The warmth hit them immediately. A small stove in the center of the room glowed red, the metal crackling softly as it radiated heat through the otherwise lifeless store.
Dust floated in beams of amber light, falling on shelves stacked with candy long expired, comics curling at the edges, and tiny toys frozen in place like they'd been waiting for decades to be picked up.
The walls were lined with paper posters of old anime heroes and forgotten kaiju films, all faded until their colors bled into the wood.
Celia wandered in with awe in her eyes. "Whoa… It's like stepping into… I don't know, history? Like a secret room in a Ghibli movie. Look at that soda! And—wait—is that a kokeshi doll? And these wrappers… These look like they're from the 70s!"
She picked up a tiny robot figure and blew gently on it, releasing a puff of dust.
"Super charming," she said. "But also, I feel like if I open the wrong door, I'll unleash some ghost."
Andre glanced around, arms folded, eyebrows raised. "If somethin' starts talking in here, I'm burnin' the whole place down."
Ren stood quietly near the entrance, staring at a glass soda bottle. The marble inside had long since stopped moving.
Behind them, the old lady shut the door with a dull thud and turned to face them.
"This place…" she said slowly, "…hasn't changed in many, many years. But it doesm't belong to time anymore."
She shuffled behind the counter with practiced movements, as if she'd done this thousands of times. With trembling hands, she filled a kettle and placed it on the stove. Soon, the sharp hiss of boiling water cut through the silence.
Moments later, she placed three cups before them. The tea smelled faintly of barley and old wood.
"Sit," she said. "Best you warm yourselves before askin' questions."
A voice came from the other side of the room.
"Hina… who's come?"
It was an old man—her husband—half-swallowed by a heavy blanket in a wheelchair by the fire. His voice was soft, raspy, but firm.
"Some investigators, dear," the lady replied gently. "Although… this boy looks a bit too young to be one."
Ren gave an awkward laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "Ha ha…"
Andre smirked, not missing a beat. "Yeah, don't mind him. He still needs permission to cross the street."
The man squinted at them, eyes like fading ink on parchment. "Hmph. More outsiders, eh? Always pokin' where they ought not."
"No, sir," Andre replied, flashing a warm grin as he tipped his head. His voice was smooth molasses with a spark of fire. "Ain't here to stir no pot, pops. We just tryin' to make sense of what the hell went down in this place."
Celia leaned forward on the old counter, eyes wide with curiosity. "Seriously though, this place feels like someone hit pause on a movie. Why's it so… I dunno, empty? I mean, it's not just the buildings—it's like the whole town's holding its breath."
The old man gave a dry, phlegmy chuckle. "Once, this village was alive. Children runnin' 'round, festivals in every season. Laughter echoing through every alley. Then…"
His wife—her voice lowered. "It started with the murders. Real brutal ones. No suspects. People were terrified. That's when they began leavin'. Not all at once—slow at first. One family here, another there. But after a while… it was like the whole village just gave up."
Her husband added, his voice like the creak of old wood, "Others just vanished. Like they stepped outta time itself. No screams, no blood. Just... gone."
Celia's expression turned grim. "That's horrible…"
"People said it was a curse," the old lady said, voice hushed like she feared being overheard. "Bad luck, maybe. Said this village was marked."
Her husband leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Others say… they've seen her. A woman wanderin' the woods, holdin' a baby. Cryin'. Beggin'. Sayin' her child needs help."
Andre's eyes narrowed, his drawl slow and steady. "What kinda woman we talkin' about here?"
"Pale," the lady said. "Clothes soaked right through. Walkin' barefoot, even in snow. Some people say… she's got a creepy smile. And her limbs… they can stretch—twist in ways they ain't supposed to."
Ren watched in silence, jaw tight. His breath caught for just a second. That night came rushing back—blood on his sleeve, the baby's wail echoing through the trees, and that thing looming over them, arms too long, face too calm. It matched.
Celia blinked, then looked at Ren, her voice soft, cautious. "Well… that does seem to match what we…"
Before she could finish, Ren subtly pinched her arm.
"Ouch," she whispered, shooting him a glare.
The old man gave a solemn nod. "Well… you must have heard of the story of the Ubume, I guess?"
Celia shook her head.
"A lot of us around here believe it's not just folklore," the old lady added, her voice barely above a whisper. "That this Ubume—the one they talk about in stories—is the very one haunting this place."
"In the old days, they said she was the spirit of a mother who died in childbirth," she continued. "Couldn't move on. Her soul tied to her child. She appears to travelers, askin' them to hold her baby. And if you do…"
"The child gets heavier," her husband picked up, "and heavier… until it crushes your chest. When you look down, it ain't no baby no more. Sometimes it's a stone. Sometimes worse."
