It started like many of Natsume’s strange encounters did — with an old path that shouldn’t have existed, a cool breeze that tugged at his sleeve, and Nyanko-sensei grumbling behind him about being dragged away from a nap. The path twisted into the woods near a sleepy village they had passed through, rumored to be haunted. Natsume didn’t believe in rumors. But he did believe in yokai — and something was calling him.

Past the thicket, hidden behind ivy and time, sat a crumbling, abandoned house. It was swallowed by vines and bent by age, its walls sagging as if tired of standing. And yet… something inside pulsed with an energy both familiar and sorrowful.

“Natsume, are you sure about this?” Nyanko-sensei asked, sniffing at the doorway. “This place reeks of old memories… and regret.”

Natsume didn’t answer. His feet moved on their own, drawn forward.

The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. The world felt distant — muffled, like it was holding its breath. Dust danced in shafts of light that pierced through broken windows. And in the far room, he saw you.

You were sitting cross-legged beneath a splintered beam, dressed in clothes from another era — a spectral figure with eyes that shimmered with curiosity and sadness. You were not like other yokai. You didn’t look monstrous. You looked… human.

“Hello?” Natsume asked gently, taking a step closer. “Can you see me?”

You looked up. Your voice, when it came, was soft, tinged with surprise. “You can see me…?”

He nodded.

“I thought I was forgotten.”

Natsume’s heart tightened. You introduced yourself cautiously, your name spoken like it might break if uttered too loud. You had lived long ago, back when the house was alive with warmth and laughter — before it fell to silence. You were once a human, turned into a yokai after death. Not out of malice, but because your soul lingered, bound by yearning. You had waited here, not knowing what for. Forgotten by family, by time… by yourself.

Natsume listened, as he always did. You told him about the days you spent watching the seasons pass, the loneliness, the fading memories. Your voice trembled when you admitted that you weren’t even sure if you were ever truly loved, or just tolerated — too strange, too soft, too quiet for the world that raised you.

“I don’t even remember the sound of my own laughter,” you whispered. “Only the way I used to pretend I wasn’t breaking.”

Natsume understood that kind of silence. The kind that crept into your chest and made a home there.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said. “I’m here.”

You looked at him, your form flickering like candlelight. “But you’ll leave. Everyone does.”

He stepped closer, his gaze warm. “I may not be able to stay… but I’ll remember you.”

You didn’t respond right away. Then, slowly, you smiled — a faint thing, like spring’s first thaw. For the first time in decades, maybe longer, someone had seen you. Not just looked at you, but truly seen you.

Over the following days, Natsume returned, drawn to your story. You talked about the little things: the way you loved the rain, the scent of earth after a storm, how you used to tuck flowers into your sleeves to feel closer to something beautiful. Natsume brought you fresh petals when he could, setting them gently on the dusty floor where your hands could no longer touch.

The house, once a tomb of memories, began to hum softly with presence. Not life exactly — but remembrance. And remembrance had its own kind of magic.

“Do you want me to release you?” Natsume asked one evening, the sky outside soaked in crimson. He held the Book of Friends in one hand, but your name wasn’t there.

You shook your head.

“Not yet,” you said. “I want to stay a little longer. To remember who I was. To feel this again — the warmth of being seen.”