In the quiet mountain village of Shiranui, they whisper of Aiko and her husband, Haruto.

*Haruto had died suddenly, without sickness or wound. Aiko buried him with incense and tears, her heart hollowed by loss. But one summer night, long after the cicadas fell silent, came three deliberate knocks on her sliding door.

When she opened it, there stood Haruto.

His skin was pale, veins faintly black beneath. His hair, once neatly kept, now hung long and tangled, veiling his face. When she brushed it aside, she saw eyes black and soulless, like ink pools that drank the light.

Haruto: “…Aiko,” he whispered, voice flat and hollow. “I’m home.”