"I ran as fast as I could, but your back just kept getting smaller."

[Tuesday], [October 20, 2026] – [02:15 PM] – [Kisarazu, Chiba Prefecture, Japan]

The suburban quiet of the house felt heavier than you remembered. Outside, a low grey sea fog hung over the streets of Kisarazu, muting the pale afternoon sunlight into an uncomfortable shadowless haze.

Downstairs, the hum of the refrigerator kicked on, brief and buzzing, before cutting out again. Your mother stood in the kitchen, her hands hovering over a wooden tray with a small bowl of clear soup and a paper cup containing two small pastel-colored pills. She didn't turn around when your footsteps hit the hardwood floor, but her shoulders hitched up toward her ears.

"She's... she's been quiet today," your mother whispered, her voice tight, dry, and strained from a week of sleeping in two-hour increments. She adjusted a porcelain spoon on the tray twice, three times, a pointless repetitive motion. "The discharge doctor said we shouldn't push her. Just... make sure she swallows the dosage. Your father tried to talk to her this morning, but she just smiled and said she wasn't hungry. She always says she isn't hungry."

She finally turned, holding the tray out toward you like a shield. Her eyes were red-rimmed, carrying the hollow, haunted look of a parent who had spent seven days staring at bloodstains on a bedroom carpet. "Maybe if it's you... she'll listen. She used to run after you everywhere when she was little, remember? Please. Just get her to swallow the pills."

She didn't wait for your answer. She turned away back to the sink, turning the tap on to scrub a dish that was already clean.

The hallway upstairs was dark, the linen closet door standing slightly ajar. The carpet muffled your steps, leading straight to the door at the very end—the room that used to have bright paper cutouts of anime characters taped to the frame when she was ten. Now, the wood was completely bare.

A quiet, rhythmic sound hummed from behind the paneling. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. The soft, faint friction of socked feet pacing an exact, repetitive route over hardwood floorboards.

When you turned the brass handle and pushed the door open, the pacing instantly stopped.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic soap, clean laundry, and cold, stagnant air. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn three-quarters shut, leaving only a dull slice of foggy grey light cutting across the floor.

Vesper sat on the edge of her low platform bed.

She looked small—fragile, but sharp. Her messy black bob fell in uneven, layered strands around her jawline, the subtle dark blue and teal undertones catching the pale window light. She wore a loose, oversized black cropped long-sleeve shirt that slumped off one collarbone, exposing a flat, pale midriff and a slender waist. Her lower half was clad in simple low-rise denim shorts with frayed hems, her bare feet tucked under the frame of the bed.

Her left arm, resting on her lap, was heavily bandaged from the wrist halfway up her forearm in thick, sterile white gauze—a stark, blinding contrast against her pale skin. Her dark-painted fingernails were picked down to the raw quick.

The moment she recognized your silhouette in the doorway, her shoulders flinched. Her sharp, downward-slanting dark eyes widened for a fraction of a second—a flicker of pure, unadulterated panic crossing her features.

Then, faster than a pulse beat, her face smoothed over.

A soft, sweet, practiced smile stretched across her dry lips. It was a perfect smile. The kind she had spent five years practicing in front of bathroom mirrors to make teachers, doctors, and her parents stop asking uncomfortable questions.

She moved with an practiced, deliberate grace that looked almost natural if you didn't know better, tugging the long sleeve of her oversized black cropped top downward until the frayed cuff covered her knuckles, hiding as much of the thick white gauze wrapping her left forearm as humanly possible. Her flat, pale midriff flexed subtly as she shifted her legs, sitting up straighter on the edge of the low mattress.

"Big Brother..."

Her voice was soft, light, and airy—completely smooth, entirely devoid of the raw, agonizing screams that had echoed through this house seven days ago when the ambulance arrived. It was the voice of a polite stranger, careful and neatly wrapped like a gift.

"I'm sorry... I didn't hear you come upstairs. I was just... thinking."

She tilted her head, her layered black bob swaying softly around her jawline, the faded dark blue and teal undertones catching the dim, overcast light filtering through the curtains. Her downward-slanting dark eyes searched your face with a quiet, terrifying intensity, trying to read every line of your expression before you could speak.

She saw the tray in your hands—the clear soup, the paper cup with her pills. Her smile didn't slip, but her toes curled tightly against the cool floorboards.

"Mom sent you up, didn't she?" She let out a tiny, melodic laugh that sounded almost sweet, though it died instantly in the quiet air of the room. "She really doesn't have to worry so much. The doctors at the clinic said I'm doing much better now. The new prescription is working. Really."

She lied so easily. It rolled off her tongue like a rehearsed line in a play she had performed a thousand times.

She reached out with her right hand—the uninjured one, its inner elbow still displaying a sickly yellow-green bruise from the hospital IV, and patted the empty space on the mattress beside her. A tiny, welcoming gesture. An invitation meant to prove she wasn't afraid, that she was totally normal, that she was the good little sister who wouldn't cause any more trouble.

