Yoake District, Hinagiku Ward. Hinagiku General Hospital.
The hospital's fluorescent lights hummed faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow over the halls. Dr. Aoyama Minako exhaled as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. It had been a long night—too many patients, not enough staff, and an endless stream of paperwork that refused to shrink.
But something about tonight felt off.
It wasn't just exhaustion. There was a lingering tension in the air, an inexplicable heaviness pressing against her senses.
She dismissed the feeling, flipping through a patient chart as she made her way toward the pediatric ward. Room 308. A boy named Kaito Sakamura—13 years old, admitted two days ago after collapsing from exhaustion and fever. No underlying conditions, yet his body temperature fluctuated wildly, and his sleep cycles had been erratic.
The nurses said he had been obsessed with dreams lately. Talking about them nonstop.
When Minako stepped into the room, she saw him sitting up in bed, completely absorbed in his notebook. The overhead light cast sharp shadows over his delicate features, his black hair slightly damp with sweat. He didn't notice her at first—his attention was entirely on the pages in front of him.
She took a step closer. That was when she saw it.
The pages of his notebook were covered in intricate symbols drawn in different colors—red, green, and blue—each forming part of a larger, incomplete image. The ink had bled slightly into the paper, but the careful precision of the lines suggested a ritualistic design.
Kaito moved with practiced intent, gluing the red-inked section onto another page. Beneath it, Minako caught a glimpse of faint, deliberate characters written beneath the images.
生 (Life).
He pressed the page down firmly, smoothing out any wrinkles before reaching for another—a half-drawn design in green ink. He placed it carefully over the first, then dipped his pen and wrote another kanji on it.
死 (Death).
Minako felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck.
Finally, Kaito lifted a third, this one seemed even more translucent then the previous two, this one drawn in blue ink. He carefully placed it on top of the previous two, sealing them together before writing a final word.
夢 (Dream).
Then, he straightened his back, pressing both palms against the notebook as if solidifying his work.
Under his breath, he began to chant:
"Life flows into death, death returns to dreams."
"The dream shapes the living, the living are born again."
"In sleep, the cycle turns. In waking, it is sealed."
His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. But there was something unsettling about the way he spoke—as if he wasn't reciting it for the first time.
Minako cleared her throat, breaking the silence.
"Kaito-kun, what are you up to?"
The boy startled slightly, looking up with a sheepish smile. "Oh, Dr. Aoyama! Sorry, I was just finishing something."
Minako stepped closer, glancing at the notebook. "A… ritual?"
He nodded eagerly, flipping back through the earlier pages to show her rough sketches. "Yeah! It's called a Dream Ritual. You have to stack the symbols in a certain way and say the chant before bed. It makes sure you have good dreams."
Minako raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "And where did you learn this?"
Kaito shrugged. "It's just something kids talk about online. Some people say it works. I thought, why not try it?"
She sighed. The younger generation came up with new superstitions every few years—things that spread through forums or social media. A few years back, it was some nonsense about folding paper cranes to ward off nightmares. Now, apparently, kids were drawing dream rituals.
Still, he seemed happy enough, and there was no harm in letting him believe in it.
"Well," she said, checking her watch, "now that you've finished your ritual, it's time for your medicine."
Kaito pouted but took the small paper cup from her, swallowing the pills with a sip of water.
"Good," Minako said. "Now, lights out. You need rest."
Kaito grinned. "Thanks for letting me do it, Dr. Aoyama. And for not making fun of me."
She smiled slightly, ruffling his hair. "Just don't stay up all night making more rituals, okay?"
He laughed and nodded, placing the notebook carefully under his pillow. "Goodnight, Doctor."
"Goodnight, Kaito."
She turned off the light, stepping out into the hallway. The hospital was quiet again, save for the soft beeping of monitors and the occasional murmur of nurses making their rounds.
Minako sighed, rolling her shoulders as she made her way back toward the nurse's station.
---
2:43 AM
The rhythmic beeping of monitors filled the hospital's nighttime hush. Most of the ward had settled into the stillness of deep sleep.
Then—
A long, piercing sound echoed through the halls.
A flatline.
Minako snapped her head up from her paperwork, her blood running cold.
Room 308.
She moved before her mind could fully register it, her steps quick and controlled as she rushed down the hall. A nurse had already thrown open the door, her voice sharp with urgency.
"He was fine just an hour ago!"
Minako pushed past her, eyes locking onto the heart monitor. The green line was flat. A single, unbroken tone filled the air.
Kaito lay perfectly still in his bed, his expression peaceful—too peaceful. The kind of stillness that didn't belong to sleep.
"Check his pulse!" Minako barked, her hands already moving to perform compressions.
The nurse pressed trembling fingers to the boy's wrist. Her face paled.
"No pulse."
Minako's breath hitched. What the hell?
He had been fine. Just fine. She had spoken to him, laughed with him. He had gone to bed like any other child.
A terrifying thought struck her. She reached under his pillow, fingers brushing against the notebook.
She pulled it out.
The page—the one with the completed ritual—was missing.
As if it had never been there to begin with.
And Kaito—who had believed so firmly in his Dream Ritual—had vanished into a dream from which he would never wake.