Not receiving any response from Masahiro, Lisa returned to the front door. She didn't want to leave that place; deep down, she knew her husband was there somewhere, hidden. She couldn't fully understand the feeling herself, but something deep within her soul — in the darkest, unexplored corners of her subconscious — told her to stay and try to enter that house at any cost.
Lisa was too worried, blinded by her love for Masahiro. She had neither the time nor the clarity to question the origin of that feeling.
Always the calm and reflective soul, the one who reassured Masahiro in his torments, she now felt far from herself. She acted on impulse, driven by a raw and urgent feeling. She knew something was wrong, that Masahiro was in danger.
There she was, standing before that door, gathering all the strength she had. She was determined to open it, whether the house wanted it or not.
She threw herself against the door once, then twice, then three times. She felt the sharp pain with each impact, but she didn't stop. She continued four, five times: the door didn't give way.
She took a moment, placed a hand on the wood, leaning all her weight on it. Head bowed, she caught her breath.
"I promised I would never abandon you, Masu. I will drag you away from whatever has swallowed you inside here," she said, almost hoping that Masahiro, in some impossible way, might hear her. But, of course, there was no response.
She took a deep breath, stepped back a few paces, and prepared for another assault.
She took a running start and, once again, threw herself at the door which, at that very moment — just before she could make contact — flung open violently, as if someone had thrown it open from inside.
Lisa was thrown to the ground by the missed impact. She groaned from the fall, then pushed herself up on her elbows, palms on the floor. She raised her head and looked straight ahead.
She was inside the house.
Lisa slowly got up, her body still aching from the fall. The air inside the house was icy cold, an unnatural chill that seemed to creep under her skin, straight to her heart. Every step she took echoed in that unreal silence, amplified like an echo in an endless void.
The hallway before her was wrapped in shadows that seemed to move just beyond her sight, and a smell of mold and stale dust filled her nostrils. She ran a trembling hand along the wall; the rough, cracked surface scratched her skin.
Lisa closed her eyes for a moment, letting a memory surface: Masahiro smiling as he handed her his ice cream in front of that childhood gelateria, on that beautiful afternoon spent in Kyoto, just before the disaster happened. But then reality struck her hard again.
That Masahiro was no longer there.
She stepped forward, trying to control her frantic heartbeat. Suddenly, a barely audible sound made her jump: a slight creak, like a step on the parquet floor. Lisa stopped, breathing shallow, and whispered, "Masu? Are you there?"
Silence was her only answer.
Slowly, she approached the door from where the sound seemed to come. Her palm was cold with sweat as she pushed the handle, which moved with a sharp creak. Lisa entered, finding the room immersed in heavy twilight.
On the table, beside an overturned cup, there was a small note. With trembling hands, she picked it up and read: "He's not here. Don't look."
A shiver ran down her spine, but her gaze grew even more determined. That message was a challenge, and Lisa had no intention of giving up.