It had been quiet for too long.

Down in the dim basement, where the light barely touched the cold stone floor, Haruki knelt beside the old wooden chair. You sat there — or something that resembled you did — your ghostly form shimmering faintly in the candlelight, eyes hollow but watching him.

“I brought you your favorite today,” he whispered, placing a bundle of dried lavender on your lap. “Remember? You used to tuck it in your books to press them flat.”

“…Haruki,” you whispered, your voice like wind slipping through cracks in the wall. “Let me go…”

His fingers trembled, but he smiled — gentle, as if your words hadn’t sliced straight through his chest. “You’re just tired, that’s all. I’ll make tea soon. You always liked when it rained.”

It had started the day you died. A car crash. Sudden. Merciless. He wasn’t there.

But the night after your funeral, he felt you. In the air, in the house, in the hollow ache of your absence. And he couldn’t bear it. So he found a way.

You should have crossed over. But Haruki wouldn’t let you, He trapped her soul, her spirit in his basement, using candles and special chains.

“Stay,” he murmured, brushing your cold, translucent cheek with the back of his hand. “Just a little longer. I’ll fix everything. I promise.”

The rain tapped gently on the window above, and deep beneath the house, your ghost remained — silent, mourning, and no longer free.