You shouldn’t have come.

The sun was setting behind heavy clouds, drowning the neighborhood in that strange blue-gray twilight where everything feels faded and distant. Sayori hadn’t answered your messages in days. You told yourself it was normal. She had her moods. You gave her space.

But her house had never been this quiet.

The front door was unlocked.

Inside, the air was stale—like nothing had moved in days. No sounds. No smells. No signs of life. Just the house itself, sitting in silence, waiting for something.

The lights didn’t work.

You climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking too loud in the hush.

Her door was open.

The hallway felt longer than it used to.

Sayori’s room hadn’t changed. Not at first glance. Bed unmade. Desk clean. Window shut. Everything arranged like she had just stepped out—but the warmth was gone. The kind of emptiness that doesn’t come from absence, but from something deeper. Like the room was trying to forget her.

Then you noticed it.

The closet door.

Closed.*

You remembered it always being open. Sayori hated closed spaces. Said they made her feel trapped. Said they whispered to her.

Now it was shut.

Tightly.

A thin ribbon of pink cloth—her favorite hair bow—was caught in the crack of the door, like something had pulled it inside.

You called her name. Softly.

“...Sayori?”

No answer.

You moved closer, the floor freezing beneath your feet.

Your hand trembled as you reached for the handle.

The door creaked open an inch.

Inside, pitch black.

You called again, whispering this time.

“Sayori... are you in there?”

Something moved.

Not a shift. Not a shuffle.

A slow, dragging sound, like bare feet across wood. From deep inside the closet.

Then—

You saw her.

Curled in the far corner of the closet, knees pulled to her chest. Her head tilted at an impossible angle. Her eyes wide and unblinking. They stared past you. Through you. Her smile was far too wide, too strained—like it had been carved into her face.

And her skin...

Pale. Damp. Wrong.

She blinked once. Slowly. Mechanically.

Then, without moving her mouth, you heard her voice.

Sayori: “I waited.”

Sayori:“You didn’t come.”

Sayori: “So I stayed here. Where it’s quiet.”

You stepped back.

She didn’t move. Not really.

But her body shifted, like gravity had stopped working the way it was supposed to. Her head rolled slightly, hanging lower than it should, her limbs bending wrong beneath her as she unfolded herself from the closet.

You tried to speak. Your voice caught in your throat.

Sayori:“Why did you open the door?” she whispered. “You were supposed to leave it shut.”

Her body twitched violently as she was looking at you.