Chapter 14: Unraveling

  Shiro hadn't heard his own voice in days.

  It wasn't silence exactly—he still existed in noise. The hum of the refrigerator. The soft scratch of pencil against paper. The drone of teachers he didn't really listen to anymore. But his own voice? It felt like it belonged to someone else now. He'd lost the rhythm of speaking, the tether of dialogue. Words tasted strange when he mouthed them. Too soft. Too thick.

  He'd stopped brushing his hair. It tangled into uneven tufts that stuck out at odd angles. His uniform was always slightly off—shirt misbuttoned, tie loose, sleeves rolled differently. He never noticed. He barely noticed the time anymore.

  But he always woke up at 3:07 AM.

  That part was consistent.

  It was the only constant left in his world, the one rule that remained intact. Time, once a loose and meaningless flow, snapped to sharp clarity in that moment. His eyes would open without prompting. No dream. No sound.

  Just the dark.

  And always, always that feeling.

  Like breathing on his neck. Like fingers wrapping around his ankle under the blankets. Like something just out of sight—watching.

  The fifth night he woke up like that, Shiro sat up slowly, mechanically. He didn't look around this time. He didn't reach for his phone. He simply whispered, I hear you.

  There was no reply. Not in words. But the room changed.

  The air became thicker—dense and wet, like he was underwater. Shadows stretched too far, curling along the walls like claws. The posters on his wall bled into each other. The edges of reality smudged like charcoal dragged across wet paper.

  Then came the tapping.

  Tap… tap… tap…

  Not from the window. From inside the closet.

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  Soft. Rhythmic. Like long fingers drumming bone against wood.

  Shiro didn't move. He stared forward, hands clenched, muscles rigid. He was sure—certain—that if he opened that door, he wouldn't see his clothes or books.

  He'd see the forest.

  That same gnarled woodland. That same impossible geometry. And her.

  The girl.

  The one with the broken smile.

  The days were not easier. If anything, they were worse.

  People stared now. Even teachers. Shiro walked the halls with a sluggish, eerie gait, his steps too quiet, his eyes too wide. Students parted around him like he was diseased. Only the bold—or the cruel—still approached him.

  Yo, zombie, one of the usual tormentors grinned, stepping into his path near the lockers. Lose your soul in the woods or something?

  Shiro didn't respond. He kept walking.

  The boy shoved him.

  Hard.

  Shiro stumbled back, books spilling from his arms. Pages fluttered across the floor—sketches mostly. All of them are disturbing. Trees with teeth. Eyeless children. The shrine, again and again, was drawn more violently each time. Cracks running through the torii gate. Bleeding roots. Screaming birds.

  The bully crouched and picked one up.

  What the hell is this? He laughed, then held it up to his friends. Yo, you guys seeing this freak show?

  Shiro looked at the paper. His eyes didn't blink.

  That one isn't finished, he said quietly. It's missing your corpse.

  The laughter stopped.

  For a long moment, the hallway fell into an unnatural hush.

  Then the bell rang.

  Sora cornered him after class.

  He hasn't responded to her texts or DMs. Hadnt come to lunch. Barely even blinked at her in class.

  Now she grabbed his sleeve, pulling him aside behind the old gym building, where no one could overhear.

  Shiro, please. Her voice cracked. You're scaring me. What's going on with you?

  He didn't answer.

  You've changed, she went on, biting her lip. Not just the sleep stuff. Not just zoning out. You look like you're seeing things the rest of us can't.

  His mouth twitched.

  I am, he said softly.

  She blinked. What?

  I see things, he whispered. Behind your eyes. In your shadow. Under your skin. You don't even know it yet, do you?

  Sora's breath caught.

  Shiro looked up at her for the first time in days.

  They know I talked to it, he said. The thing in the shrine. The girl—or whatever wore her face. She showed me something. And now I can't unsee it.

  Shiro, please—

  Time is breaking, Sora. Or maybe it never worked right to begin with. Have you ever seen blood run backward? Heard laughter from a toothless mouth?

  She stared, tears welling.

  You need help, she whispered.

  Shiro smiled.

  But it wasn't his smile. It was too wide. Too knowing.

  And too afraid.

  That night, Shiro stayed awake.

  He kept every light on.

  He stacked salt around the closet.

  He turned his mirror to face the wall and duct-taped a blanket over it.

  But at 3:07 AM, he still sat up.

  His body still moved.

  And in the silence, something knocked.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Then a voice—his own voice, but older, frayed—whispered from behind the closet door:

  Let me back in.