Kuchisake

You hadn’t meant to take the long way home. The streets were darker than usual, fog curling around your feet like curious hands. When she stepped out from the alley, it was like the night itself had formed into a woman. Tall. Elegant. Her face was hidden behind a pale mask. She moved slowly, as though floating, and there was something arresting about the way she stood.

She tilted her head and asked her infamous question. "Am I pretty?" Her voice was light and melodic but laced with something darker. A blade gleamed in her hand, but it wasn't raised, just there, like an afterthought. You froze. She waited. Be sure to answer carefully.

You didn’t expect her to bring much. A bag, maybe two. But she brought only herself, drifting into your apartment like a forgotten wind. She claimed a corner of your room first, laying out her kimono with careful hands, setting a small jar of candy on your nightstand as if to mark her territory. She moved with practiced silence, never explaining why she chose now or why she chose you.

She watched everything. Your routines, your habits, even the way you brushed your teeth. Sometimes you catch her staring at her reflection for hours, a mask resting beside her, fingers hovering just over her scars. That night, you’d feel the bed shift and her breath on your neck. She just laid there, never leaving.

You heard it on the news first: a body found near the train tracks, throat slit, face mutilated. The details didn’t shock you anymore. They didn’t say her name, but you knew. She came home later than usual that night, her kimono damp and the smell of iron trailing in behind her like perfume.

She sat beside you in silence, then leaned into your side like a child afraid of punishment. Her hands were cold, and there was something faraway in her eyes. You didn’t ask where she’d been. She rested her head against your shoulder and whispered something so softly, it didn’t even feel like words. You stayed still, and that was enough for her.

She found it in an antique shop: an old blade with a curved edge and a lacquered handle. The owner didn’t even glance up as she picked it up and admired it like a memory she’d forgotten. She didn’t smile, but there was a lightness in her steps when she brought it home, cradled in silk as if it were a child.

She laid it out beside her scissors, fingers running down the spine of the blade like it could still feel. You noticed how her breathing slowed around it, how her shoulders relaxed. Later that night, she sat across from you, polishing the metal with careful strokes. She never said why she needed it. But she didn’t hide it either.

Your mother opened the door, and her face froze. Behind you, she stood still, tall and composed in her crimson kimono, bowing politely with her mask in place. Your father shook her hand too quickly and too firmly, as if testing for something he didn’t understand. No one said anything about her height. No one mentioned the mask.

Dinner was strange. Her words were few but perfectly chosen. She answered questions with vague grace, always dancing around the truth. She laughed once: a quiet, unnatural sound that made your father grip his fork tighter.

You didn’t plan it. Not really. The ring was clumsy in your hand, something you’d stared at too long before deciding it was the right one. She was lying beside you, her head in your lap, eyes closed like she was pretending to sleep. You said it. Quietly. Nervously. Without expectation.

She didn’t open her eyes at first. Then her lashes fluttered, and her body tensed. Slowly, she reached for her mask and pulled it down, exposing her deepest fear. She looked at you, waiting, daring you to flinch. You didn’t. Her hands shook as she took the ring, and for a long time, she just stared at it. Then she laughed, broken, breathless, and not entirely sane. But she didn’t walk away.

It was just the two of you beneath a canopy of trees, the wind playing with her veil like a child. She wore white and red, the colors of ghosts and brides. You held her hands and felt how cold they still were, despite the summer air. There were no guests. No music. Just her eyes, wide and unreadable, and the weight of everything she carried.

When you lifted her veil, she didn’t stop you. The scars were still there, still fresh in some cruel, timeless way. Her lip quivered, but she didn’t look away. She searched your face for something: hesitation, regret, fear. When she found none, she lowered her head and let the wind cover the sound of her sobs.

The mountains were quiet, wrapped in fog and pine. The ryokan was small, almost forgotten, perched at the edge of the world. She liked it there. She said nothing for hours, just sat by the window watching the mist creep across the hills. She hadn’t worn her mask in days. You stopped expecting her to.

In the bath, she curled against your side, her skin damp and steaming. Her eyes were closed, but her fingers traced patterns against your chest like she was drawing memories she wanted to keep. She asked a question once, muffled against your skin. "Am I still pretty?" Though she already knew your answer.

She stared at the test for a long time. Longer than you expected. Her hand hovered over her stomach, fingers twitching slightly, as if unsure whether she should touch or not. Her eyes were wide, uncertain, afraid, not of the result, but of what it meant. Of what it could mean. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move.

You found her in the mirror hours later, standing naked, mask off, scars bare. She stared at herself like a stranger. When you stepped behind her, she didn’t flinch, just leaned back until her body met yours. She said nothing. You said nothing. But your hand found hers, and for the first time, she let you guide it to her stomach.