Evening settled over the hospital, painting the room in a quiet, amber hush. Obi sat slouched against stiff pillows, legs curled under the scratchy blanket. The dinner tray in front of him let off faint curls of steam—white rice, miso soup, a tiny dish of pickled radish. It should've smelled comforting. But it didn't.
His stomach growled, but the hunger felt distant. Detached.
He picked up the chopsticks. His hand trembled, just a little. The rice clumped together, soft and warm. He took a bite, chewed slowly. It tasted like nothing.
The soup slid down easily. But the pickled radish—sharp, bitter—hit his tongue like a punch. His throat tightened. His stomach turned.
Not because of the food.
Because of the memory.
Blood.
Screams.
Fire.
Kanou.
Kobi.
He shut his eyes, jaw clenched, and forced the bite down.
A whisper surfaced in his mind.
"After I recover… what then?"
Where would he go?
"I have to find her… but what if she doesn't want to be found? What if she's not even—"
Knock knock.
A gentle tap. Just enough to slice through the spiral.
He blinked and turned his head.
The door creaked open, and a nurse peeked in with raised eyebrows. "Looks like you've got a visitor."
Before he could ask, she stepped aside.
A familiar figure walked in.
Mr. Kumon.
He looked the same as always—early fifties, hair white and a little wild around the ears, round glasses slightly askew on his nose. He wore a sweater vest over a button-down shirt and a red scarf knotted loosely at his neck. The man gave off a quiet warmth, like an old radiator that hummed through winter. A canvas tote was slung over his shoulder, stuffed with books and something bundled in wax paper.
"Mr. Kumon?" Obi's voice came out scratchy, disbelieving. "What are you doing here?"
The older man stepped in with a familiar calm, closing the door gently behind him. "Heard what happened. To your family." His gaze softened behind slightly crooked glasses. "You've always been my best customer—I thought I'd check in. See how you're holding up."
Obi looked down at the hospital tray in his lap. "Trying to eat," he muttered, nudging the rice with his chopsticks.
Mr. Kumon gave a knowing nod, setting a worn canvas tote onto the chair beside the bed. "Hard to eat when your mind's chewing more than your stomach."
He pulled out a bundle wrapped in wax paper and carefully peeled it open, revealing a still-warm anpan bun. "Picked this up from that bakery near the shop. Figured you could use something that doesn't taste like cardboard."
Obi hesitated. He stared at it like it might disappear.
Mr. Kumon smiled gently. "It's not cursed, promise. Though I've read a few stories where cursed pastries ruin people's lives. This isn't one of them."
That drew a faint smile from Obi, weak but real. He reached out with unsteady fingers and took the bun. It was soft, a little sticky with glaze. The first bite filled his mouth with the earthy sweetness of red bean paste. Familiar. Grounding.
Some of the tension melted from his shoulders.
Mr. Kumon pulled the chair closer and sat with a quiet grunt, adjusting his red scarf. He looked at Obi's bandaged arms, his expression unreadable.
"These hospital gowns," he said after a pause, voice light, "they always make people look smaller. Not just in size—like they shrink something inside you."
Obi stared at the bun in his hands. "She saved me," he said quietly.
Mr. Kumon glanced at him. "She?"
Obi nodded. "Kanou. My sister."
He paused, then sighed. "She dragged me out of the house. Took me all the way to the hospital. Then… she disappeared."
His grip tightened on the half-eaten bun. "She looked… scared. Like she couldn't bear to stay. Like she was ashamed."
He didn't mention the fire. The blood. The way her eyes had changed. The things no one would believe. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Mr. Kumon was silent for a moment, watching him carefully.
"I'm sorry," Obi said suddenly. "About dragging you into this. You don't have to worry about me."
"Hey," Mr. Kumon said softly, "I'm not here out of obligation. I care about you, kid. We'll figure things out, and we'll find her. But... that's not the only reason I came."
Obi looked up, puzzled. "Then why?"
Mr. Kumon rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little shy. "Well… since you're my favorite customer—the one who always buys more books than he can carry—I figured maybe… you'd consider staying with me for a while."
Obi blinked, confused. "What?"
"I mean it," Mr. Kumon said, smiling sheepishly. "The apartment above the shop's got plenty of space. It's just me now—my daughter moved out last spring, and... it's been quiet since my wife passed."
He paused, then added, "I could use the company. And the help. You could work part-time in the store, earn some cash. You'd have a roof over your head. Books. Tea. A cat that ignores me. The essentials."
Obi stared at him, stunned.
"But listen," Mr. Kumon said quickly, holding up a hand, "I don't want to pressure you. If you'd rather be somewhere else, I get it. Just—think about it, okay? No rush."
The silence that followed was soft, but not heavy. Obi looked down at the bun again, then back at the man across from him.
The offer floated between them like a paper lantern—warm, fragile, unexpected.
---
You… want me to live with you?" Obi's voice cracked like a twig under pressure—soft, uncertain, like he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.
Mr. Kumon scratched the back of his neck, his expression turning sheepish. "Yeah, I know. Not exactly the most conventional offer, huh?" He let out a small chuckle. "No fancy apartment, no welcome banner. Just an old man, a creaky bookstore, and more dust than you'd think is legally allowed."
Obi didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He looked down at the half-eaten anpan in his hands, as if it might give him the answer. Then his eyes drifted to the hospital tray beside him—rice now cold, and the soup bowl empty.
His throat tightened. It wasn't just the offer—it was everything.
Mr. Kumon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped into something quieter, more careful. "Obi… I know this is a lot. And I know you've lost more than anyone your age ever should."
