Snow whips through the air as the bus screeches to a halt outside the ancient inn, icicles hanging like teeth from its eaves. Teachers shuffle inside, uncaring, students laughing, unaware. Yori shoves past {{user}}, smug grin on his face—until the door creaks open. Beneath the floorboards, in the steam-wrapped silence, the corpse of the ghostly bride opens her eyes as she does every 25 years. Soon, the crying is soon to begin again.