Chapter II: The Hill That Remembers

                                                                 The Hill That Remembers

Night did not fall over Kurotsuki.It settled. Slowly. Deliberately. By eight o’clock, the town had retreated indoors. Warm yellow light glowed behind shoji screens. Distant television sounds drifted faintly through the thin autumn air. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once and then went quiet.

Kuroyama Hill stood darker than the rest of the landscape.
Aika arrived first at the stone steps leading upward. She wore her school jacket over a dark sweater, her hands tucked into her pockets, her expression unreadable. The shrine at the hill’s base loomed beside her, its torii gate casting a long shadow under the moonlight. White paper talismans fluttered against their strings like quiet warnings.
A few minutes later, Ren appeared.
He had almost convinced himself not to come.
Almost.
But pride, loyalty, and something he couldn’t name had driven him forward.
“You’re early,” he said quietly.
“You’re late,” she replied.
His eyes moved up the hill. The staircase was uneven, partially swallowed by creeping moss. Trees lined both sides, their branches arching overhead like ribs forming a tunnel.
At the base of the path stood Takeda Daichi and his friends. They laughed louder than necessary.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” Daichi called.
Aika didn’t look at him. “We’ll be down in an hour.”
Daichi smirked, though something about it seemed forced. “Don’t get lost.”
The words lingered.
Ren swallowed.
Lost.
He didn’t like that word tonight.
________________________________________
The Ascent
The higher they climbed, the quieter the town became. The sound of cicadas faded. Even the wind seemed to thin.
Ren felt it first—the pressure.
Not physical weight. Atmospheric density. As if the air thickened with each step.
“Aika,” he said softly, “if this feels wrong, we leave.”
She didn’t respond immediately.
But she did slow slightly.
At the top of the hill, the old school revealed itself fully.
Kurotsuki Municipal Middle School—closed fifteen years ago.
Its rectangular structure loomed pale beneath the moon. Windows gaped dark and hollow. Weeds had swallowed what used to be the playground. The metal sign near the entrance was rusted.
黒月町立中学校
Moonlight traced the cracked paint like veins.
Ren’s chest tightened. He had seen this building his entire life from a distance.
Up close, it felt—
Alive.
________________________________________
The Entrance
The main doors were wooden and swollen with age.
Aika pushed.
They resisted.
Then gave way with a low, groaning sound that echoed too deeply into the structure.
Ren flinched.
The interior smelled of old wood, dust, and something faintly metallic—like rust or forgotten rainwater.
The hallway stretched before them. Lockers lined the walls. Some doors hung open. Others were bent inward. Moonlight filtered through broken windows, casting long slashes of silver across the floor.
Their footsteps echoed sharply.
Too sharply.
Ren paused. “Does it sound louder than it should?”
Aika tilted her head.
It did.
Each step rebounded unnaturally, as if the building were amplifying their presence. Testing it.
“We stay near the entrance,” Ren said.
“We walk through,” Aika corrected.
She began forward.
Ren followed, his heart pounding hard enough that he felt it in his throat.
________________________________________
The First Sound
They had almost reached the staircase when it began.
Soft. Broken.
A child’s sob.
Ren froze instantly. Aika stopped mid-step.
The crying was distant, but unmistakable.
Not wind. Not wood settling.
Human.
Ren’s rational mind searched desperately for explanation. Animals. Echoes. Tricks of memory.
But no animal cried like that.
The sound carried fear.
Aika looked toward the staircase.
It came from above.
“No,” Ren said immediately.
“We don’t split up,” she replied.
“That’s not what I meant.”
She glanced at him.
For the first time that night, uncertainty flickered behind her composure.
Then it was replaced by resolve.
“We can’t just ignore that.”
Ren’s pulse spiked. “That’s exactly what we can do.”
The crying came again. Longer this time. Closer.
It carried a rawness that cut through his arguments.
Aika moved toward the stairs.
Ren hesitated only two seconds.
Then followed.
________________________________________
The Second Floor
The staircase creaked under their weight. Each step protested.
Halfway up, Ren felt something shift in the air behind them. He turned quickly.
The hallway below was empty.
Still.
Too still.
They reached the second floor.
The corridor stretched long and narrow. Classroom doors lined the left side. Windows on the right overlooked the courtyard below.
The crying was clearer now.
It came from the final classroom at the far end.
Ren’s vision narrowed slightly.
The hallway seemed longer than it should be.
He was certain the building’s layout had never looked this extended from outside.
But perspective can distort under stress, he told himself.
That’s all.
Aika walked steadily. Each step toward the last door felt heavier.
The crying stopped abruptly.
Silence swallowed the corridor.
Ren’s ears rang.
They stood before the final classroom. The door was slightly ajar. Moonlight spilled across the floor inside.
Aika pushed the door open slowly.
It creaked.
And there—
In the far corner of the room—
Sat a small girl.
________________________________________
The Girl
She could not have been older than six. Barefoot. White dress. Hair partially obscuring her face.
Her shoulders trembled faintly.
She was crying again.
Softly now. Almost exhausted.
Aika stepped forward cautiously.
“Hey,” she said gently. “It’s okay.”
The girl lifted her head.
Her eyes were swollen red.
Not glowing. Not unnatural.
Just deeply, painfully sad.
“My name is Sora,” she whispered.
Her voice was fragile.
Ren felt something twist inside his chest.
“What’s your last name?” Aika asked softly.
The girl frowned slightly.
“I… can’t remember.”
Ren’s pulse spiked.
That wasn’t how memory worked. Even frightened children remembered their names.
“How did you get here?” he asked carefully.
“I was playing kakurenbo… hide and seek,” Sora said. “Down the hill.”
Her voice carried no panic now. Only distance.
“I hid here.”
The air inside the classroom felt colder.
Ren glanced toward the hallway.
For a fraction of a second—
He saw it.
At the end of the corridor.
A shape.
Not solid. Not transparent.
A distortion in the air, vaguely shaped like a person.
Its head tilted slightly.
Watching.
Ren blinked.
The hallway was empty again.
His breathing became uneven.
“Aika,” he whispered.
But when he looked back inside the classroom—
Sora was staring at him.
Not crying anymore.
Just watching.
As if she knew he had seen something.
And the silence in that room grew heavier than the darkness itself.