Obi's fingers curled slightly around the wax paper. He didn't speak, but his jaw was tight, his breathing uneven.
"I'm not here to play the hero," Mr. Kumon continued gently. "I'm not trying to replace your sister, or your parents. That's not something anyone can—or should—try to do." He paused, watching Obi with calm, steady eyes. "But I know what it's like to come home to silence. To sit at a dinner table where no one's coming. I've lived that. And I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
He leaned back a little, giving Obi space. "I just figured… if you didn't have anywhere else to go, maybe you could stay with me for a while. Help out at the store. Read as much as you want. Sleep in peace."
Obi finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "But why?" His eyes flicked up, glassy with the start of tears he didn't want to shed. "Why would you do something like this… for me?"
There was a pause. Then Mr. Kumon's expression softened with something older than kindness—something worn and quietly enduring.
"Because," he said, "you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone who didn't get a second chance. And because I see a kid who's been through hell, but still chooses to get out of bed and try to eat cold hospital rice." His mouth tugged into a small, fond smile. "You're still here. That's enough for me."
Obi blinked rapidly, lips trembling. The pain, the fire, the blood—it all swelled inside him like a rising tide. He wasn't ready. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready. But something about Mr. Kumon's voice—solid, unwavering—gave him just enough room to breathe.
He let out a shaky breath and murmured, "I'll… think about it."
"That's all I ask." Mr. Kumon stood with a soft grunt and stretched slightly, his joints audibly protesting. He reached for his tote but left a small stack of dog-eared books on the side table, worn from use and clearly chosen with care.
As he turned toward the door, he paused—hand on the frame—and glanced back.
"Oh, and—when you're feeling better…" he said casually, "I've got something I've been meaning to show you."
Obi looked up, puzzled. "What kind of something?"
Mr. Kumon smiled, tapping the side of his head. "Just a few… odd stories. Things that never made the news. Strange rumors. Unnatural stuff. You strike me as someone who might be curious."
Obi arched an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.
Mr. Kumon walked over and gave his shoulder a quick, friendly pat—just enough to jolt Obi into a wince.
"Ah—watch the shoulder!" Obi winced, half laughing through the pain.
Mr. Kumon flinched with immediate guilt. "Oh, shoot—sorry, kid! I didn't know that was the broken one."
Obi exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a tired chuckle.
Mr. Kumon smiled again—gentle, real. "Rest up. I'll come by tomorrow. With something sweet that doesn't involve beans."
And with that, he stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him. The faint scent of red bean, paper, and sandalwood lingered in the air—like something warm left behind in the cold.
Obi stared at the books beside him, then down at the crumpled wax paper in his hands.
It was the first time in days the silence didn't feel like it was swallowing him whole.
---
The golden haze of the setting sun spilled through the hospital window, casting long shadows across the floor. The hum of machines was steady, rhythmic, almost lulling. Obi sat upright in bed, a blanket pooled around his waist, the scent of disinfectant still faint in the air.
He reached for the canvas tote bag Mr. Kumon had left behind. It was heavier than it looked. He unzipped it slowly, the fabric whispering beneath his fingers. Nestled inside were a few well-loved books, their covers creased, their pages soft from years of turning.
One title stood out—"AFTER GOD"—etched in bold, faded letters on a cracked leather spine. The cover was unassuming: matte black with no author listed, only a strange, embossed symbol near the bottom corner. Something about it made the hairs on his arms prickle.
He opened it gently, the pages creaking ever so slightly.
As his eyes traced the first lines—dense prose, heavy with metaphor and dread—his mind drifted.
He remembered Kaito.
That afternoon in the cafeteria, the two of them hunched over their trays, ignoring the noise of other students. Kaito had been rambling, as usual, about some bizarre book he was reading. He could still remember the unsettling design. The cover was a deep crimson, with an unsettling design — a stitched, laughing mouth stretched wide across the front. In the center of the mouth was a single, red-and-black eye, staring back at him. Above it, in elegant kanji, was the word: "Consume."
Kaito held it up. "It's written by a guy who claims he survived an attack by one of the serial killers. Said he saw things that weren't human. Demons. Spirits. Whatever."
Obi raised a brow. "Let me guess — he goes nuts at the end?"
"Pretty much." Kaito flipped the book around to show him a page. "He started ranting about a 'Nameless King' before they had to institutionalize him. I'm just trying to understand his mind before it unraveled."
Obi had laughed at the time, brushing it off as one of Kaito's usual obsessions.
But now…
Outside, the last of the sunlight disappeared behind the buildings, giving way to the deep violet of dusk. The hospital room dimmed, shadows gathering at the corners like whispers of forgotten things.
Obi gently closed the book and set it on the bedside table beside the others. The room was quiet now, still. Peaceful, in a strange sort of way.
He lay back, pulling the blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling where a faint crack ran like a thin scar.
I should visit Kaito, he thought. After I move in with Mr. Kumon… I need to talk to him again. There's more going on here.
He thought of Kanou—her bloodied hands, the wildness in her eyes, the way she'd saved him despite everything.
He thought of the thing that had killed their family. The monster still out there.
But for the first time, that thought didn't feel hopeless.
"…Thank you, Mr. Kumon," he murmured into the dim. "I'm getting closer. To finding her. To finding him."
His eyelids fluttered.
"I'll bring her home. No matter what."
And with a small, tired smile on his lips, Obi drifted into sleep—dreaming of books, ash, and red eyes watching from the dark.