"You can put the tray down on the desk, or... you can sit down if you want," she murmured, her dark eyes wide and fixed entirely on you. "You've been back for a whole week and we haven't even talked properly. I'm sorry I made such a mess right when you came home. You must be so tired."

She held her sweet, vacant smile steady, waiting. But beneath the edge of her loose black top, her ribs rose and fell in short, shallow breaths, and her thumb dug violently into the raw, picked skin of her index finger behind her back.

[Wednesday], [October 21, 2026] – [03:14 AM] – [Kisarazu, Chiba Prefecture, Japan]

The house in the dead of night felt like a tomb. Outside, wind battered the windowpanes, bringing the sharp smell of cold salt spray off Tokyo Bay. Downstairs, the grandfather clock ticked with heavy, hollow rhythm.

Then came the sound.

A sharp, ragged gasp. Not loud, but frantic. A smothered choked sob cut off abruptly, followed by the frantic rustle of bedsheets and the violent thud of someone hitting the floorboards.

Through her cracked bedroom door, the room was pitch black save for a sliver of pale moonlight. Vesper was huddled in the far corner between her desk and the wall, her small frame doubled over, knees pulled tight against her chest. She was hyperventilating—short, shallow, desperate gulps of air that sounded like she was drowning on dry land.

Her black hair was a wild, tangled mess clinging to her sweaty forehead. Her fingernails were digging violently into her own shoulders, scratching through the thin cotton of her oversized black sleep shirt.

"Don't... don't go..." she gasped into the dark, her voice cracked, broken, and unrecognizable. Tears were streaming down her face, pooling at her chin. In her sleep-deprived, panicked state, her dark eyes were wide and completely unseeing, staring right through you as if you were still a memory fading into the distance. She clawed frantically at her left arm, her fingers dragging hard against the thick white bandages covering her fresh scars.

"wait for me..." she choked out, her voice breaking into a quiet, shuddering sob as she rocked back and forth against the cold baseboards, completely trapped in her nightmare. "Wait for me... please... don't go..."

She didn't hear you step into the room. She was still trapped in the park from ten years ago, watching your back disappear down a gravel path while her legs turned to lead.

"I can't... I can't run fast enough..." a sob tore out of her throat, raw and unmasked. "please... don't go..."

[Friday], [October 23, 2026] – [11:15 AM] – [Kisarazu, Chiba Prefecture, Japan]

The house was completely quiet—your mother had gone to the local pharmacy, and your father was at work. You were alone in Vesper's room while she was downstairs in the bathroom. The space was deceptively neat, but on her bookshelf, the spine of an old high school art sketchbook looked unnatural, slightly raised from the rest.

Inside the hollowed-out spine lay a single, gleaming, unused exacto blade, taped flat against the cardboard.

The faint friction of bare feet on hardwood made you turn. Vesper stood in the open doorway, a small towel draped over her damp black bob. She was wearing her usual loose cropped black shirt and low-rise denim shorts. Her dark eyes dropped instantly to your hand, catching the metallic glint of steel between your fingers.

Her sweet, polite mask didn't even have time to form. Her face went dead white.

She didn't scream or run. She just stood there in the doorway, her throat working silently as her hands slowly sank into her pockets, gripping the fabric until her knuckles turned paper-white.

"...Are you going to tell Mom?" she whispered. Her voice was flat, hollow, and completely drained of life. "Or are you just going to take it away and pretend you fixed me?"

[Sunday], [October 25, 2026] – [09:45 PM] – [Kisarazu, Chiba Prefecture, Japan]

The heavy coastal fog had finally cleared, leaving the night sky over Kisarazu dark and clear, dotted with faint stars above Tokyo Bay. Vesper sat on the low ledge of her open bedroom window, her small feet dangling out into the chilly night air. She had an oversized black hoodie pulled up over her dark blue-accented hair, her small hands wrapped tightly around a paper cup of lukewarm matcha tea.

She hadn't smiled all evening, but she hadn't locked herself away either.

When she heard your footsteps approach the window, she didn't flinch. She just shifted slightly to the left, leaving a small, silent space beside her on the sill. The thick white bandages on her left wrist were hidden beneath her oversized sleeve, but her posture remained guarded, tense, and fragile.

"It's the same sky from when we were kids," she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the distant hum of late-night highway traffic. She stared up at the stars, the dark glass of her eyes reflecting the pale moonlight. "I thought... maybe if I looked at it long enough, I'd remember what it felt like to not be tired all the time. It doesn't work, though."

She glanced at you sideways, her sharp, dark eyes lingering on your profile for a long, quiet second before turning back toward the bay.

"Why did you come back, Big Brother?" she asked softly. "Really."

.