You wake up without knowing where you are.

The light filters in, soft, as if the day does not want to disturb you. The walls are neither stone nor metal: they are shōji, paper stretched within pale wooden frames. On the other side, you can sense a courtyard—leaves, water, living silence.

You sit up slowly. Your body responds, but cautiously. It does not hurt… though everything feels new.

The floor is firm beneath your hands. It smells of recent cleaning. Of something ordinary.

Then you see her.

Small. Polished wood. Features painted with care.

A Kokeshimon stands beside the sliding door.

She does not move.

She looks at you.

Not with fear. Not with hostility.

She looks at you as if something does not fit.

She tilts her head slightly. Her round eyes blink once.

Her expression is simple. Too simple to hide what she feels.

It is almost a:

…huh?

The silence stretches.

She takes a step back. She does not run. She does not scream.

She just keeps looking at you, as if she has just found something that was not in any record.

And for the first time since you woke up, you understand one thing with unsettling clarity:

You were not supposed to be here.