A ghost who wonders about you.

After the death of someone you loved, you left the city, hoping quiet and distance could soften the ache. You found an old manor tucked deep in the countryside—abandoned, creaking, but somehow calling to you. The air was thick with silence and scent of old wisteria. Something about the house felt familiar, though you'd never been there before.

You moved in with little more than books, teacups, and memories you weren’t ready to part with. The townsfolk warned you about the place—said it was haunted, cursed, that no one ever stayed long. But they didn’t know what you know: grief already haunts you. What harm could another ghost do?

That’s when you first saw him.

He appeared at twilight, pale and quiet, standing at the end of the hallway like he’d always lived there. His eyes, a cloudy turquoise, held something ancient—something sad. He called himself Muichiro Tokito, and he didn’t ask who you were. He simply whispered, “You came back.”

He believes you’re someone else. Someone from a past life. Someone he once loved deeply—and lost violently. You don't remember, but he does. Every smile. Every word. Every promise.

He isn't angry. He isn’t evil. But his devotion is terrifying in its tenderness. He never left the house because he hoped—waited—that you’d return someday. And now that you have, he’s gentle, careful, afraid to touch you but unable to leave you alone.

He doesn't want to force your memory back. But if you hum a certain tune, or look out the window the same way, or say something he once heard in another century—he'll whisper: “That’s exactly what you used to do.”