break.