The lady stared at her untouched tea. "I never believed in those tales. Not really. But now… I don't know."
"Then why stay?" Ren asked, finally.
She looked up, eyes full of memory. "We were born here. Married here. This shop's been ours for fifty years."
"Our children live in the city," her husband added softly. "Tokyo. One in Osaka. They asked us to move. Begged, even. But…" He smiled faintly. "Old roots grow deep. Hard to pull free."
"We hoped it would pass. That it'd stop someday. But…" her voice trembled. "Now we're not so sure."
"When did all this start?" Ren asked.
The couple paused. The lady counted quietly on her fingers, brow furrowed. "It's been… maybe a week now. A bit more, maybe."
Andre nearly choked on his tea. "A week?" he barked, brows high. "Aw, hell no—this place look like it's been sittin' in a damn time capsule since Nixon was president! Y'all sayin' this whole ghost town happened in a week?"
The old man shook his head slowly. "We're just as shocked. It's all… unnatural. Like the land itself changed overnight."
"Things started goin' quiet," the lady murmured. "Shadows felt longer. Even the birds stopped comin'. Then the fog rolled in, thick and mean."
Ren's eyes sharpened.
That was when the baby's cry first echoed through the grove.
When he saw the woman with the too-long arms.
Andre leaned forward, his tone still carrying that Southern drawl but now serious beneath the sass. "Can y'all think of anything strange? Somethin' that might've kicked all this off?"
The couple exchanged a look.
Her husband's eyes narrowed. "Ain't that almost the same time when Sae disappeared?"
The lady looked up, blinking in surprise. "Now that you say it… it is around the same time."
Andre's brow lifted. "Sae?"
"A cheerful one, that girl," the old man said, his voice like weathered paper, but softer now—full of something almost like ache. "Social, happy-go-lucky, always had a smile on her face. The kind that lit up the whole street just by bein' there. Everyone knew her. Everyone liked her."
"She had a laugh that could shake dust off the rafters," the lady added, eyes misting. "Bright, kind-hearted. Always helpin' neighbors, bringing over meals when someone was sick. Just… a good soul. Rare kind."
"She had a lovin' family too," the old man went on, slower now. "A good husband, a bright little daughter, and another baby on the way."
"Until the husband passed," the lady said, her voice turning quiet. "Caught a sickness… some sort of lung infection, I think. Took him not long after Sae delivered her son. Healthy little boy he was. Strong lungs—cried all night that first week."
The old man gave a slow, sorrowful nod. "Sae didn't let it break her. She worked hard. Real hard. Takin' care of her little girl—seven, maybe eight at the time—and that newborn boy, all by herself. Never asked for help. Strong woman. Stronger than most men I've known."
Ren leaned forward slightly. "And then? What happened after?"
The old man's voice turned grim. "And then, one day… she just vanished. No note. No sound. Not even a trace. That was more than a week ago now."
The lady nodded, her hands knotting together. "Their house is still up the road. Empty. Fallin' apart. But nobody touches it."
There was a pause. The room fell quiet except for the soft crackle of the hearth.
Celia stood, voice soft but steady. "Thank you… for telling us all this. I know it must've been hard to remember."
The woman gave a tired smile, thin and heavy with grief. "Some things never really leave you."
Andre rose from his seat with a quiet grunt. "Well, we've taken enough of your time. Appreciate the tea—and the honesty."
The old man nodded faintly, eyes drifting toward the fire again.
The woman followed them to the door, her hands clasped. "You all take care now… And may whatever's out there show mercy on your souls."
She murmured a short prayer under her breath, fingers trembling slightly as she traced a protective sign in the air.
Ren gave a respectful bow. "Thank you. For everything."
Celia offered a small wave. "We'll be alright."
Andre tipped his head with a two-finger salute. "Ma'am. Sir. Y'all stay warm. And thanks again."
They stepped out into the cold, the door clicking shut behind them.
Outside, the fog returned like a breath held too long—thick, curling around their ankles and soaking into their bones.
Andre exhaled slowly, watching the mist swirl. "This's probably another fragment of her realm, would explain all the twisted time and unnatural quiet," he muttered, scanning the surroundings. "Sae's tied to all this somehow—no doubt. We should check out her house next. Might be somethin' there we're missin'."
Andre smirked. "...Let's go hunt the monster mommy."
Ren said nothing. His eyes were already locked in the direction of the bamboo grove, breath slow and even as he started walking.